#St. Louis Divide

[valhikes]

Arapaho National Forest, Colorado.

Up a truly Darling Creek to the vast alpine meadow covered ridge of the St. Louis Divide. Unfortunately, there's quite a bit of burn in between.

[world-of-wales]

HAPPY 42ND BIRTHDAY TO HRH THE PRINCESS OF WALES, CATHERINE ELIZABETH ♡

Catherine Elizabeth (nee. Middleton) was born to Michael and Carole Middleton at the Royal Berkshire Hospital, Reading, on 9 January 1982. She was christened when she was six months old at the parish church of St. Andrew’s Bradfield in Berkshire on 20 June.

Catherine studied in nursery school in Amman during her family's time in Jordan. After moving back to the UK, she joined St. Andrew’s School, from where she went on to study in Marlborough College in Wiltshire, studying Chemistry, Biology, and Art at A-level.

The Princess undertook a gap year gap year studying at British Institute in Florence, working with Raleigh International programme in Chile, and crewing on Round the World Challenge boats in the Solent. In 2001, she enrolled in the University of St. Andrew’s where she met William for the first time to study Art history.

Cat and William fell in love during their time at uni, and married at Westminster Abbey on 29 APRIL 2011 at Westminster Abbey. The couple have three adorable cupcakes Prince George (b.2013), Princess Charlotte (b.2015) and Prince Louis (b.2018). The family of five divide time between their official residence, Kensington Palace and their two private residences - Amner Hall & Adelaide Cottage.

Upon her wedding, Catherine became HRH The Duchess of Cambridge, The Countess of Strathearn and Lady Carrickfergus. She received the titles of the Duchess of Cornwall & The Duchess of Rothesay upon King Charles's accession to the throne. William and her were made The Prince and Princess of Wales by him on 9 September 2022.

As well as undertaking royal duties in support of The King, both in the UK and overseas, The Princess devotes her time to supporting a number of charitable causes and organisations with some of her key areas of interest being Early Childhood Development, Children's Mental Health, Visual Arts and Sports among others.

[leviathan-supersystem]

“Russia’s foreign intelligence service allegedly weaponized our First Amendment rights — freedoms Russia denies its own citizens — to divide Americans and interfere in elections in the United States,” Justice Department’s National Security Division Assistant Attorney General Matthew G. Olsen said in a statement.

well given that the members of the African People's Socialist Party are being arrested for their speech it's clear that the USA also denies it's citizens first amendment rights.

[cartermagazine]

Today In History

Dred Scott was born into slavery in Southampton, Virginia, around 1795, the property of the Peter Blow family. He was given the name “Sam” but took the name of his older brother, Dred, when the latter died.

In 1836, Scott who was approximately 41, married a teenaged slave, Harriett Robinson, at Fort Snelling who was owned by another U.S. Army officer, Major Lawrence Taliaferro of Virginia. Scott and Robinson gave birth to their first child, Eliza, in 1838 and a second daughter, Lizzie, in 1840, and their two children were born free.

In 1843, Emerson died and left his estate to his widow, Irene Sanford Emerson. When Scott offered to purchase his freedom for $300 in 1846, Emerson refused his offer. He then obtained the assistance of two St. Louis attorneys who helped him to sue for his freedom. His 1846 lawsuit was filed in the St. Louis Circuit Court and went to trial in 1847.

Scott lost this case, but later that year he won a second trail. By this point Scott received financial support and legal representation from the sons of Peter Blow, his former owner, who had become anti-slavery advocates, Irene Sanford Emerson’s brother, John Sanford, and her second husband, Dr. C.C. Chaffee, a Massachusetts abolitionist. To all of them the Scott case as an important challenge to slavery.

On March 6, 1857, the United States Supreme Court finally ruled in Dred Scott v Sandford [Sanford was misspelled by a court clerk]. In a 7-2 decision written by Chief Justice Roger B. Taney, the majority of justices said that Scott and all slaves and free blacks were not citizens of the United States and therefore had no standing in the courts. The backlash to this decision strengthened the abolitionist movement and further divided the North and South, leading four years later to the U.S. Civil War.

After he was freed, Dred Scott went to work as a porter in the St. Louis area. He died from tuberculosis in September 1858. Harriett Scott died eighteen years later on June 17, 1876.

CARTER™️ Magazine

[empirearchives]

Hi! I was wondering is there an actual source stating that calling Napoléon "Buonaparte" was meant as derogatory? I've read here (https://mrodenberg.com/2012/09/13/bonaparte-or-buonaparte/) that on Saint-Helena, the British addressed him as that to undermine his legitimacy as French ruler. Also, I know of another historical figure, Prieur de la Côte-d'Or, who not being very fond of him used the same appellation when talking about Napoleon

Hey! Yes, it was definitely used in a derogatory way to delegitimize Napoleon’s rule by denying his frenchness. Napoleon’s brother, Louis, commented on this in his A Reply to Sir Walter Scott’s History of Napoleon in 1829:

Another visible object is, that of desiring to make Napoleon pass as a foreigner in France. In fact, if such were not the intentions of the author, why this obstinacy in writing the family name of Napoleon, Buonaparte, instead of Bonaparte, consecrated as it is by long habit? Certainly the letter O is not more or less noble or French than the letter U, but it is done to impress a foreign character upon Napoleon, and divide his glory from that of France.

The Italian nation is sufficiently glorious for one to be proud of belonging to it, especially of deriving one’s origin from this beautiful country; but when one has been born under the laws of France, grown up on its soil, with no other knowledge of foreign countries, even of beautiful Italy, than that gained with the victorious legions of France, it is rather too ridiculous to receive from an English author the certificate of a foreigner.

The name Buonaparte was being used by the coalitions before the St. Helena years, especially by the British, so there are quite a lot of examples.

To be clear, Buonaparte was Napoleon’s birth name and the name he preferred to go by for over 20 years. He changed his name during the French Revolution during a wave of name changes across France to more revolutionary and patriotic names. That being said, Bonaparte is already listed as his name on his baptism certificate* in 1771 (“Neapoleone Bonaparte”) when he was nearly 2 years old, which is 3 years into French rule of Corsica. On the same document, his father’s name is spelled as Buonaparte.

It’s a little complicated. The spelling of names weren’t very standardized and were subject to a lot of variation. But the usage of the name Buonaparte was definitely intentional among Napoleon’s enemies. You can tell pretty easily when someone is saying it in a bad faith manner.

From the historian Andrew Roberts (Napoleon: A Life):

For decades thereafter, British and Bourbon propagandists re-inserted the ‘u’ in order to emphasize Napoleon’s foreignness, such as in François-René de Chateaubriand’s snappily titled 1814 pamphlet Of Buonaparte and the Bourbons and the Necessity of Rallying Round our Legitimate Princes for the Happiness of France and that of Europe, in which he wrote: ‘No hope was left of finding among Frenchmen a man bold enough to dare to wear the crown of Louis XVI. A foreigner offered himself, and was accepted’ (Chateaubriand, Of Buonaparte p. 5). Even after the British royal family changed the name of their dynasty from Saxe-Coburg-Gotha to Windsor in 1917, some British historians still ridiculed Napoleon for dropping the ‘u’ from his surname.

It becomes obvious when people change how they refer to Napoleon depending on their current stance or relationship with him. For example, when France and Russia were allies, Tsar Alexander I calls him Napoleon or even the Emperor Napoleon. But when the alliances change and Napoleon is removed from power, Alexander referred to him as Buonaparte.

From the historian Marie-Pierre Rey (Alexander I):

Alexander’s use of the Corsican family name of Buonaparte is interesting, implying that for Alexander Napoléon was no longer emperor of the French — and not even French by nationality!

So there were two purposes to calling him Buonaparte: to accentuate his commoner origins as well as his foreignness in order to delegitimize his authority as head of state.

Thanks for the interesting question!

————

* (The baptism document can be found on Archives de la Corse-du-Sud -> Etat Civil -> Ajaccio -> 1771 -> Baptemes -> 6 MI 4/21)

[operafantomet]

Similar bodices, different skirts: A Star Princess journey

ROW 1: US costumes. The US bodices has been fairly consistent in look, with heavy and ornate double beading, distinct ombre effect and rich fringe and sleeve deco. The skirts also look about the same, but a closer look reveals some differences. Some has been darker pink, some almost white, and some with a bold ombre effect from pink to white. The "cloudy" look also varies a bit. Depicted: Tamra Lynn Glaser in Los Angeles, Elizabeth Welch on Broadway, and Elizabeth Southard on Broadway.

ROW 2: Australia / World Tour. Whereas these bodices too has been fairly consistent in look; short, with rounded tabs and sky blue fringe and puffed sleeves, the skirts has varied a bit. The first skirts in Australia were big, with defined curves, and gentle ombre effect. Later skirts made of similar materials were narrower and stiffer, and without ombre effect. A third version used a small silvery patterned top layer instead of the silver flower style previously seen. All of them feature rows of silver stars. Depicted: Marina Prior in Melbourne, Kin So Hyun in Seoul, and Claire Lyon in the World Tour.

ROW 3: Paris / World Tour / China. The heavily beaded bodices with dark blue "fluff" and rows of beaded fringe was originally made for Paris. They they were depicted with a pink skirt with silvery top layer featuring big stars. The bodice was re-used in the World Tour, but here paired with their paler skirt with small silver-star sparkly skirt and rows of silver stars. For its third incarnation in China it was paired with a UK style skirt with pink ombre top layer and rows of silver stars. Depicted: Sierra Boggess in Paris, Clara Verdier in the World Tour revival, and Cai Min in China.

ROW 4: UK / South Korea / Restaged Tour. The new type of fairly undecorated bodices in bold colours has seen some different skirt pairings. In the UK they usually do equally bold shiny silks with ombre effect and rows of silver stars. In South Korea they've made the curious choice of not adding an ombre silk layer on top, but they do the rows of silver stars. In the Restaged Aussie Tour they did the ombre silk top layer, but with smaller rows of stars only in front. Depicted: Lucy St Louis in the West End revival, Gamin Kwon in Seoul, and Amy Manford in the Restaged Aussie Tour.

ROW 5: Spain / South America / Russia. The bodices has been rebeaded a couple of times and the tabs changed, but they can usually be identified by highly ornate beading with a beaded front row dividing the middle tab, and bust decoration set very high. The skirts has however varied a lot, from very long and very pale shimmering ones in Spain to semi-long cloudy pink in South America to fairly short sparkly ombre pink in Russia. All versions have rows of silver stars. Depicted: Felicidad Farag in Madrid, Kiara Sasso in Saou Paulo, and Elena Bahtiyarova in Moscow.

(original design by Maria Bjørnson

[bropunzeling]

I wish you would write a fic where... Matthew and Leon knew each other as children! Enough to at least leave an impression on each other. (And at some point, anywhere from adolescence to the future, get together.)

hmmmmm i feel like there could be something to like. maybe some sort of international youth hockey camp! idk! lil baby tournament! idk if the timeline works for when they were in juniors for any kind of cross pollination and im too sleep deprived to find out. the point is:

zitty greasy teen leon encounters zitty greasy teen matthew at a youth hockey deal. they are both good. they are both obnoxious. over the course of the weekend or week in which they are in close proximity, they both have that strange, immediate fascination that comes so naturally to teens, where you see a person and something in your gut just goes, get closer. figure them out.

at first they come off too strong on either side. matthew's a little younger and that means trying a lot harder to seem cool and with it and together and being none of the above. he definitely follows leon around and irritates the shit out of him at first. not that leon's all that much better at the lofty age of 16. perhaps they connect over something like trick shots, or video games, something to cross the great divide of being on opposing teams, and then it's like summer camp -- suddenly you're living in the pockets of a total stranger, hanging out all the time, peeling away to explore or hang out or climb fire escapes or just --

they kiss on the second to last day. it's nervous and dry and short and leon's palms sweat and matthew has no idea what to do with his hands. it's not very good, but it has leon's heart racing all the same.

and then, like summer camp, they don't talk ever again. the rest of that week or so stays a memory, slowly blurring with time. leon doesn't think about it much after that, is distracted by the end of his time in juniors, the start of his time in the bigs. maybe remembers matthew vaguely during his draft year, remembers seeing him across the ice, but not very well. it doesn't take much to displace those old memories with new ones of matthew grinning at him smugly, matthew cross checking and chirping and being so annoying leon nearly blows his top every game.

that is, until the night they're in a dim corner of a crowded bar in st. louis. they ended up next to each other by chance somehow, and at first leon wanted to leave, but the longer he talks to matthew the easier it is to stay where he is. matthew's talking about the weekend, chirping leon about the shit he said to the media, passing leon drinks, brushing his forearm with his fingers. smiling at leon in a way that isn't so far from how he grinned at leon all those years ago, conspiratorial, pleased.

this time when matthew kisses him, it makes leon's heart beat just as hard in his chest. this time, it's good.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Here’s a huge 1883 church in St Louis, Missouri that’s been divided into condos. This unit is available for $328K. (HOA dues $468mo.)

This 2 bd., 2.5ba. condo has its own private entrance, which is good. 

When they say it’s multi-level, they’re not kidding. This is a lot to maintain- it’s huge.

This is the half bath, which is located on what appears to be the 2nd level.

This looks so cozy. The building style is Greek Revival, but there are gothic elements as well. 

 I imagine that a large fireplace was turned into a shelf, here.

The kitchen is smallish, but has all the basics, plus a pantry.

Here’s some sort of architectural configuration.

This is beautiful, but a lot of climbing, and why did they carpet the stairs? Love the stained glass windows, but there doesn’t seem to be one that you can see out of.

Geez, the stairs. So, on this mezzanine is a set of 3 closets.

The main bd. is on the top floor in a lofted area.

One of the 2 full baths.

I’m doing to guess that the neighbor has the other half of this window, b/c I don’t see it anywhere in the apt.

The 2nd bd. The walls don’t go to the ceiling which may be a privacy problem. This room has it’s own en suite bath as well.

One of these doors must be the private entrance to the condo, but there isn’t any outdoor space for the residents to use. It’s lovely, but the layout is a bit awkward and would be a booger to clean.

https://www.redfin.com/MO/St-Louis/1505-Missouri-Ave-63104/unit-2B/home/62755229

[exitrowiron]

This was a lighthearted article confirming what we all know; picking someone up at the airport is almost always a pain in the ass. It is worth it when you’re picking up a loved one, but otherwise it falls just short of helping someone move.

As with most goat rodeos, the airport pickup zone is a disaster because 25% the people are generally clueless and 25% of the people are inconsiderate jerks who can’t be bothered to wait in the cell phone lot and just park in the pickup lane for 30 minutes are until a cop eventually tells them to move on.

The design of the pickup area is also at fault. I’ve probably used 100 airports and the pickup zones are all the same; 3-4 lanes running parallel to the luggage return area with the 1-2 lanes designated as the pickup zone where everyone jockeys to exit/enter and maneuver around the parked idiots who are waiting for passengers who haven’t landed or deplaned. It is a designed to create and sustain chaos.

Here’s my idea… imagine 4 lanes but the middle two lanes have been divided into a series of stalls arranged perpendicular to the inner and outer lanes. These stalls are where passengers are picked up. Cars drive through the stalls to the lane closest to the luggage area and exit the airport. The magic bit is that each stall has an exit gate, a timer and toll indicator. Each car gets 90 seconds to pick up its travelers. If the driver presses the exit button before 90 seconds has expired, the gate goes up and the driver exits without a fee. After 90 seconds, however an exit toll is assessed and the rate of the toll increases exponentially over time. If you’re in the stall for 2 minutes over your 90 second allotment, the toll is $5. If you’re in the stall for 5 minutes over your allotment then the toll is $20.

This setup would be a superior traffic pattern and also incentivize drivers to wait in the cell phone lot until their travelers are ready or use short term parking. The St. Louis airport (one of the saddest airports in the country) has this pull-through pattern (without tolls) for the drop-off area; I wish they would do it for the pick-up too.

[evangelineshifts]

ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: I know the end - Phoebe Bridgers

3:03 ──────ㅇ───────── 5:44

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

Name ➻ Evangeline Paris Devereux

Age ➻ 14

Zodiac ➻ Gemini

S/O(s) ➻ Percy Jackson

Godly parentage: legacy of Artemis & Apollo (Roman)

Backstory synopsis ➻

I am the vessel of προστασία, Goddess of Protection, making me the goddess of protection. Prostasía dates back to the very beginning of titanomachy, she is one of Kronos’ sisters but she betrayed him and sided with the Olympians along with Άμυνα, Goddess of Defense, as they grew fond of mankind. They were the original Goddesses of protection and defense but it was prophesied that she would fade and they needed a way to preserve her as she was very important for the protection of mankind and Olympus. The prophecy mentioned a girl lost in time to take the spirit of Prostasía.

Kronos went after my parents after he figured out what they were hiding and who I was. They were hunted by Kronos and killed and I was saved by Hestia. I was frozen for thousands years before Hestia came back for me. The same thing happened to Savanna (vessel of Ámyna; legacy of Aphrodite and Bellona) a year or so later.

The ‘triads’ were born 5 centuries after we were so I would have help and company. They all have gifts from three different gods hence the name ‘Triads’. Savanna and I are appointed their leaders as we have gifts from the 13 main Gods (along with the more minor ones but those only come occasionally) There’s Zorya, Avalon, Audrina, Viveca, Adonis, Kalen, Egan, and Zale.

Zorya is a daughter of Persephone with gifts from Artemis and Thanatos.

Avalon is a daughter of Apollo with gifts from Hera, and Melinoe.

Audrina is a daughter of Aphrodite with gifts from Hecate, Tyche.

Viveca is a daughter of Demeter with gifts from Hestia and Harmonia.

Adonis is the eldest son of Dionysus and he was gifted by Eros and Pallas.

Kalen; Son of Athena and gifted by Phobos and Nike.

Egan; Son of Hephaestus and gifted by Hermes and Asclepius.

Zale; Son of Ares and gifted by Hypnos and Iris.

(Note: I literally made who they were gifted by with very little knowledge on the gods so if stuff doesn’t make sense ignore it 😭)

When Hestia came back she took all of us and placed us in the care of a trusted demigod, Margaux St. Louis, where she ran a home for orphan demigods in Massachusetts. We lived there ever since with no knowledge of our destiny and what was to come. Started going to CHB at the ripe age of 5 and never looked back.

A/N- if anyone is greek and finds issues with the translated names pls let me know cause I have no idea if they’re actually accurate I just used google translate 😭

If you have questions my ask box is always open!

✧ dividers by @benkeibear !

[goldenseresinretriever]

Ruthie’s Hockey 101, Episode 1: The NHL and friends

A/N: Welcome friends to my little series called Ruthie’s Hockey 101!! The people have spoken and most of y’all have an interest in learning more about hockey so let’s do it!! I became a hockey fan during the 2023 NHL playoffs and I’m still learning every day so I’ll do my best to both pass on the knowledge I’ve acquired as well as learn alongside y’all! I’m going to include tie-ins to the SDD Universe to help put things into perspective in the series when I can if it helps! If it doesn’t, let me know, and I can keep things strictly general if that’s what more people prefer. Well without further ado, let’s get right into episode 1!

Masterlist // Episode 2

The NHL, or National Hockey League is a major professional ice hockey league in North America consisting of 32 teams from the US and Canada. (33 in our universe!)

The typical NHL season runs from October to April for the regular season. It consists of each of the 32 teams playing a whopping 82 games. After that the Stanley Cup Playoffs occur, which runs from the end of the regular season until June. Playoffs are a four-round tournament that end in the crowning of the Stanley Cup Champions. The Stanley Cup is the trophy awarded to the winner of the tournament! (Jake has won one Stanley Cup while Dare has coached the Pittsburgh Penguins to five Stanley Cup wins) That means that in-total, NHL hockey runs from October to sometime in June. The remaining months of the year, July-September are known as the Offseason. (Snitches Get Stitches occurs primarily in the offseason before the Dogfighters’s first season)

The 32 teams of the NHL are divided into two conferences, Eastern and Western and four divisions: Pacific, Central, Atlantic, and Metropolitan. When determining the teams that qualify for the Stanley Cup playoffs, the top three teams from each division automatically qualify for playoffs. (Four additional “wild card” teams also go to the playoffs but more on that in a future episode) Below is a list and map of all the 32 teams in the NHL. (The Dogfighters would be in the Western Conference and Pacific Division)

Western Conference

Pacific Division

Vancouver Canucks (CAN)

Edmonton Oilers (CAN)

Calgary Flames (CAN)

Seattle Kraken (USA)

San Jose Sharks (USA)

LA Kings (USA)

Anaheim Ducks (USA)

Vegas Golden Knights (USA)

Central Division

Winnipeg Jets (CAN)

Minnesota Wild (USA)

Colorado Avalanche (USA)

Arizona Coyotes (USA)

Dallas Stars (USA)

St. Louis Blues (USA)

Chicago Blackhawks (USA)

Nashville Predators (USA)

Eastern Conference

Atlantic Division

Ottawa Senators (CAN)

Montreal Canadiens (CAN)

Toronto Maple Leafs (CAN)

Detroit Red Wings (USA)

Buffalo Sabres (USA)

Boston Bruins (USA)

Florida Panthers (USA)

Tampa Bay Lightning (USA)

Metropolitan Division

New York Rangers (USA)

New York Islanders (USA)

New Jersey Devils (USA)

Philadelphia Flyers (USA)

Pittsburgh Penguins (USA)

Washington Capitals (USA)

Columbus Blue Jackets (USA)

Carolina Hurricanes (USA)

While the NHL are the major league for ice hockey, there are plenty of minor league teams as well! There are various leagues that these leagues fall into but the most well known are the AHL and ECHL. Teams in these leagues are affiliated with NHL teams and usually serve as a place for NHL teams to train and grow players that will eventually serve on their rosters.

If you’re looking for an affordable way to see your first hockey game because NHL games definitely aren’t cheap, check to see if you have an AHL or ECHL team in your area that you can go see! San Diego, while not home to an NHL team, actually houses an AHL team, the San Diego Gull! They’re affiliated with the Anaheim Ducks. There are, of course, non-professional leagues as well so there’s plenty of ways to get involved with the sport locally!

A fun fact for us Top Gun fans is that there’s an SPHL (another minor league!) team in Pensacola, Florida that’s called the Pensacola Ice Flyers. They’re named to celebrate the large naval aviation base in Pensacola! I happened to pass their arena when I was in the area over Thanksgiving! Unfortunately I wasn’t able to go to a game but I really wanted to 🥲

Of course, the US and Canada aren’t the only countries with ice hockey teams. There are plenty of other international leagues around the world! I don’t have a lot of experience when it comes to most of them but I will say it’s always fun to keep an eye on leagues in the southern hemisphere such as Australia’s NHSL because since their seasons are the opposite of North America, their hockey seasons are too! That means you can enjoy hockey year-round if you want to!! One of my goals this year is to start watching the NHSL during the NHL off-season!

What about women’s ice hockey??? Well I’m so glad you asked because the Professional Women’s Hockey League or PWHL, JUST launched on January 1, 2024!! It replaced the PHF league which was bought out. As of now there are six teams, three from the USA, and three from Canada and they’re playing their first season right now!! This is so exciting for the world of women’s ice hockey, and I can’t wait to watch some games! I really wish I could go see one in person big they’re not exactly in my neck of the woods unfortunately 😔 (We may even see some tie in with the PWHL and the SDD in future fics since we have a whole host of female hockey player representation in our characters!)

And that’s a wrap on Episode 1!! It was a lot of information but hopefully it helped you understand the basic structure of the NHL and other hockey leagues. Up next will be an explanation of the makeup of a hockey team and a dive into the different positions! Down below I’m going to link some resources for the various leagues I mentioned in the episode so you can check them out if you’re interested!

Helpful Resources

NHL Team Directory (List of Teams)

AHL Team Directory (List of Teams)

ECHL Team Directory (List of Teams)

NHSL Australia Team Directory (List of Teams)

PWHL Team Directory (List of Teams)

Watch PWHL Games on YouTube

[3rdeyeblaque]

On April 3rd, we venerate Elevated Ancestor, the great Dr. Maya Angelou on her 95th birthday🎉

A world-renowned poet, wordsmith, performing artist, & Freedom Fighter, Queen Mama Maya is the model of fierce grace & poise candor who has set the tone for generations of our people toward higher learning, self-actualization, & perseverance in the face of all odds. She is the Mama & Grandmama reflected in many of our sage Elders. She is the epitome of the excellence sown into every Aborginal Mother's Garden of given a mere spark of love, protection, & inspiration.

Dr. Maya Angelou (born Marguerite Johnson) lived a Renaissance Woman's life in theater - as a singer, dancer, actor, composer -, on the front lines of a divided nation - as a freedom fighter in service to/alongside the likes of Brother Malcolm & Dr. King -, & as a wordsmithing poet, memoirist, & educator. Her formative years were spent between a tumultuous home-life in St. Louis, MI & the serenity found in Stamps, Arkansas with her beloved paternal grandmother & older brother. Childhood trauma among the worst kind spurred her 6 year-long Mutedness until an English Teacher pried the words she loved & longed to utter from her lips. This would set the course to charter her life & outstanding career in performing arts, social justice, & literature.

"[I serve] as a spokesperson for all peoples who are committed to raising the moral standard of living in the United States" - Dr. Maya Angelou

We give her libations & 💐 today as we celebrate Queen Mama Maya for her fierce perseverance, momentous courage in bearing her soul for the world, & inspiring healing and growth in each and every one of us; through her actions, words, & stellar example.

[houseofbrat]

The Sun in summer 2022:

The Cambridges' new pad Adelaide Cottage needs no extra taxpayer-funded security or costly refurb. It's understood the family will have no live-in staff, with any aides commuting to Windsor instead. And sources say they dream of a "modest" home with a garden so the children can play outside together. One insider told The Sun: “They were adamant they didn’t want anything too showy or anything that needed renovating or extra security so as not to be a burden on the taxpayer." The property was modernised back in 2015.

The Daily Mail in June 2022:

Prince William and Kate Middleton will move their family into a four-bedroomed home on the Windsor estate this summer. The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, are reportedly set to uproot their family from Kensington, west London, to Adelaide Cottage in Berkshire in order to be closer to the Queen. Re-erected in 1831, the Cambridge’s new Grade II-listed retreat is just a short walk from St George’s Chapel and Windsor Castle, and sits proudly on the 655-acre royal estate in Berkshire.

Victoria Ward for The Telegraph on 14 August 2022:

But in the coming two or three weeks, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge will do the opposite, swapping their grand Kensington Palace home for a relatively modest four-bedroomed cottage on the Windsor estate, a move that will see them navigate life without a live-in nanny for their first time in their children’s lives. [...] Although Ms Borrallo will be kept on full time, she will live elsewhere, as will the handful of other support staff that have long “lived-in” with the family at Kensington Palace, thought to include a housekeeper and a chef.

The Sun on 03 September 2022:

“They had to have moved in this weekend, because the children have to start at their new school next week. “The renovation is no-frills, by royal standards — and is certainly in stark contrast to the £2.4million work Harry and Meghan had done on Frogmore Cottage. It will have been a builder’s finish.” Kate and William spent around a year searching for a home in Windsor so the children could go to school together. They settled on Adelaide Cottage, as first revealed by The Sun, because they believed it needed no major renovations. They decided to go with existing furniture and fittings but had a fresh coat of paint to make it feel like home for the children.

LESS THAN TWO YEARS LATER...

The Mirror on 15 April 2024:

Prince William and Kate Middleton are reportedly hatching surprise plans to transform a secret home into something of a sanctuary as part of the Princess's recovery process. The Royal couple is said to be contemplating renovations and extensions to a little-known redbrick annexe adjacent to their Adelaide Cottage residence in Windsor. The family, who relocated to the Berkshire estate towards the end of summer 2022, currently divide their time between the four-bedroom cottage and their cherished Anmer Hall retreat on the Sandringham Estate. While Adelaide Cottage offers an ideal location due to its closeness to Lambrook School where Prince George, Princess Charlotte and Prince Louis attend, insiders suggest the family are considering plans to expand a currently vacant annexe to assist in the princess' recuperation. However, this decision is not without its challenges, as sources indicate that the Prince of Wales is "conscious of public scrutiny" regarding Royal expenditure and is taking a cautious approach to personally funding the costs. "They [William and Kate] absolutely adore Adelaide Cottage, but it just about fits the entire family, whereas Anmer Hall is much larger with extensive grounds," the source revealed to OK!. "Adelaide Cottage is being used as a term time property while the children are at school nearby and Anmer Hall is for long weekends and holidays." Insiders have spilled the beans on plans to revamp a run-down redbrick annexe at Adelaide Cottage, aiming to turn it into a perfect retreat for the Wales family and their aides. While the project is on pause as the Princess of Wales focuses on her recovery, the plans are reportedly simmering away in the background, ready to spring into action when the time is ripe. "Nobody knows that there is quite a spacious red-brick annexe building that's not being used next door to Adelaide Cottage," an insider said. "It's currently inhabitable and needs extensive renovation works if it were to be used. Discussions have been ongoing for a while about using the property as part of the overall cottage grounds, but it's just about finding the right time to kick the project off." The need for space is more than a luxury; sources say it's vital for Kate's path to wellness, providing her with a serene environment to manage her treatment's demands. Anmer Hall is the top pick at the moment, thanks to its generous size and seclusion. Mindful of past backlash over public funding, the Wales clan is considering footing the bill for the Adelaide Cottage annexe's refurbishments themselves. "William is very conscious of the public scrutiny over the Royal Family's spending habits, so he is looking at the best way to cover any renovation costs," a source revealed. "It's a project that's very much been put on the back burner for now due to the family's unfortunate position, but it will be looked at again when the time is right." Adelaide Cottage, tucked away in the Crown Estate's private 655-acre Royal park, was originally constructed in 1831 as a sanctuary for the wife of King William IV, Queen Adelaide. The cottage underwent significant refurbishments in 2015 and boasts some seriously opulent decor. It's said that the master bedroom's ceiling is adorned with gilded dolphins and rope ornamentation, according to various reports.

Well, well, well...

Adelaide Cottage "just about fits the entire family."

"Just about" but not quite, apparently.

Is four bedrooms no longer enough? It was perfectly fine two years ago when they selected it as it "needed no major renovations."

But Kate needs this annex renovation completed for her "path to wellness"? I've never heard of a person undergoing "preventative chemotherapy" needing extensive renovations to their personal real estate to improve their health, particularly when they already have above average living space.

There is a time limit to "preventative chemotherapy." She shouldn't need to be doing "preventative chemotherapy" forever. If she's just doing "preventative chemotherapy," then she should be able to recover within a few weeks after she completes "preventative chemotherapy." (Unless she's really not doing "preventative chemotherapy" to begin with...)

But, hey, if she needs more "space" at home for non-"luxury" reasons, then The Mirror is supporting my previous statement that Kate "is going to be more reclusive for the next year or two."

[unscrupulousartist]

hellerby fic, part 10/10

19 December 1929

Sprawled across two booths in the Lackadaisy Cafe, the senior staff loosely gathered for a breakfast meeting. Furthest from the door, Mordecai had a table to himself to accommodate the piles of paperwork and books he was referencing. As such, Mitzi half kneeled in the other booth with Viktor and Ivy, both to be able to lean over the divide to bother him and also so she had a clear view of the doors. Outside, the streets were white with snow. The people of St Louis were bundled in colourful scarves and bulky jackets, and fewer cars were out and about. 

“Where is he?” Mitzi grumbled.

“Who?” Ivy asked, voice muffled with food.

Shuddering, Mordecai hunched over his ledger and started a second count of the day’s proposed expenses.

“Zib!” Mitzi answered. “He knows we don’t have a whole lotta time!”

“Perhaps you should get him a watch?” Mordecai pitched in without turning. “Though I doubt it would help. Why are we hiring jugglers?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mitzi reached to smack his shoulder lightly. “You’re goin’ home at noon.”

“Yes, so you’ve said.”

“A nice, relaxing, stress free weekend for you while the rest of us frolic and play.”

“Sounds delightful,” he made a tally in the margin. “And suspicious.”

“Don’t worry so much,” Mitzi ruffled his hair, then straightened as the bell over the door dinged. “There you are!”

Zib’s voice carried across the cafe: “Here I am. Be grateful I’m even awake.”

“And with company,” there was a note of mischief in Mitzi’s voice.

Explained by Wick’s response: “Hullo.”

“Great,” Viktor grumbled. “Who do I owe money?”

“Money?” Wick questioned.

“No one, yet,” Zib answered. “Don’t worry about it, Wick. Ivy, budge over—”

There was some shuffling as three people squeezed together onto a two person bench, all of which Mitzi seemed to have no patience for. She turned to sit properly beside Viktor, leaving Mordecai as an eavesdropper. “Did you get it?” she asked.

“Who do you think I am?” said Zib. There was a fwump as something hit the other table. “Cost an arm and a leg, but I got it.”

Mordecai rolled his eyes and asked: “Is that why—?”

“Shush,” Mitzi shot back at him, then returned to the conversation. “And the recipe?”

“All sorted; I just need an hour in the kitchen before the festivities start.”

Wick cleared his throat. “Is this about the kissing booth..?”

The whole table laughed.

“No, no, Wick, that’s separate,” Mitzi purred. “But we’re still payin’ off Mozzie’s new piano, and there’s always something or another to fix.”

“I definitely have another kissing campaign in me,” Zib added. “You done with the paper?”

“Yea,” said Viktor. 

“So…” Wick started. “The mushrooms were for—?”

“Shhh,” Mitzi, Ivy, and Zib all chorused.

“Nothing to worry about,” Mitzi continued.

“Suspicious,” Mordecai repeated.

The bell rang again. “Goooood morning!” An exuberant Rocky sang; Mordecai slumped lower in his booth, out of sight. “Horatio! Good sir! Are there pancakes?”

“Come here, Rocky,” Mitzi called. Someone scrambled to remove something from the other table. “Horatio knows your order.”

“Of course, Ms M—”

“We weren’t expectin’ you this early.”

“Is it early?”

“Oi, Rocky—” Zib waved something in the air. “—says here your boy was found in the Missouri.”

“Freckle?” Rocky questioned. He came close to stand at the edge of the other table. “What was he doing there?”

Quietly groaning, Mordecai reached for his tea to sit and stare at; but he could still see Rocky in his peripheral.

“No,” Zib laughed. “Not him.”

“Freckle’s my boy, Rocky,” said Ivy. “But I forgive you.”

“Ha, of course,” Rocky’s arms flailed high as he rubbed his neck.

Zib’s voice lowered to near a whisper, and Mordecai’s ears twitched to hear him. “The one you kept awkwardly flirting with.” There was a beat of silence as Rocky inhaled, and Mordecai felt something twist in his gut. Zib continued: “Says right here—” there was the smack of flesh on paper; Mordecai pulled his tea close to sip. “—cops finally identified the body they found back in October—”

“Oh good,” Rocky interrupted, sighing. “You had me going there, but I saw Ol’ Serious Face yesterday.”

Sputtering, Mordecai spewed his mouthful of tea across his tableful of paperwork. He continued into a coughing fit as Rocky tensed and twisted to look at him.

“Oh my gosh,” Ivy squeaked. “Rocky!”

“Oh—uh—hey, Mordecai,” Rocky managed a laugh. “Didn’t see you there.”

Staring up at him, Mordecai froze. He could feel his face flushing hot, and his ears angled low and away. But he managed to pick out the details of Rocky’s outfit; a dark gray overcoat obscuring the blue of his usual suit and a hideously yellow scarf, half unwound from his neck. His clothes slowly dripped, a scattering of snowflakes disappearing in the cafe’s warmth. His pupils were narrow, his smile panicked, and he brought his hands up in front of him to pull awkwardly on his sleeves.

“Jeez, Rocky, you can’t just say that stuff!” Zib said loudly. It drew the violinist’s attention, briefly. Just long enough for Mordecai to start gathering his work things into messy piles; he sorted by wet and dry.

“Can’t he?” asked Wick.

“Not about Mordecai,” Zib added. “Not unless you have some sort of death wish. It was a joke, right?”

“Uhhhhh—” Rocky frowned.

“You gotta work on your delivery.”

“Mordecai?” Mitzi knelt again, leaning over the booth to look at him. 

“I’ll start that evening off now,” Mordecai rushed. “Should I take these upstairs or—?”

“I’ll get them, sugar.”

“Perfect,” he shifted along the bench, trying not to look at Rocky. “Don’t burn anything down.”

Flinching, Rocky managed a chuckle as Mordecai stood.

Wick asked: “Aren’t you staying for the party?”

“Definitely not,” Mordecai hissed. Standing, he could see the entire second table; they all stared, wide eyed, at him and Rocky. "I was promised ignorance and relaxation. Not jugglers and—"

"It was good to see you, Sugar!" Mitzi shouted, too loud. It drew the attention of several other morning visitors. "And don't you dare take any work home with you! I wanna hear about a boring weekend, full of plants and crosswords."

“So long as I don’t have to hear about tonight’s—”

“Shhh!” Ivy and Mitzi said again.

Shaking his head, Mordecai slipped on his overcoat and reached for his hat and scarf. 

Rocky startled into motion, stepping towards him again. “You’re leaving?”

Tense, Mordecai bit his tongue and glared as he looped his scarf around his neck. He turned toward the door.

Rocky motioned as if to block his path, but Viktor reached out and snatched his arm.

“Take the hint, kid,” Zib interpreted. The musician draped across a confused Wick to point at Rocky. “We’re all lucky he hasn’t gone feral again. Remember what happened to Sully?"

"No?" Rocky frowned at the table.

Mordecai used the moment to slip away.

"Miriam?" Zib tried again. "Chance?"

"I don't think Rocky was around yet," Ivy mused.

"Ah—wait!" Escaping from Viktor's hold—he contoured out of his overcoat, leaving the article in Viktor's hand—Rocky stumbled after Mordecai. "I got you something."

Slowing at the doorway, Mordecai was very aware of the room full of potential witnesses. Behind the counter, Horatio stood with a tray piled high with pancakes, and every third table sat one or two people. Still, his traitorous body paused to stare at Rocky, mortified, and he noticed a familiar pair of black cufflinks at the violinist’s wrists. He didn't speak.

"For the candle Holiday?" Rocky explained. He bit his lip.

Back at the booth, Mitzi spoke up: "You mean Chanukah, sweetie?"

"Yes!" Rocky shot her a brief but dazzling smile. Mordecai managed to shift an inch closer to the door before Rocky looked at him again. "It's in the garage? I could go get it right now." And he took a single step backwards, raising his brows at Mordecai.

“Oh, Rocky—” Ivy sighed. “Chanukah isn’t really a gift giving holiday?”

“It isn’t?” Rocky turned again toward the booth, face contorting into a puzzle. 

It gave Mordecai the final opening he needed to flee the cafe. As the door shut behind him, he heard Mitzi add: “and it’s next week, sweetie.”

An overcast sky accompanied Mordecai as he stormed home, carefully picking his way over compounded snow and slushy ice as he darted between people and cars. But the short walk wasn’t long enough to calm his swirling thoughts, and he continued past his building and down the block. 

“These are nice shoes,” Rocky remarked. Leaning closer, he disappeared out of sight beneath the table.

But Mordecai felt fingers on his feet a moment later. “Stop that—” he pulled his legs up out of reach. Squirming in his seat, he rearranged himself to put the violinist back in his sights. “How much longer are you going to sit down there?”

Half propped against the table leg, Rocky shrugged. “Use me but as your spaniel—” he hiccoughed, blinking, and continued. “—spurn me, strike me, neglect me—oh, hm, purrhaps that’s too romantic a prompt.” He pursed his lips and frowned at the underside of the table. “Someone wrote something under here.”

“Not falling for it,” Mordecai rolled his eyes. Looking across the room, he saw Mitzi and Viktor still watching them—Zib had wandered back to the stage. “Congratulations, Mr Rickaby, you’ve successfully drunken yourself under the table.”

“Not yet successfully,” Rocky countered. Then he listed onto his side, rolling. “But I can feel the first thralls of elixir, so it isn’t so bad.”

Eventually, Mordecai returned home.

Shucking his wet outer garments to dry in the bathroom, he methodically checked his plants. Most of them were dull as they overwintered, but they were still green and healthy. It was a five minute distraction he drug a whole hour out of. 

Frazzled, he made tea and a sandwich for a late lunch, which he took in the living room. Bundling up beneath a thin blanket, he curled in the chaise and stared out the window for the exact amount of time it took to steel himself to pick up Shakespeare. He leafed through the pages—now completely graffitied with notes and questions—until he found the sonnets, and read until his eyes felt heavy and his mind could drift.

It was full dark when the phone rang. Unused to the reasonable mode of communication, Mordecai chased the sound through the remnants of a dream, flailing away from a despondent violin player on a burning stage. 

Sitting up fully, ears perked and eyes wide, his consciousness clued in to what was happening just in time for the ringing to stop. He sighed, slumped, and straightened his glasses.

The phone rang again. Standing, he crossed the small apartment in a few long strides and picked up the device. “What is it?”

“Mordecai!” Ivy shouted, too loud. Then she giggled and shushed someone.

Mordecai looked for his nearest clock. “Ivy?”

“Yes!”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“Is it? It is! Can you come get me?”

He rubbed his brow. “Isn’t Viktor there?”

“His knee hurts.”

Mordecai groaned.

Ivy continued: “Because you shot it.”

“I know,” he hissed. “I was there.”

“Right,” Ivy giggled. “It’s late and I want to go home but everyone is too drunk to drive. Come get me.”

He knocked his head against the wall. “Sleep upstairs, Mitzi won’t mind.”

“Mordecai!” her voice dipped, crackling low over the line. “I’m bringing Freckle with me, I can’t take Freckle upstairs!”

“This seems like a phenomenal lack of planning on your part.”

“Mordecaaaii…”

“I’m not even working tonight.”

“Pleeeeease—”

“Why isn’t McMurray taking you home?”

“I tooold you, everyone is tooooo drunk. Just come get us!”

Waffling a moment longer, his other hand clenched into a fist. “Fine. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” And he hung up.

Not too bothered about being witnessed during the drunken hour, and still mostly dressed from falling asleep, Mordecai made short work of getting ready to leave. He took the stairs for haste, and nodded at the doorman on his way out. The weather, while mild, still held a midnight chill. The sidewalks had glazed over, and troughs had frozen in the streets. Very few people were out and about, and even fewer cars. So it was somewhat of a spectacle to see the dim glow of light coming from the Lackadaisy Cafe, and a small gathering of people outside the doors.

And, as he drew closer, Mordecai saw two unexpected individuals.

“Dere he is!” Serafine noticed him first, and nudged her brother.

“Peekon!” Nico cheered, but stayed in place leaning against the glass beside Viktor, who nodded a greeting. Mitzi, Zib, and Wick closed off the smoker’s circle, each of them bundled against the cold.

“What are you doing here?” Mordecai’s eyes narrowed.

Serafine grinned and shrugged. “Your musician invited us a while back.”

“Dou, he said you’d be here,” Nico added. He tapped the ash off his cigarette.

“Kid’s ballsy,” Zib sighed. Shaking his head, he leaned into Wick’s side. “I swear, he’s got nine fucking lives.”

“None of you could take Ivy home?” Mordecai glared at the group.

“We’re waitin’ for a taxi,” said Mitzi. “We offered to take her, but she doesn’t wanna hang out with the adults.”

“She’s twenty.”

“You try tellin’ her that, sweetheart. Lemme know how it goes.”

Mordecai shook his head.

“We could take her?” Nico offered.

Viktor and Mordecai spoke together: “No.”

“I’m hurt,” Nico pouted, first at Mordecai and then at Viktor. “T’ought we were gettin’ along.”

“Nothing personal,” Viktor over-enunciated in an uncharacteristic voice. Then Nico and Serafine started to laugh. 

“I feel like I missed something,” Mordecai remarked wryly. He peered in through the glass, where a dozen strangers were having coffee pick-me-ups before heading home. Horatio was again behind the counter, this time bustling back and forth between percolators.  “But I don’t want to know. Where’s Ivy?”

“Garage,” said Viktor. He rubbed at his knee.

“Be sure to knock,” Mitzi added.

Zib snickered into Wick’s side.

“Noted,” Mordecai drawled. 

Instead of risking going through the building, he continued on around the block. Bright headlights turned the corner as he darted into an alleyway, and he supposed Mitzi and the rest would be gone soon.

Someone had shoveled the drive, all the way back to the discrete garage, but Mordecai paid the snowdrifts very little attention as he spied the open door. There was no one outside, but he could almost discern the intimate whisperings of a couple. Before he stepped inside, he announced himself: “I’m here.”

There was a scrambling, and he entered to see Freckle awkwardly side stepping away from Ivy, who sat on the hood of their dodgy vehicle. “Mordecai!” Ivy hopped down, swaying. “It took you long enough.”

“Mhm,” he propped his hands on his hips and gave her a practiced look, flat. “This feels unnecessary.”

Freckle cleared his throat and straightened to a stand; but his voice slurred around his words. “Faank you, Missir Heller.”

“Come ooooon,” Ivy urged. She stumbled to Freckle, pushing him at the back seat; but she climbed up front to sit next to Mordecai.

“Did you not have a plan?” Mordecai asked as he came around the vehicle. He pulled open the door. “What were you going to do if I didn’t pick up?”

“Slept here and hate you about it,” Ivy answered simply.

In the backseat someone—not Freckle—groaned. Mordecai tensed as Rocky’s voice floated up from the floor. “Issit t’morrow yet?”

“Yes, Rocky,” said Freckle. He reached down to pat his cousin's head. 

“Oh, good… ma’by thin’s’ll be differen’ now…”

Frowning, Mordecai peaked over the seat. Sprawled out on the car floor, Rocky drooled into the upholstery. Slumping behind the wheel, Mordecai turned to hiss at Ivy: “What’s he doing here?”

Ivy rolled her eyes. “Well, usually Rocky drives us home, but, uh—Zib made something?” She scratched her head. “It was sorta like Rocky’s tea? But mush—much stronger.”

“He doesn’ ushully get like this,” Freckle added, then hiccoughed. There was a pause before he continued. “He’s got a tall—a taller—a tall-shurance?”

“Ignore him,” said Ivy. “He can barely tell his reds from his greens right now. Le’sss gooooo.”

Reluctantly, Mordecai started the car. He took care of the garage door himself, opening it, driving through, closing it again, and then they bumped down the little alley and out to the street. A couple more people were leaving the Lackadaisy, but the senior staff—plus guests—were all gone. And then they crawled, extra slow, through the streets of St Louis.

Ivy took up the cause of conversation. “You missed out on a fun party,” she sighed, drifting across the seat.  “There was a bit of a theme? The twelve days of Christmas. You know it?”

“Yes,” Mordecai growled. “It’s the worst carole.”

“It’s not that bad, you sourpuss. But ins’ead of the regular days of Christmas, Mitzi mixed it up. You know?”

“The juggler?” Mordecai guessed.

“Jugglers,” Ivy corrected. “Ten clowns-a-juggling, nine swingers swinging, eight—” and she rattled off a whole stream of nonsense as Mordecai tried his hardest not to bend the steering wheel beneath the force of his grip. In the backseat, Freckle occasionally nodded or added a comment, but Rocky was quiet. Oblivious, Mordecai hoped. He still found himself straining to hear any noise the musician might make. 

When they finally pulled in front of the midtown apartment Ivy kept, paid for by her inflated paycheque, the girl was still waxing about the three Dutch dancers that had taken up a whole segment of the evening. 

"We're here," Mordecai noted.

"Oh—" Ivy squinted out the window, then perked. "We are! Freckle, come on—"

Opening the back door, Freckle stumbled and tripped onto the ground. "Ow."

Ivy giggled, and carefully disembarked the front seat. "Thank you, Mordecai! Have a good—"

"Wait—" Mordecai leaned to catch her door, forcing it open so he could address her. "What about Rickaby?"

Taking on an air of innocence, she blinked at him. "What about Rickaby?"

He grit his teeth and waved toward the back seat. Ivy raised her brows and tilted her head. Mordecai narrowed his eyes and flattened his ears.

“Roooocky,” Freckle sing songed himself upright, and leaned into the car. 

Ivy giggled as Rocky snuffled to semi-consciousness. “Whaaaaaa’—”

“Haaaaappy biiiiirthday,” Freckle pushed on the frame of the car, rocking it.

Rocky snickered quietly.

And Mordecai froze, frowning.

Ivy cleared her throat. “You can just take the car back—Rocky will be fine.”

“Goodnight—” Freckle continued. “Sleep tight—”

“No bed buuuuuugs—” Rocky whined.

Mordecai’s ears twitched. “He’s not staying with you?”

“Nope,” the word popped from Ivy’s mouth, then she leaned forward to whisper. “Mitzi doesn’ know—he sleeps in the garage. Shhh…”

“He sleeps here?” Mordecai’s claws dug into the seat. “In the car?”

The backdoor shut, and Freckle stumbled around the vehicle.

“Shh,” Ivy reiterated. Then she leaned into the car to kiss Mordecai’s cheek. “Thanks again. Goodnight, Rocky!”

“Night, Mssssss Pep…”

Smiling, Ivy retreated, slamming the door. Meeting Freckle on the sidewalk, the two walked towards the building. Creeping across the bench seat, Mordecai watched until they greeted the overnight doorman and disappeared inside. Then, sighing, he slowly moved to peer again over the back of the seat.

At some point, Rocky had rearranged himself onto his back. His knees were bent, one foot resting against the back door and one arm sprawled beneath the seat. The thin blanket, wrapped around his waist, had tangled and lowered, showing the wrinkles forming in Rocky’s shirt and vest. His jacket was missing.

Mordecai shivered. “What am I going to do with you?”

Inhaling, Rocky’s eyes snapped open. They were a luminous blue in the darkness, his pupils rapidly growing and shrinking as he tried to focus. 

Mordecai held his breath.

Then Rocky relaxed, eyelids drifting partway closed. “‘Mmmmm I dreaming?”

Biting his lip, Mordecai looked around the car pointlessly. “Yes,” he decided.

“Tha’ makes sense,” Rocky sighed and closed his eyes.

Another moment, and Mordecai tapped his claws against the upholstery. “Get up here.”

“Hmm?”

“Up front.” Half crawling, Mordecai reached behind the seat. He caught hold of the blanket first, and tugged.

The motion caused Rocky to roll. “Whaaaaa—” he fell into snickers as he wedged under the backseat. Shifting, he scrunched his face up at Mordecai. “Why?”

“The symmetry,” said Mordecai. “Obviously.”

“Symmetry?” Rocky puzzled. But he climbed up, tipping over into the front cushions. 

Sliding back into place, Mordecai threw the blanket overtop of Rocky again. Clearing his throat, he restarted the car. “Well?”

“Well what, silly duck?” Rocky laughed as he fought his way out of the blanket. He managed to nearly kick Mordecai’s head as he awkwardly rolled around the seat, falling off the front. Snickering, he smiled up at Mordecai. 

“What should I do with you?” Mordecai asked.

Perking, Rocky struggled back into the seat. “Take me home?”

“I would,” Mordecai drawled. But his carefully measured tone did nothing for the goosebumps rising beneath his fur. He stepped on the gas. “But, apparently, your home is the garage.”

“Well…” still half on the floor, Rocky swayed close. “You could take me to your home…”

Shivering, Mordecai drove.

It wasn’t long before Rocky yawned, eyes drooping. He nodded several times, seeming to catch himself, before finally falling against Mordecai’s thigh. “This’s nice,” he mumbled, eyes closed. 

“Is it?” Mordecai replied softly. Overhead the clouds cleared, letting a handful of stars sparkle through the light pollution. The moon was out, gibbous and waning. “We’re just driving.”

“Is nice,” Rocky repeated. “I’s like our first drive.”

“Is it?” Mordecai repeated, panicking.

“Yes—no—” Rocky sighed, and turned to rub his face against Mordecai’s leg. “I couldn’t’ve dreamed that drive, I’m too dull.”

“You?” Mordecai scoffed. And, inexplicably, he relaxed under the pretenses. “Dull?”

“Dim-witted,” Rocky nodded, continuing. “Dotty, daft, dopy, dumb, brain-dead—”

“Sit up,” Mordecai interrupted. 

“What?”

“Sit up,” he said. “You’re throwing off the symmetry.”

“Nooooo—” Rocky whined. Pawing, he pulled one of Mordecai’s hands from the steering wheel and held it against his head. “It’s my dream.”

While the drive was relatively easy—nearing five in the morning, the day was too cold and quiet for the general public—Mordecai left his hand where it was. He traced along the nearly-even pattern of Rocky’s fur, listening to him purr and ramble. “Through the forest have I gone, but Athenian found I none—” Rocky spoke Puck’s part as he nosed into Mordecai’s palm. “—on whose eyes I might approve, this flower’s force in stirring love. Night and silence; who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear—”

They’d both shifted, laid out facing each other on the roof of the car. Rocky still performed, “Now, until the break of day—” But his voice softened, eyes hooded as he studied Mordecai’s reactions. And Mordecai, transfixed, watched the words as they formed on Rocky’s lips. At some point, his hands lifted to grasp at the front of Rocky’s vest, claws catching in the fabric. Their ankles were intertwined and their tails brushed together. Rocky continued: “—through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we—”

Mordecai interrupted: “I think I want to kiss you.”

When they came close, Mordecai idled the car in front of the Lackadaisy. Still lying on the bench—though now he faced the seat more than Mordecai—Rocky continued reciting every line, regardless of character, straight into the third act. He didn’t seem to notice the pause in the journey, nor when Mordecai made up his mind and continued driving home.

Parking in the alley behind his building, he tried corralling Rocky out of the car. But the violinist frowned for a long moment before sitting himself up. “I have presents for you,” he announced; then he climbed again over the seat, falling into the back.

“I don’t need presents,” Mordecai sighed. Stepping out, he moved to open the back door.

Squirming, Rocky searched for something under the seat. Two somethings, which he produced with a flourish and a smile. “Ta da!”

Hesitating, Mordecai observed both objects. One was lumpy and wrapped in newspaper. The other was a cactus, decorated with googly eyes and planted in a familiar old shoe. “Well, I think this is already mine,” he remarked and tapped on the shoe’s toe, then leaned to inspect the unhappy plant. Its needles were shedding and its soil was dry, but it still seemed alive. “And you’ve killed the cactus.”

“Have I?” Rocky frowned and pulled the plant closer to look at.

Mordecai took the other present and tucked it under his arm. “Inside first,” he instructed. “Can you walk?”

“Pssh,” Rocky rolled his eyes, but moved to crawl awkwardly out on all fours.

“Stop, stop—”

“What?”

Mordecai sighed, tilting his head. “Your feet should be underneath you.”

“I’s fiiine,” he insisted. But he still teetered out the door, performing a miraculous shoulder roll to flatten himself on the icy pavement; somehow, the cactus remained intact. Rocky blinked, then grinned up at Mordecai. “See?”

“I see that your feet still aren’t under you.”

“The little details don’t matter.”

“You’re inebriated.”

“Am I?” Rocky’s puzzled. “There was, purrrrrrrhaps, more inbide—imblide—impride—” Scowling, Rocky stuck his tongue out. “Words.”

“Come on,” Mordecai shook his head. 

Somehow, he convinced Rocky to teeter on two feet. The trek inside was practice in balance and patience, and Mordecai tried to feel indifferent about the polite non-attention of the doorman and the lift operator. Rocky leaned next to the door while Mordecai fished for his key, and then they were inside.

“This is an awfully long dream, isn’t it?” Rocky remarked as he waited for Mordecai to shed his outer layers.

“I suppose typical dreams are short,” Mordecai agreed. A tinge of guilt crept into the corners of his mind, dark and sour. He tried to shake it off. “You should change into something dry.”

“Present first,” Rocky reminded. His tail twitched, and he watched Mordecai eagerly.

Mordecai frowned, but picked at the newspaper packaging as he wandered across the little apartment. “Isn’t it your birthday? Why get me a present?”

“I’ve never been good at birthdays,” Rocky shrugged, following with cactus-and-shoe in hand. "And I missed yours."

“Hm—” he ripped away the paper and sighed. It was a scuffed menorah, second hand. But… "I don't light candles for Chanukah."

"Oh." Ears lowering, Rocky frowned. "Then, what do you do?"

"Usually? Call my mother." Mordecai threw the candle holder onto the chaise and moved to take the cactus from Rocky’s hold; their fingers overlapped. “This one seems more like you.”

A snort drew from Rocky. Instead of yielding the plant, he moved as if Mordecai were pulling him along, too. “I’ve had it for years. I thought, well—” he let go to gesture at some of the many potted flora dotting the apartment, and Mordecai wrestled the shoe from his hold. “—if anyone could keep it alive, you could.”

“It’ll need new soil,” Mordecai noted. Walking into the bedroom, he moved to the little table by the window. Rocky followed him. “Dry clothes are in the closet. You can borrow something from the dresser, and put your things in the laundry for tomorrow.”

Rocky’s fingers rasped together. “Tomorrow?”

Mordecai tensed. Setting the cactus down next to a flowerbox of ferns, he kept his fingers busy by unbuttoning his cuffs. “Only if you’d like.”

There was a moment of silence, then Rocky stumbled to Mordecai’s little closet. It took a few minutes, but they both dressed down from their day, slipping into clean sleep things. Neither of them looked directly at the other, both awkwardly lost in thoughts and memories, until the floor was littered with clothes and their bedtime preparations were complete. Then Rocky waited, tail twitching, until Mordecai could again meet his eye. Reaching, he took Mordecai by the wrist and pulled him toward the bed.

Even inebriated—especially inebriated—Rocky was a force of chaos. The bedding seemed to rearrange around him as he maneuvered Mordecai into a little spoon. Nested, Mordecai arched back into Rocky’s torso. He tensed as Rocky licked a line up his neck, but slowly relaxed to the gentle pull of teeth across fur. The ministrations went no further.

Eventually, Rocky fell asleep with his face pressed against Mordecai’s scruff. 

The hitman was less fortunate. The afternoon’s early sleep, combined with the usual hours of his profession and a dash of nerves, kept his heart beating and mind racing. He tried everything from solving complex algebraic problems to mapping out the most efficient route around the great lakes and couldn’t settle his thoughts. It was worse when Rocky pulled close, an arm snaking around Mordecai’s waist. Then worse again when Rocky shifted to nose at the back of Mordecai’s ear.

And worser still when the first hints of morning finally invaded the room. A glow out the window suggested daylight, and the start of traffic sounds drifted up from the street. All at once, Rocky inhaled, sat up, and scrambled away. Mordecai curled a little tighter around his knees and feigned sleep.

Falling out of bed, Rocky made muted noises as he searched around the room. Mordecai heard him pick up his clothes and tip toe away. 

Consumed, Mordecai buried under his pillows and bit his cheeks. Minutes passed. The pain grounded his thoughts, and he tried listing all the reasons he was being stupid. It had been a mistake. A long, drawn out farce fuelled by alcohol and other intoxicants that, yes, perhaps both of them played into on occasion but neither of them had business pursuing. Outside of a penchant for the philosophical—and a precocity of word that often sent others racing for the exit—they had little in common. The idea of them together was a joke to their friends, an inconceivable notion that went unnoticed and unthought of; and even if it had, it would only be as betting fodder. He didn't even like to be touched—usually. And there was blood in Mordecai’s ledger, too much for any person to deserve—

“Shit shit shit!” Rocky’s voice chorused from the other room.

Sitting up, Mordecai smelled smoke. The blankets tangled around his ankles and he tripped from the bed. Half the bedding shed with him as he scrambled from the bedroom, only to pause in the doorway to watch as Rocky dropped a flaming pan into the little kitchen sink. The musician turned on the water, dousing the flames with a hiss.

“Not ideal,” Rocky cursed.

Mordecai took notice of the state of his kitchenette. Flour was spread across his small countertop, where a bowl of something sat balancing a whisk. His fridge was open, the contents disheveled as if they had been riffled through. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Startled, Rocky twisted to blink at him. Still undressed, his eyes were manically wide and ringed with exhausted circles. “Uhhhh—” the water was still running; he scratched at his disheveled neck. “—making pancakes?”

Habitually, Mordecai’s eyes narrowed and his shoulders hunched. “That’s cast iron. You can’t leave it in the sink.”

“Sorry—” Rocky darted to turn off the water. “It sort of caught on fire—”

“And—” continuing, Mordecai cast a quick look around the rest of the room. Seeing a pile of material on his coffee table, he pointed at it. “—I told you to put those clothes in the laundry.”

Biting his lips together, Rocky leaned against the little sink and raised his brows. He considered Mordecai. “So… it wasn’t a dream?”

Hand dropping to his side, Mordecai frowned. “... no.”

“I mean, the part where you seemed to reciprocate,” Rocky added. “You know I like you.”

“Yes.”

“And you—”

“Rocky,” Mordecai interrupted. “Please, get out of my kitchen before my cast iron rusts, or you manage to blow up the stove.”

Rocky’s nose scrunched as he grinned. “So bossy.”

“That’s not new,” he replied. Then, hesitant, he walked closer. “I thought you’d left.”

Rocky shrugged. “Technically, you weren’t wrong.”

“You know what I mean,” Mordecai intoned. “I would’ve left.”

Cautiously, Rocky reached out to hold Mordecai by the waist. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Slotting together, Mordecai nestled against Rocky’s neck. “I’m not good at this.”

Rocky snorted. “Neither am I.” He pet a line down Mordecai’s spine. “But… I think I’d like to kiss you. If that’s okay.”

Shuddering, Mordecai pulled back just enough to peer into Rocky’s eyes. “I don’t usually like kissing.”

“Oh.”

“But yes,” Mordecai added. “It’s okay.”

Tentative, Rocky pressed his lips to Mordecai's cheek. He started butterfly soft, leaving a trail of affection across Mordecai’s eyelids and up to his temple. "I don't understand kissing—" Rocky admitted in a whisper.

Mordecai snorted.

"I should say, didn't understand," Rocky corrected. He rubbed his face against Mordecai’s, knocking his glasses askew.

"What's not to understand?" Mordecai asked, aiming for condescending even as his heart beat with sincerity.

Rocky shrugged and tugged him closer. Boxed in against the sink, his hands pushed under Mordecai’s shirt to scratch claws down his back. "Usually people would act nice to get kisses, then hurt me and leave."

He couldn't help purring, even as another twinge of guilt had Mordecai leaning back against Rocky’s hold. Cadling Rocky’s neck, Mordecai pet the old bite wound. "That's what I did."

"You didn't act nice," Rocky snickered, nosing close. "You didn't pull your punches, or go along with things you didn't care about, or pretend."

"I pretended you were still dreaming just to get you up here."

"To kiss me?" Rocky raised a brow at him

Mordecai rolled his eyes.

"That's what I thought," Rocky hummed. "I like kissing you; I didn't realize it was fun for everyone."

"Who were you kissing before, that it wasn't fun?" Mordecai's eyes narrowed. "There's reasons we throw people into the river, Rickaby, and—"

"Hush—" Rocky licked Mordecai’s nose. "Who cares about them? You're fun to kiss—but only when you want to. No need to be a Miriam—or Arty—or Chance—or—"

Mordecai kissed him, licking into his mouth until they were both left panting. He scratched down Rocky's chest, enjoying the soft hiss that angled the musician's jaw wider and sighing as Rocky’s claws combed through his fur. Something reminiscent of flickering warmth and summer nights coloured in the corners of his consciousness, and he leaned closer, closer, closer until he felt Rocky’s spine arching backwards over the sink. Then, nipping at Rocky’s bottom lip, he pulled away. "You aren't like anyone else," he said. "You're very…"

A smile split across Rocky’s face. "Oh?"

"Tolerable," he settled on. “Now—get out of my kitchen, and I’ll see if I can salvage pancakes.”

Snickering, Rocky kissed Mordecai’s cheek before ducking away. He winked. “Yessir, Mr Heller, sir.”

As Mordecai scrubbed and reseasoned the cast iron, Rocky regathered his clothes to dump somewhere in the bedroom—presumably in the laundry basket, but Mordecai couldn’t be sure. He returned to the livingroom as Mordecai was inspecting the lumpy pancake mix, and curled up on the chaise with a well-read copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare.

When Mordecai served a tray of pancakes with jam—he made a mental note to consider adding syrup to his shopping list—Rocky tucked his feet under his knees and used his finger as a bookmark. “You’ve worked your way through the whole volume,” he noted with a smile.

“You do quote the bard a lot, Roark,” Mordecai replied.

Rocky’s nose scrunched. “Only Aunt Nina calls me Roark.”

“You’ll have to add me to that list,” said Mordecai. And when Rocky blanched, he conceded. “At least some of the time.”

Rolling his eyes, Rocky held up the book. “Do you have a favourite play?”

“I may have formed a preference along the way,” Mordecai sidled onto the chaise next to him. “But I’m afraid it isn’t the frivolous one you like so much.”

“You think Macbeth is frivolous?”

Mordecai narrowed his eyes at Rocky. “Your favourite play is Midsummer’s Night.”

Settling to sit closer to Mordecai, Rocky reached to fill a plate. Undeterred by the lack of syrup, he spread an inch of jam between two pancakes. "Yes, Midsummer is a little frivolous; but why did you think I would prefer Midsummer?"

"You quote it constantly."

"Ah—" Pausing to think, Rocky nodded. "—I suppose I do."

"You convinced the band to do the third act."

"A thematic choice, for Mayday."

"Why quote it if it isn't your favourite?"

Rocky shrugged and pulled the plate into his lap. “It’s a famous tale of lovers, drugged by faeries and left to frolic overweekend in the woods.” Picking up his jam-pancake-sandwhich, he shoved the whole thing in his mouth. “Id feld ap—”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Mordecai admonished. “Or I’m changing my mind about everything.”

Cheeks puffing as Rocky strained his lips together, he raised his brows at Mordecai. Frowning back, Mordecai’s ear twitched; so Rocky tapped a sticky finger against the volume of Shakespeare as he chewed.

Sighing, Mordecai glanced out the window in pretense of annoyance. Really it was an attempt to stop his face from heating in embarrassment. Outside, the occasional snowflake drifted by. From memory, he recited: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

The rest of the morning passed both slowly and too quick. Food was finished and set aside, but instead of leaving the two cats reclined together. Mordecai dozed on Rocky’s chest; Rocky peered over Mordecai’s shoulder to keep reading; and both of them occasionally purred or whispered to the other. Everything was on track to becoming the most relaxed day off in Mordecai’s recent memory.

And then the window slid open.

“Mordecai!” Ivy’s voice yelled. Both him and Rocky flinched. “What did you—! Oh.”

Looking up, Mordecai and Rocky saw Ivy and Freckle perched on the living room windowsill. The four cats looked at each other for a long moment; then, Ivy continued climbing inside.

“I have a front door,” Mordecai noted. He pushed himself up until he was kneeling, more or less in Rocky’s lap.

“There was no time for the door,” Ivy snapped her fingers at him. “We thought you had killed him!”

“Who?” Rocky blinked.

“You,” said Freckle. He tripped as he tried to follow Ivy, falling to the floor.

“I have to call Mitzi,” Ivy continued, beelining across Mordecai’s apartment. “I think she owes Zib money.”

Sighing, Mordecai slumped against the back of the chaise. “So much for a peaceful day.”

Then Rocky took hold of his hand. “Good day, though,” he said with a smile. “Right?”

“Right—” Mordecai entwined their fingers. "—but if you tell anyone, I'll deny it."

Scoffing, Rocky lifted the limb to press a kiss to Mordecai's knuckles. "Deny it all you want," he said. "I've got you figured out."

[beardedmrbean]

MINNEAPOLIS (AP) — U.S. Rep. Ilhan Omar got a prominent Democratic primary challenger Sunday when former Minneapolis City Council member Don Samuels announced he’ll try once again to unseat her after coming close in 2022.

Omar, a charter member of “the squad” of progressive House Democrats, won reelection twice despite making comments in her first term that were widely criticized for invoking antisemitic tropes and suggesting Jewish Americans have divided loyalties. But Omar — a Somali American and Muslim — has come under renewed fire for condemning the Israeli government’s handling of its war against Hamas.

“Our congresswoman has a predilection to divisiveness and conflict,” Samuels said in an interview with The Associated Press ahead of his official announcement Sunday morning on WCCO Radio.

The Jamaican-born Samuels still maintains that his narrow primary loss in 2022 showed Omar was beatable, and that he could have won if they had competed later in the general election, where Omar won 74% of the vote over a little-known Republican.

The big issue in 2022 was the future of policing in the city where George Floyd was murdered in 2020 by a former Minneapolis police officer, which touched off protests around the world and riots in Minnesota. Omar was among the progressives who slammed former President Barack Obama for criticizing the “defund the police” movement as just a “snappy slogan.”

“It’s not a slogan but a policy demand,” she posted on Twitter, now known as X.

In contrast, the centrist Samuels helped lead the opposition that defeated a proposal on the city ballot in 2021 that arose from the “defund” movement and would have replaced the police force with a revamped public safety agency. Samuels thinks safety will be a top issue again.

“The long tails of the George Floyd and COVID issues continue, with empty storefronts and empty strip malls because people don’t want to invest anymore. They don’t think it’s safe,” Samuels said.

Omar issued a written statement Sunday touting her work in Congress and for her district, including fighting to combat climate change and codify abortion rights. She also noted her part in securing an affordable housing facility for veterans in Minnesota and a public safety measure that provides mental health support and services for victims of gun violence.

“Right-wing donors have targeted me since I first entered public life,” Omar said in the statement, which also accused Samuels of taking hundreds of thousands in contributions from far-right donors and political action committees. “If we’re going to stop Donald Trump, we need record turnout, and I am confident in our ability to drive turnout, particularly in a presidential election year.”

The war in the Middle East has already divided Democrats and upended the dynamics of some House primaries. Omar has been critical of Hamas for attacking Israel and taking hostages — but even more so of Israel’s military response. Her focus has been the plight of civilians in the Gaza Strip. She has also condemned the surge of intimidation and violence against both Muslim and Jewish targets in the U.S.

It remains to be seen how potent an issue the war will be in an overwhelmingly Democratic district that includes Minneapolis and some suburbs. The district also has a large Somali Muslim population. And it includes St. Louis Park, which historically has been a center of Jewish life in Minnesota.

Samuels said he believes the war will be a big concern. He criticized Omar for voting against placing sanctions on Russia over its invasion of Ukraine but supporting sanctions against Israel, and for boycotting Israeli President Isaac Herzog’s speech to Congress in July.

“She has frightened the Jewish community,” Samuels said, adding that the community “understands that there is a latent and lurking antisemitic sentiment that always needs discouragement, and always in times of national crisis raises its ugly head.”

The American Israel Public Affairs Committee has been actively trying to recruit a credible challenger to Omar. That drew pushback from a strong supporter of Israel, House Democratic Leader Hakeem Jeffries, who issued a public show of support for Omar this summer. A super PAC affiliated with AIPAC spent about $350,000 against Omar in 2022. But Samuels said AIPAC didn’t try to recruit him.

Omar’s fellow House Democrats have portrayed her as a serious legislator who in the past four years has earned admiration for giving voice to marginalized groups often forgotten on Capitol Hill.

But Samuels said people sometimes “mistake her oppositional nature and divisive nature for someone who’s speaking truth to power when in fact she is misusing her power, or not using her power, to make change.”

The other declared candidates are relatively unknown. One Democrat is Sarah Gad, a Minneapolis attorney and daughter of Egyptian immigrants who is Muslim. The other is military veteran Tim Peterson. The only Republican currently running is Dalia Al-Aqidi, an Iraqi American journalist and self-described secular Muslim who calls Omar pro-Hamas and a terrorist sympathizer.

[white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen]

Marbles

Summary: Ellen isn't the only person who knew Neal Caffrey before he became Neal Caffrey.

Word Count: 7,333

Requested by anonymous; photo credit is Jeff Eastin's Twitter

St. Louis, 1984

            Kids at school called you Marbles because you always had a little bag of them with you. You knew even then that the nickname was supposed to be mean, but it had never gotten under your skin. You just laughed along, because, yeah, it was kinda weird that you carried marbles, but you played with them all the time and loved it. And before long, they were calling you Marbles because it stuck, not because they were laughing at you.

            Marbles were just great fun. And in second grade, whenever you had extra time, your teacher would let you play with them and a classmate or two so long as your other work was already done. After a couple of weeks into the school year, you had a few people you would regularly play with. Danny was one of them. His bright blue eyes made him stand out from the boys at his table. He was cute, but at seven, you still preferred puppies to boys.

            The first day he talked to you, you’d been bouncing some marbles on the carpeted floor to stay quiet, staring at them intently and trying to devise a new game in your head. Danny sat cross-legged and asked if he could play. Abandoning your half-baked game, you reached up to your desk and grabbed a piece of paper from your class folder, quickly drew the circles to represent a mancala board, and divided the marbles. Danny beat you on his first try. That was when you knew you liked him. You gave him a bag of your marbles so he could make new games, too.

            From then on, you played together whenever you could, but scarcely stuck with one game for very long. You were both easily bored by the simple games that marbles allowed, so you fiddled with the rules, tampering with the game play to see what would happen. Sometimes you created entirely new games, sometimes incorporating other tools that were easy to carry in school or to the park, like a set of dice or an origami fortune teller.

            By Christmas that same year, you’d started to exhaust your options and branched out into other ways of entertaining yourselves. Cards were good for quick games, and the randomness of a good shuffle kept games interesting for longer. Puzzles were great for you both, but they took too long to do at school and you could only play them when you had a playdate or sleepover. Eventually, you settled on codes and ciphers as your mutual favorite activity. You could create them when you were together and have secret communications, or you could create them separately and challenge each other to solve them. You liked to base yours on symbols and books. Danny liked incorporating math. By the end of the school year, you had a collection of codes of varying complexity.

St. Louis, 1986

            After nearly two years of friendship, you and Danny snuck downstairs to his aunt Ellen’s TV to watch a new movie. It was called The Color of Money. With a shelf of adult movies in front of you, you were way more interested in the popular titles you recognized, like Ferris Bueller and Top Gun, but Danny convinced you to give Scorsese a try and you never regretted it. That movie introduced you two to the world of gambling. As cynical nine-year-olds, you weren’t really interested in the idea of gambling so much as the behavior of people who did it – and the methods behind milking out the most rewards for the least risks.

            It took some needling and permission from your parents, but Ellen finally agreed to teach you both how to play poker. One Friday, she picked you both up from school, took you to the store to pick out a box of your favorite candies, and used the chocolates in place of money. With bowls of candy at stake, you learned what cards you wanted, when to fold, and how to count the multicolored plastic poker chips. Initially, Ellen hadn’t wanted to teach you to bluff on principle of not encouraging children to lie, but they had bluffed in all the movies, so you and Danny both tried it without her suggestion. She was exasperated, but amused by your complete failure. Danny had much better results, and when Ellen went to bed and left you to either play cards or watch a movie, he told you that when you lied, you always lifted your chin, like you were daring someone to call you on it.

            You both had detention the next week for trying to use poker to win your classmates’ brownies at lunch.

St. Louis, 1989

            When you were twelve, Nintendo came out with the Game Boy. Neither of your families had the kind of money to spend on a game system like that, so you and Danny decided you could team up to buy one for yourselves to trade back and forth. It was better to have the hot new thing sooner than later, even if it meant taking turns. You took out a sheet of paper to figure out how long it would take if you pooled your money together; even with the little bit of spare allowances you had socked away, you both still needed to save over thirty dollars each.

            In hindsight, what happened next was probably your parents’ first red flag.

            Sixty-four bucks, for a couple of kids in the late eighties, was a lot of money, and you were both too young to legally get jobs. Divide and conquer, however, had already demonstrated merit when it came to convincing your parents of letting you go to the fair or the movies, so why not divide and conquer to raise cash? All you needed was enough people contributing. But then came the problem that if they contributed, they’d feel entitled to your Game Boy. It was for the two of you, not anyone else. So they would need to be paid back by money you got from somewhere else.

            To summarize a long story, and explain many angry phone calls from your peers’ parents, you and Danny essentially ran a pyramid scheme to raise the money for a Game Boy, enticing kids in your old elementary school to pay forward their allowance to your first- and second-round financiers in your middle school. When you were caught, you were grounded for months – but by this point, you were both well-practiced at sneaking between each other’s houses and hiding things in your rooms, and you had a Game Boy.

            Your parents’ anger and the way your little sister’s friends’ parents treated you made you realize you’d done something morally wrong. It was humiliating and shameful to be looked at that way. Danny didn’t take it as hard as you did. It rolled off his back once Ellen was back to treating him the way she always had. Danny needed to be liked, and he was liked a lot, because he was cute, and smart, and didn’t bully girls at school, and now he had a Game Boy, so he didn’t mind that kids in a different school and their parents he never saw thought badly of him. It didn’t affect him day to day the way that the guilt started to carve into your self-esteem.

            In hindsight, that was your first red flag that there was something a little bit off about Danny. When you brought it up to him, he genuinely didn’t see why you felt so bad. You hadn’t lied to those little kids, and after all, each one only sacrified a couple of dollars. You couldn’t articulate just why, but you needed to make it right. In the end, Danny helped you make it up to the kids by handing back out a portion of your allowances for a few weeks and helping out with their homework, but you knew he’d only done it because he was sad to see you so upset.

            You couldn’t deny how great it had felt to accomplish something so quickly, and Danny had boasted for weeks about how persuasive he’d been, but you made an agreement that from then on you wouldn’t hustle kids anymore. Danny pouted about it a little because they were such easy marks, but he agreed to keep you happy. When your wrongs were righted, you felt restored, and you got back to your regular mischief – but you were much more cautious of whether you were being clever or just unethical.

St. Louis, 1992

            High school was an entirely different beast from middle school. You and Danny kept sending each other coded letters and hanging out on the weekends, but he was the one who got caught up in how girls looked twice at him and how guys wanted to be his friend. Danny joined the cross-country team, partly to spend more time with those friends and partly to keep in shape to apply for the police academy after high school, and started to pursue girls. He had a new girlfriend every other month. And it meant, altogether, that there was less time for you – so you followed his lead and joined your own clubs, made your own friends.

            In freshman year, there had been a rumor that you were dating. You’d loudly opposed it. You had eyes and could see that he was hot, and you didn’t think you’d ever be happy with anyone less smart, or less kind to you, but the idea of kissing Danny just made your stomach turn. There was one time when he started dating a cheerleader who made the mistake of threatening to “ruin” you if you didn’t back off of “her” Danny – he dumped her as soon as you told him what happened. So, although you didn’t have as much time to spend with each other, there was never any doubt that you were still best friends.

            You still liked friendly competitions, and found ways to work together to make quick money or convince your parents that what you wanted to do or see was a good idea. But something about high school flipped a switch in Danny. Maybe it was all the teachers saying now was the time to shape up. Suddenly, everything he did was in light of being like his father. Danny had always idolized his dead dad, and you couldn’t bring yourself to criticize him for that, even when it made him sort of a buzzkill. Did he really think that none of the city cops had ever snuck some liquor from their mom’s freezer? And goodbye to any manipulative schemes – even if your conscience hadn’t stopped you, Danny’s ambitions would have. He still had no moral compunctions about taking from people who didn’t need what they had, but for the fact that it was illegal and could jeopardize his future as a cop.

            “Cop this, cop that,” you complained once, playfully shoving at his arm. “Am I gonna have to become a criminal to force you to loosen up?”

            “You wouldn’t dare,” Danny responded with absolute confidence. “You wouldn’t like prison.”

            You’d scoffed. “You’d turn in your best friend?!”

            He gave you a cheeky grin. “If my best friend’s not smart enough to get away with crimes, she shouldn’t be committing them.”

St. Louis, 1995

            You weren’t sure what you wanted to do after high school. Your parents were supportive of whatever you wanted to do, but they hoped you’d at least give college a try; but without any idea what you wanted to actually do, you couldn’t justify spending that much money on it to yourself. The more you thought about what you really loved to do, you kept coming back to games and puzzles. It had been years since anyone called you Marbles, but the passion that bonded you and Danny had persisted.

            It was when you were watching the new Will Smith detective movie that you realized maybe you and Danny had this in common, too. He wasn’t just going to be a great cop because of his father; it was because he had a knack for solving puzzles. Maybe investigating was your great calling in life. How cool would it be to be detectives together??

            You sat on it for a few weeks, thinking it over before telling Danny you were going to apply, too. That way he wouldn’t know to be disappointed if you changed your mind. In the end, you never did get to tell him. You were still thinking about in by his eighteenth birthday.

            You’d already agreed to go to the mall together so you could buy him dinner, but he never came to get you like he’d said he would. You called his home, but no one picked up, so you called his aunt’s neighboring house instead. Ellen had answered and tiredly said that it wasn’t a good time. Assuming they’d had a fight, you let it be and minded your business, changing your plans when it became clear that the mall was off.

            The next morning, you left to go get him before walking to school, just to make sure he was feeling okay. He and Ellen rarely fought; Danny tried so hard to be on his best behavior for her, even before he’d straightened up to make sure he got into the police force. You noticed the post on your mailbox was up and detoured, and took out a piece of folded paper. No envelope and no stamp – just your name on one of the trifolds.

            Assuming it was another coded letter, you eagerly unfolded it to see what kind of patterns you were working with and mull it over on the way to school. To your disappointment, it was plain English. And, to your horror, it was an apologetic goodbye note.

            You sprinted several streets away to the Brooks house and pounded on the door. No one answered. You were almost panicking, considering grabbing the extra key Danny had told you about, before Ellen next door caught your eye, waving for you to come over. You jumped off the porch and ran in, dumping your backpack by the doorway to show her the note. The blonde woman barely glanced at it before saying, “I know. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

            It was surprising how clearly you could remember that moment all these years later, especially when what came next felt like a blur of colors and motions melting together. You think Ellen sat you on her couch and poured you some tea. She made you sit and breathe before she explained to you that she’d caught Danny – Neal – signing an application for the police. He was so eager to do it the moment he’d turned eighteen, that Ellen hadn’t had a choice. She’d had to tell him he couldn’t, because Danny Brooks wasn’t his real name; and even if it were, he needed to know that his motivation, the story he’d been telling himself for years, was a lie.

            Ellen told you that the Brooks family were actually in Wit-Sec. That Danny’s real name was Neal Bennett, and that his father had been a cop, but a dirty one. That Ellen wasn’t really his aunt, but his corrupt dad’s police partner, who had testified against him and asked to be relocated near Neal, just to make sure the little boy grew up safely. That Neal had been too young to remember. That he had run away, and she didn’t think he was coming back.

            Ellen – you still didn’t know if that was even her real name – let you sit on her couch for hours, staring at the floor, drinking the tea she poured mindlessly after it had gone cold, and crying with grief. It was the one and only time she’d ever condoned playing hooky from school. She rubbed your back for a little while, and then let you sit in silent shock while she went about cleaning. It took you an embarrassingly long time to realize that she wasn’t just cleaning, she was packing. Packing to leave. Because people were going to wonder why Neal had disappeared, and maybe the cops would get involved, and maybe her and Neal’s mother would both be in jeopardy.

            Ellen gave you a small box of Neal’s belongings that she thought you’d want. In the bottom was the bag of marbles you’d given him in second grade.

            Life was never the same after Neal left. Your best friend was gone. You figured, hey, he’d always been street-smart, the odds were pretty good that he was still alive; but the way he disappeared, the odds were also pretty good that you would never see him again, so to you, he may as well be dead. You thought of him sometimes (often) and hoped he was okay, when you weren’t wishing he would come home or cursing his fake name for making you care and then abandoning you without the decency to say goodbye to your face.

            You had so many questions in the coming weeks, but the day after Neal had vanished, so had Neal’s not-aunt, along with any opportunities for closure. Once, a few days later, you scraped up the guts to use that hidden key he’d showed you and let yourself into his and his mom’s house. It was completely empty, but left in disarray, with scraped paint, peeling wallpaper, dust settled deep in the rug corners. It had been a long time since you’d spent time together there, rather than in Ellen’s, and now you knew why. With hindsight, and a psychology degree, you were reasonably sure that Neal’s mother had been fighting depression his whole life, and most of the house felt the same.

            To make it worse, Danny had been such a beloved part of the school community that in the two months between his disappearance and your graduation, everything under the sun passed under the rumor mill. At first the cops investigated. They talked to you, interrogated you. One of them made you cry by insinuating you were secretly in love with him, and killed him because he’d been dating some chick on the track team. Another rubbed your shoulder and offered you cocoa because he “couldn’t possibly imagine how cofused you’re feeling”. And the whole time, you felt compelled to lie, choking on your tongue and stumbling through how he missed your plans on his birthday and left a note the next morning. You left out the part where you’d talked to Ellen, because what the hell were you supposed to do? Out her as a witness? Admit that Danny Brooks was such a deep lie that even he hadn’t known about it?

            Whatever the correct procedure was, no one had bothered to tell you about it. But you were reasonably certain that whoever was in charge of securing the Bennetts, and Ellen, they had caught wind of the investigation, because rather suddenly, all the police activity stopped. You were left alone, and so was his girlfriend, and the guys he played soccer with. The only way they would drop a missing persons case that hard and that quick was if the feds stepped in and told them to back off.

            Your parents, and even your little sister, knew that something was off about you. You’re reasonably sure that your entire family knew you knew something you weren’t sharing. But after weeks of trying to comfort you and get you to open up, they started to let go, trusting that if you knew anything actionable, you would have shared to protect your friend.

            The police letting it go didn’t end the nightmare for you, though, because the talk at school continued. The US Marshals couldn’t tell everyone to shut up and mind their business. Some people thought Danny had run away from his mother, others thought he’d been kidnapped and trafficked. Some thought he’d knocked up a girl and they ran away, but that one ended when the girl came back to school, and it turned out she’d had the flu. Some people thought you must have had something to do with it, because you’d been so close for so many years. Those people really got to you, because in truth, you could hardly believe you’d known the boy for most of your lives and never suspected he was anything else.

            March trudged into April and April slipped into May, and your graduation crawled closer. You were announced as valedictorian. When you went to get the honors sash to wear over your gown, the administrator compassionately told you that Neal would have been valedictorian, had he been there, so though they knew it must be hard, you should keep your head up and be proud enough for the both of you. That just made it even harder to get through. What was supposed to be one of the best days of your life was one of the darkest. A huge shared milestone was lonely. Neal had run away, left you picking up the pieces in a shattered social circle, and now you were taking his place, and somehow someone else had figured out he had that tiny edge over your GPA, and a picture of you in your cap and gown giving your speech was put on a blog along with an accusation that you killed him or threatened him away so you could be valedictorian.

            You had to get the hell away. Every unnecessary second you spent in your neighborhood, in your school, in the city you used to share felt like it was scratching at your skin. The application cycle for colleges was long closed, but you took your savings, promised to call your parents every day, and moved to California, as far away as you could get. There, you got a job, found a shitty apartment to share with a girl who minded her own business, and scraped by until you could apply to college.

Palo Alto, 1999

             High school valedictorian had felt like a hollow and bitter loss more than anything, rubbing salt in the wound that Neal was gone. In the four years of college since, you’d made plenty of friendly acquaintances, and even some good friends, but none as good as Neal.

            You’d visited the school counselor a few times. Told her, minus what you knew about Neal and Wit-Sec, what had happened to drive you all the way from St. Louis to Palo Alto for school. She’d been incredibly sympathetic, even as she suggested that perhaps there had been some trauma mixed in with the grief. Looking back, you could accept it for what it was. You lost your best friend, on multiple levels, and then members of your community turned on you, accusing you of the worst. And, though you were still the only one who knew, the whole time you’d been holding onto a secret boring through your soul that you couldn’t share with anyone.

            College graduation felt… much different. Like a success. You were proud of yourself. Sad to see it go but happy you’d made it out the other side, not just of a program but of the grief that had clenched you so tightly. This was what graduation was supposed to feel like. You weren’t valedictorian – or whatever the university equivalent was – this time, but you were graduating with honors, and had an acceptance to a graduate program in hand, so there was that.

            Your whole family made the trip to see you graduate. As you walked across that stage, receiving a piece of paper bound in ribbon, you wished once again that Neal would’ve been there to celebrate with you, and hoped that he was okay, then found your family in the crowd and beamed at them brightly, tears pricking in your eyes with joy. Your sister was doing her best to be both supportive and embarrassing by wearing an obnoxiously neon shirt with your name on it.

            You faltered in your steps across the stage, just for a second, when you saw the face in the crowd grinning from behind your father. They were so far away, it was kind of hard to see, but for just a second, you could’ve sworn…

            You got nudged from behind and had to look down to safely get off of the stage steps. When you were out of the way of the procession, you looked for your family again and stood on your toes to see around your parents. The face you thought you’d seen was gone. You looked down to the rolled paper in your hand, proclaiming you’d earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology, and shook your head; you, of all people, should know the power of wishful thinking.

            Your parents took you back by your apartment to change out of your regalia before going for a celebratory meal. You hurried up the steps in your dress heels, eager to get out of the heavy robe, but stopped cold just on entering the front door. Sitting on the cheap kitchen table was a bouquet of flowers and a little bag of marbles.

            Your gut response was to clear the apartment like they did in the cop movies, but you didn’t have a gun or a taser or even pepper spray, so if you searched and found someone, you were really just putting yourself in more danger. Cautiously, you inched towards the table, along the way recognizing the flowers as the kind that you used to admire while walking to school. When no one jumped, and you didn’t feel unsafe getting closer to the table, you slowly picked up the bag of marbles. The little beads clinked together. You held them up for inspection and realized that they were color tinted, but still mostly translucent, and inside each was a clay creature. Your favorite animal, sculpted and suspended in resin.

            No one had given you marbles, or called you by that name, in years. You hadn’t carried them anywhere since middle school. And you certainly couldn’t have told anyone what your favorite flowers were when you didn’t even remember what they were called.

            The marbles, the flowers, and the face you thought you’d seen at the ceremony all added up to mean one thing to you, and instead of changing your clothes, you sat at the table with the marbles in your hand and had a good, solid cry for a few minutes. Then you stored your new marbles with shaking hands in your so-called Neal Box and put the flowers in some water. You couldn’t decide if you were happy, sad, or furious, but it all boiled down to one thing: he was alive. And still thought about you, just like you still thought of him. And that was something to celebrate, even if your family didn’t know it wasn’t just your graduation that you were happily crying over.

Quantico, 2001

            Completing your Master’s degree was your new proudest achievement, but though there wasn’t anything bad about that graduation, when you walked the stage, you’d hoped to catch another glimpse of a familiar face. No such luck. You still weren’t too worried. Ever since getting those beautiful marbles, you’d gotten an anonymous postcard every once in a while. There was usually a little note on them in one of your oldest, simplest ciphers. Nothing complex, but enough to let you know that he was okay, and he was thinking of you.

            Sometimes you wondered why he didn’t ever just come say hello if he missed you. Yes, you were a part of Danny Brooks’ history. But if Neal Bennett had had to reinvent himself out of a lie, did that have to mean shunning everything about who he’d been?

            Still, a note once in a while was better than the four-plus years you spent with radio silence, hoping he was alive, knowing it was even probable, but with no proof and no way of verifying.

            Shortly out of your Master’s program, you were accepted into the FBI. A couple of internships during school had showed you that you weren’t interested in clinical practice, nor did you think you really had the drive to push through a doctorate program, so you looked for ways you could use your degrees to solve puzzles, returning to that lifelong passion for an intelligent challenge. You found the bureau, and other members of the alphabet soup, but especially the bureau. It was probationary, but you were in, and it was time to head to Quantico.

            The physical exercises were draining. You’d never been so active in your life. Still, the mental exercises were more entertaining than not, so long as they didn’t get so repetitive. Your very favorite instructor took the class of recruits through prolific cases that hadn’t quite become public knowledge, or cold cases that still had yet to be solved. Unlike a documentary, instead of telling you step-by-step what had happened, he prompted and prodded at the agents in training to work their way through themselves. You excelled at this exercise and it proved to you that, although you’d have to work hard to secure a role where you could choose to work on these types of cases, the opportunity was there. That was what you wanted to work towards.

            At least, it was your favorite class. Your emotions changed the day that you were shown pictures of inductees into the FBI’s Most Wanted ranks. Because, to your horror, you recognized one of those faces. He was six years older, but there was no chance you wouldn’t have recognized him. Not him.

            “Not him,” you nearly whispered out loud, barely catching yourself before your tongue moved in your mouth. You drank in all the information they had on him – suspected of bond forgery, along with a litany of other crimes, and dubbed James Bonds, because they had no clue what his real name was.

            You had a split second choice to make, and you felt the pressure beating down on you. Either betray your best friend and turn him in to the FBI, or betray the moral conscience you’d long since sworn to live by – along with the bureau you were about to swear to serve.

            It was an easier choice than it should have been. It would haunt you, but you couldn’t fathom for a second turning your back on him. For as long as you stared at the list of things he was wanted for, there was nothing in that list that could make you hate the man he’d become.

            The instructor had noticed you stopped at Neal’s image. “Is there a problem?” He asked you expectantly.

            Shit. Every game of poker with Neal came to mind and you controlled all the tells he had ever warned you of, making your decision and committing to it. “No,” you said, looking up and putting on your best amused face. “Sorry, Sir. It’s just… James Bonds?”

            You sold it so well that you should’ve been ashamed. The senior agent chuckled and shook his head a bit. “I guess the opportunity felt too good to pass on,” he said, picking up the flyers from your row to share with the next group.

Quantico, 2003

            You weren’t capable of turning on Neal, but you also couldn’t bring yourself to follow his case. The conflict of interest was too strong in your gut, so you just turned a blind eye to any flyer you saw, or a deaf ear to any curious chatter about James Bonds and his globetrotting stunts.

            You kept an eye out for postcards and anonymous letters, but they’d become less frequent. Either Neal had been keeping tabs and learned you joined the bureau, or he’d realized sending mail was becoming more hazardous. In either case, you still got some once in a while, so if it were the former, he was trusting you.

            Over the years, the more you heard about him, the more impressed you were. But also the more… saddened you became. Neal had strayed so far from the man he had wanted to be when you’d spent so much time together. You had to wonder if he were truly happy. At this point, his face was plastered anywhere law enforcement could be assed to look, and you had to hope that he was, because you feared it was too late for him to change course, even if he wanted to.

            At some point, you’d begun to realize that you were technically aiding him just by keeping in touch. You didn’t have a way to send messages to him, but however he’d found your address repeatedly, he really was trusting you – it took over a year, but between bits you overheard and images on postcards, you realized that he was actively sending you clues as to where he was. Now, you doubted that he was doing so with that actual intention. More likely, he was just sending you the postcards because he knew you’d always liked their pictures and wanted to travel. But there was an additional professional boundary being crossed when you knew that the agent in charge of his case was searching for him in Germany or Iceland when you’d just gotten a card from Cape Town or Tehran.

            It also occurred to you that he wouldn’t be an anonymous James Bonds forever. Sooner or later they would figure out who he was. They’d trace him back to either Neal Bennett or Danny Brooks. Both names would flag with the Marshals, and the FBI would learn all about how he disappeared overnight from St. Louis. The FBI would also learn all about how the police had questioned his best friend, Y/N Y/L/N, for days. And then they would have a lot of uncomfortable questions for you that you still had no idea how you were going to answer.

            Then, one day, James Bonds had a name. Neal Caffrey. You didn’t recognize his last name, but it was instantly committed to your memory. Now you knew what he was going by. It was another hit to your heart. He didn’t keep either of his last names. But he had kept his birth name – which had been foreign to him when he learned what it was. It was hard to tell what was going on in his head. You hoped he knew what he was doing. And you hoped that whatever he was choosing, he was happy and safe.

            From the moment he’d been named, you kept waiting for the agents you worked with to turn on you, ask you those awkward questions, but the time never seemed to come. For a second, you had considered running, but you didn’t have the knowledge or connections to get very far or hide for very long. No, the best option for you would be to bow your head and accept the consequences. But those consequences didn’t come for you, and when you saw the updated flyer, you saw why. They had him listed as born in Texas during February. The bureau had a whole fake identity that they fully believed; they had no idea who he really was.

            “You astound me every time,” you’d muttered to yourself, closing the browser window.

Ossining, 2005

            If you ask someone where Sing Sing is, they’ll probably just say “New York”. If pressed, they might even say “New York City”. Very rarely do they actually realize it’s about thirty miles upstate in a little town called Ossining. You’d never been, and had no reason to go, but when you saw the email memo that Neal Caffrey had been apprehended and was awaiting arraignment, you didn’t think you had much of a choice in the matter. You filed for a transfer, ostensibly for a change in scenery, and fortunately, it was granted. Your new home was New York City.

            Your shoes and your conscience itched to guide you upstate straight away, but as much as it pained you, you forced yourself to stay away until after he was convicted. Neal was considered an extreme flight risk; any interactions he had were extremely closely monitored. No matter how loyal you were, you were still afraid of being in trouble for failing to give up his name and whereabouts. And while that made you feel quite selfish, there was also the detail that he’d been “caught” by voluntarily walking into a trap to protect his girlfriend from taking the fall for him. It comforted you that he was still the same softhearted man you’d always known and loved – but, since he’d always been fiercely protective, you weren’t sure if he’d welcome you jeopardizing your good standing to see him.

            Well, too bad. You winced. Okay, maybe a little more sympathy for the guy in prison.

            You signed in a civilian, not an agent, in the hopes that the bureau was less likely to be notified. You weren’t sure what you’d say, but you couldn’t just leave Neal to rot alone in here. The place looked like the place of nightmares, and you were free to just turn around and walk out the door. Your heart ached. God, Neal…

            They searched you quite invasively, but that bit of your dignity was a small price to pay. Once satisfied you weren’t using your body to smuggle a nail file or the like, the guards had you wait while they fetched Neal for visitation and put him in a small monitored cell, then allowed you to be led back the same way. The moment you realized he had to have visitors in a cell with him, it felt like your heart skipped a beat. You knew his containment orders were serious, but to not even be permitted to use the visitation room? This was the kind of restriction that was usually placed on quite dangerous felons.

            There was already one guard standing inside with Neal, close to the door but warily watching. You could tell from his profile, in the ugly orange jumpsuit, that his wrists and ankles were manacled together and locked to the metal table. As the guard who’d led you back let you enter, the guard already inside gruffly barked the rules: fifteen minutes, follow the tape on the floor to your seat (rather than take a shortcut which passed closer to Neal), and absolutely no touching.

             You ventured in as Neal turned around as well as he was able to see you. The surprise in his eyes was quickly taken over by delight and he started to stand, only to get yanked down by the links around his wrists. That sight alone nearly killed your excitement to see him, but he remained undeterred. “Marbles!” he cheerfully chirped your old name.

            You forced a little laugh, loosely sticking to the tape and hurrying to your side of the table, swinging your legs in comfortably to sit across from him. “You are such an ass, Neal,” you complained with a small smile.

            There was almost a little look of shock when his chosen name came out of your mouth so casually, but before you could respond to it, it had melted into a soft smile that lit up his eyes. He looked at you like you’d put the sun in the sky for a long minute. “I’ve missed you,” he said quietly.

            “I’ve missed you, too,” you risked answering, not daring to look to the guard. Hopefully he wouldn’t remember this bit. “When you… well, I thought for years that was it.”

            “It wasn’t meant to be,” Neal admitted. It was easy to say that now that it was in the past and you’d gotten back in touch, but you couldn’t help but trust him. Neal had never told you an outright lie before, not for any reason. “Things just… is it too cliché to say I needed to find myself?”

            You hesitated, but shook your head. “No,” you said haltingly, “But there were better ways to do it than becoming a milk box picture.” You’d imagined screaming in his face for it, giving him a real what-for over the way he left you to pick up the pieces he left behind. But now that you were here, in a prison where he’d be spending the next half decade of his life – well, it was hard to hold onto any anger. Neal was paying for his mistakes. You didn’t need to pile on with trauma you’d already processed. “Did you?” You gently prompted, sensing that if you didn’t, he was going to wait for you to say what you’d thought about.

            His smile tightened into something wistful. Your heart sank a little for him. “I think I got close at times,” he allowed. You didn’t quite buy it, but thought if he needed to believe it, it wouldn’t hurt to let him tell himself that all of this was worth it. Like he’d always done when he was unhappy, he turned the subject around back to yourself. “I’m so proud of you, Y/N. I knew you’d make something good for yourself.”

            We could’ve done it together. You thought back to his eighteenth birthday. You’d been so close to telling him you were going to take that next step with him. Maybe if he’d known it wasn’t just his journey… well, it didn’t matter now. It was ten years in the past.

            “Stop talking like we’re in retirement,” you accused lightly. If it weren’t for the guard who felt very strongly about touching, you’d have nudged his foot under the table. “We’ve got ages to make more out of ourselves yet still.”

            “You do,” Neal disagreed graciously.

            “No, we do,” you argued, saying it so firmly that he wasn’t allowed to disagree again. Then you softened your tone, because you knew he already knew how bad this was going to be. “Four years… it’s gonna be hard. But one day it’ll be done and you’ll have a whole life in front of you to do something new.” It was the twenty-first century. When he got through his sentence, he’d still have more than half his life expectancy ahead. “And we’re gonna make it good. Got it?”

            Neal’s expression had hardened a bit, for a moment showing his anger. When he was Danny, he’d been good at concealing anger, but when it did come out, it was volatile. Ellen wanted to put him in therapy to better manage it, but his mother had never gone through with it, so Neal had been left learning to self-soothe and manipulate his own emotions until he could explode in private. It wasn’t pretty. And, unfortunately, based on that familiar expression he’d made, that habit hadn’t changed. But when you were done, he seemed to assess what you were saying and judge it on the merits of your own belief in it, because he studied your face as he slowly nodded, and the anger slipped away, either unwinding from his joints or being masked by something else. You hoped for the former, but truthfully, it had been ten years. You’d once known him better than anyone. While you still suspected that that was largely true, you couldn’t be sure this hadn’t changed.

            “We will,” he echoed after you. “You’ll be here?”

            You nodded with certainty. If nothing he’d done so far had gotten you fed up with him, there was probably nothing he could manage from inside a prison to change that. “I will.”

            You put a hand down on the table. The guard locked his eyes on it and you barely refrained from rolling your eyes. Symbolically, you were offering Neal a hand to hold. Judging by how exasperatedly he glanced at the guard, he understood as he made an exaggeratedly slow motion, mirroring your hand but not reaching across to you.

            “It’s gonna be a long four years,” Neal grumbled under his breath, shooting an irritable glare in the guard’s direction.

~~~ ~~~

A/N: Wow! This ended up twice as long as I planned because I got really into it and carried away a bit. I might even be open to a continuation... Anyway, if you liked it and want to get announcements about stories and chat about what's coming up, leave a comment asking to join the Discord and I'll send you a link!