#and I’m fairly certain several of my coworkers are about to quit over this shit and I don’t want to be the only one left in this hellhole

[kisaxiii]

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[spacecharr]

Why I’m Not Threatened By Old Men

A (high) treatise on why young women shouldn't be afraid of all old men.

Written by a (high) young bi woman of colour.

---

Lemme start by saying I wrote that title because I thought it would be clickbaity. And I wrote the subtitle like that because I'm being "funny" and I anticipate it will generate trolling. My popcorn is getting cold, and I want a show.

And incidentally, it's all true.

Because this is SpaceCharr pontificating on #authenticity and weed, son!

My local Starbucks is small, has a tiny little patio, limited seating and serves a wildly diverse customer base. From your Basic Skinny Pumpkin Spice Latte Bitch(TM) to uniformed police, from sharply dressed businessmen to soccer moms with three kids and a Burberry purse, from punk-rock loud and proud visibly LGBTQ folks to button-down sweater-vest old-schoolers, and from local college kids to retired old men.

It’s fascinating to see the crazy range of people and it makes for eavesdropping lazily on some hilarious (and sometimes very serious) conversations ranging all over the place.

And for some reason, I have a really really easy time getting old white men to talk to me. 

Lemme lay some context: I’m a friendly gal. I’m sociable, (I’ve been told) charming, easy going, and very casual. I remember in elementary being given feedback by my teachers that I was “unapproachable”, and they were worried I would have difficulty making friends. From junior high on, I purposefully (after much coaching from my parents and my mom especially) sought out opportunities to learn better social skills. As an only kid, I didn’t have any siblings to be guaranteed friends with, and my relationship with my extended family was spotty at best. 

So if I wanted friends, I knew I’d have to get them on my own. (Troll Note: I know some dipshit’s gonna be all “omg sure #thathappened. Like a grade schooler can know that” - and you’re right! Grade like, 3-6 me had no fuckin’ clue. But 20s me? Who’s gone through a bunch of psychotherapy? Now she knows a bit more)

I learned interpersonal skills. I did drama, I joined clubs, I did Toastmasters (fuckin’ fantastic, btw, look for your local chapter), and I even did the Dale Carnegie Interpersonal Skills course that’s based off How to Win Friends and Influence People (1000% recommend, A+ on how to be a decent human despite its manipulative-sounding title which is brilliant). I learned how to be a more approachable person - and I learned why people find it approachable.

I saw the difference in how people received me when I spoke formally versus when I spoke in a very familiar tone (”hello” vs “hey, hey!”). I noticed that I could easily put the people I was dealing with off-balance in a good way (relieved surprise) with humour and well-meant self-deprecation. I learned through trial and error what body language and touch cues elicited in terms of responses across various types of people. It became second nature for me to analyse and act on these, and my knowledge of these techniques helps me daily in my work as a consultant.

So now, after several years in the workforce, multiple significant life events (aka I’m relatively old), and more overall life experience, I’m often described by my coworkers and friends as “very friendly and often happy”. Of course, according my sibling-like co-scoundrels in my cube farm, I am “disgustingly upbeat” - but they say it with love because they know I’ll tease them relentlessly, too.

I have found over the years that I have actually changed down to the core of that grade school girl. I’ve gone from a kid who struggled to make friends and who was seen as unapproachable, to a person who can very quickly establish good rapport. 

(side note: holy fuck I just realized I went from Dandere to Deredere... I’m a fuckin’ anime side character, shit)

Kind of the best example of what I mean is an interaction I had with a new massage therapist at this place I had a gift card for. That is to say, a complete and total stranger whom I had never interacted with or seen in the past. The shop I was at had you wait in the reception area with the receptionist until the RMT came to get you. So this dude came out to meet me, introduced himself and we chatted easily for a bit. After not even a minute of us chatting, he and I were laughing together and shared an easy chemistry. The receptionist - remember, who’d been there when the RMT and I introduced ourselves for the first time - then asked me “oh, are you two old friends?” to which he and I laughed and said “no, we’re just friendly”.

Anyways - that’s the context.

I’m a friendly gal. Sociable, a bit charming, easy going, and easily able to manipulate her own behaviours in order to make the other person feel more comfortable.

In Harry Potter-code: I’m a Slytherin who can play a Hufflepuff, but only because it gets me what I want - your cooperation and rapport - more easily. However, I also do genuinely mean those nice Hufflepuff-like actions - just, there’s an ulterior motive attached.

I’m also young, and obviously with South Pacific Islander blood in me (exotic features - I’ve been told I’d be cast in Miss Saigon if they ever did a musical in my city - I took it as as compliment, since I’m friends with the old white dude who told me that and he did mean it as a compliment).

Let’s put this together:

Exotic, tan-skinned young woman

Chatty, friendly, skilled at making people feel comfortable

Can make someone feel like an old friend

Easily self-deprecating and humourous

In a Starbucks with chatty retired old dudes and a lot of shared seating

Can anyone else see why my title makes more sense? (Legit, I am high, so if it doesn’t make sense, that makes sense)

Lemme spell it out for you bois: I’m an old perverted white man’s wet dream.

(yes, I’ve been told such to my face; yes, I believe from experience that most of the people who won’t believe me are straight young men - not out of malice, I think, but out of a belief that people aren’t that bad [not that old men finding young women attractive is bad - acting on it in certain ways however, can be]).

I’ve worked out of the Starbucks I mentioned several times in the past. As a consultant, I have a measure of flexibility in my schedule and I find I work best on some of my problem solving and documentation work when I’m out of the office. The change of scenery and the need to shut out the environment to “see” my work helps me - plus I don’t get drawn into the co-scoundrel shenanigans.

And I’m not kidding you - 8/10 times that I go there, I make a new old white man friend. Even the bi dude I met (srsly, it feels like since I made the decision to be openly out, I’m meeting more and more bi people everywhere when before there was nobody) was an old white dude.

I fuckin’ love it.

I am a young, bi woman of colour who loves having old white man friends. 

Because they’re just as chill, non-judgemental, self-deprecating, sociable, and easy-going as I am. And they appreciate my dad jokes and bi puns. Seriously. Dads everywhere - we all secretly love your jokes.

And, y’know what? I think more young women - LGBTQ or not, PoC or not - should want to have old white dudes as friends. 

INB4 tumblrinas: I don’t mean resurrect Hitler and be his gal pal. I mean don’t dismiss a possible friend just because they’re old, white, and have a dick. Use your brain - not every human is good, but likewise, not every human is bad. We come in shades in all ways.

I won’t tell you what to do, because I don’t know. What I want to share with you is why I feel the way I do. And let you do what you will with it - because I’m not interested in changing your mind. I’m interesting in trading stories and adventures - and understanding more about each other through that exchange.

Here’s why I love being open to talking to old white dudes:

Dad jokes. I’m not kidding. I love Dad Jokes.

They’re often past the point of giving a shit about society, so if you have a genuine, good-natured conversation about your point of view, chances as they won’t give a shit as long as you’re happy and no one’s dying.

They have amazing stories. I can’t tell you the number of times a new friend of mine has launched into crazy tales of things they got up to when they were younger.

They have great advice. Often, they’ve made some pretty bad mistakes. And they’re all too happy to share their lessons and spare someone else the trouble.

They often just want a chat. They don’t need a new friend, they don’t want your number, they just want a lively conversation with someone who isn’t gonna call the cops on them.

It’s so freakin’ easy to make their day and make them smile. And the genuine surprise when they find a young chickie they’ve no doubt had to weigh the pros-and-cons of talking to, who is easy-going and as happy to make their acquaintance as they are hers? It’s so cute. Old man smiles are so cute.

They respect you for being unapologetically who you are. They know that they’ve invited themselves into a talk with you - and they’re willing to carry and/or exit that talk if they find you being openly yourself. (which means if “yourself” is a fuckwit, they’ll just drop you if they know what’s good for ‘em; but then you’re just a fuckwit in Starbucks)

I guess for more location context, I should add that I live in Canada; it’s not an uncommon occurrence here for spontaneous conversations to happen. It might be more rare in other places, though. My city is also quite progressive and has a fairly active and supported LGBTQ scene.

All this said, it’s just a really nice experience in my mind to have good relationships (passing conversations, spontaneous coffee clubs, casual friendships, or more serious friendships) with old dudes as a young woman.

It’s like having a legion of second father figures, or uncles, more accurately fun drunkles, and older brothers. 

I enjoy several significant friendships with old dudes:

I go for coffee almost every week with two white old dudes and a dudette (I’d say “old” but she’d punch me out): our conversations range from politics to wood relationships to name calling to sibling-like teasing.

I have three co-scoundrels at work that I’m close friends with, all are old men. None are in a position to help me with anything at work, but damn are they hilarious and they’re a ready Friday-afternoon morale boost with their antics.

I have a very close old Japanese-Canadian friend. We have a complicated and somewhat tense relationship, but ultimately I think it can be said that we have a certain platonic love for each other. Though we don’t speak frequently, we’re both very significant to the other. He was my taiko instructor.

I have another very close relationship with one of my long-standing old dude friends. He’s known me since I was 9. A single hug from this man can stop an anxiety attack in its tracks. We kiss each other on the cheek and like to weird out the ladies at Starbucks when we go there with each other by holding hands - we’re both Slytherin trolls.

Don’t forget the OG Old Guy: my proper Old Man. My papa. Our relationship was strained by my mother’s unhealthy approach to all her familial relations during my early years. But as I’ve moved out, gotten older, and gained more life experience, it feels like my dad is finally realizing I’m not a little girl anymore - that I’m a woman, with woman needs, woman wants, and woman expectations and behaviours. We don’t talk about all things, naturally, he’s still my dad. But I can’t tell you how great it feels to have a dad who I know has my back no matter what.

I feel like there’s a certain conditioning for young women to “fear” the “old white man”. Certainly for me in particular it feels like there’s lots of factors in play: my “tropical” ethnicity, my youth, my LGBTQ nature (still haven’t been asked for a threesome as a bi woman - I’m impressed with my city), and, naturally, my gender.

While I do know that those are all things that certainly do warrant a certain amount of wariness around strangers (old in my neighborhoods usually means highly conservative about, depending on the age of said person, “the immigrants” or “the non-whites”. Age from young-old to old-ass-old. They’re a product of their time.), I also think it’s vital not to let that wariness get in the way of making a possible new friend.

Anyways, I need to wrap this up.

How does this loop back into #authenticity and weed? Well, it’s been my experience that the old (white + some Asians, in my case) dude friends that I’ve made are some of the best people to help you be yourself.

They have anecdotes to illustrate benefits, cons, risks, and rewards; they have dad jokes and puns to bring some much-needed levity; they don’t give a fuck about the other Starbucks goers - for better or for worse; and they - just like you - just wanna have a good day and be able to be themselves.

Does this apply to every old man? No. Does it not apply to every old man? No.

If you’ve read this far, you have the brain capacity necessary to give someone a chance. Now, you’ll wanna do some preparation if this is nearing your max capacity, because you wanna make sure you’re not letting the wrong old man come talk to you all friendly-like. 

But once you find one who’s just a swell dude? Cut ‘im some slack, maybe remember that he’s struggling to speak your vocabulary as much as you’re struggling to understand his. 

Sit back, drink some coffee, smoke a joint, and share a story once in a while.

Anyways. That’s been SpaceCharr Pontificating.

Cheers, buds.

Stoner note:  My hand rolling’s gotten so much better. And the weed I have doesn’t seem to smell as strongly as the pre-roll I had that one time, so I might sesh in the park at some point. I have my inaugural shroom trip this weekend - bestie agreed to tripsit! Yay! And she’s bringing the whole Planet Earth HD collection! - so it might not be for a while. I want to give the experience the attention it deserves, plus I need to establish a clean baseline to experiment accurately with microdosing.

[island-delver-go]

A wake up call from George Godwyn

For going on two years now, I have been following several Donald Trump groups, alt right groups, and just general far right reactionary groups. I have seen these groups grow from 500 or a thousand people to 20,000, 30,000, 50,000, 100,000, and more. One particularly grotesque example is almost half 1 million. There are more, I’ve lost track.

When I joined them, I felt like something was changing, something new was happening, and I wanted to try and understand it. (As well as for an occasional laugh, it would be fruitless for me to deny that now.) Of course, it was fucking appalling. But I kept watching. I knew Trump would win the primary long before most people thought it was a possibility on the basis of what I saw in these groups. I’ve become familiar with memes and tropes and ideas common in the groups and I think I’ve gotten a fairly good grip on the culture. I’ve been pretty accurate in my predictions regarding the Trump and the hard right over this period of time, other than his victory in the general election. Because of these groups.

Since that time, when the subject of Trump, or the alt right, or neo-Nazis in conversation, sometimes I will suggest to my friends, people on the left, that they join a trump group or an alt right group, to see what’s going on in them. And I can’t remember one time offhand when the person I was talking to thought it was a good idea. (If I’m wrong, if I’m forgetting, feel free to correct me, but I can’t remember anyone wanting to.) My memory is that, to a person, anyone I know on the left who has heard the suggestion has expressed feelings somewhere in a range between lack of interest to horror, generally tending towards the latter.

So the other day I wake up to my feed full of people angry about the New York Times profile of the Ohio Nazi, Tony Hovater. I read the piece and it just seems like a profile of a Nazi to me. Completely unsurprising or notable in any way, other than its correlation with my own experience. I thought it was very well done.

Then I started reading my friend’s posts about the article, articles about the article. Apparently everyone is angry about the normalization of the Nazi in the piece.

Hey, guys. Hey, as someone who’s been watching this shit for two fucking years, here’s a little wake up, You really don’t have to worry about the New York Times normalizing Nazis because it’s too fucking late. THIS SHIT IS NORMAL NOW.

Like I said, for two years I’ve been telling people to join a Trump group, watch a Nazi website, do something to keep yourself familiar with this shit, and for two years I’ve been watching everyone ignore that advice and then act surprised when Nazis happen. Guys, THEY’RE HAPPENING. If the Times profile bothered you, if you were surprised that the Times would print something so bland about a Nazi, you just haven’t caught up to where we are. There’s just no way you would be surprised if you were really familiar with real world, ground-level, political landscape of 2017. It was spot on perfect, in execution and conception. You’re angry because you wanted the Times to treat the Nazi as though he were abnormal, but he just isn’t. You want to read about Nazis leading some sort of twilight existence, on the cultural outskirt, but THAT’S NOT WHERE THEY ARE. The New York Times didn’t normalize that Nazi. He’s normal. Journalists can’t hyperventilate at every Joe Dokes with a swastika poster, anymore. Normal people are Nazis, now. It was a perfect, accurate representation of the ordinariness, the commonness, of contemporary white nationalism and authoritarianism. It’s exactly where America is at, and if you don’t get that, you really need to.

They’ve come in and out of the libertarian group I run, they’re all over the far right pages. The people who actually call themselves Nazis are the minority, of course, and most of the people in the Donald Trump groups wouldn’t dream of referring to themselves as Nazis, right now, but they are not one iota less hateful. To be honest, they are probably more hateful than the guy the Times profiled. And half the people who wouldn’t dream of actually calling themselves Nazis are EXTREMELY sympathetic to great portions of the Nazi program. Shit, white nationalist ideas go down with barely a spoken objection in some of the straight Trump groups, quite often. They’re not problematic at all. The Overton window has shifted so far and so fast, the Nazis are in it now. It’s that fucking simple. They may be on the edge, but they’re well within the frame. The guy in the Times piece is in there, smoking a cigar, kicking back, and putting his feet on the ottoman. Again, guys — THIS IS NORMAL. THE NAZIS ARE NORMAL.

I’ve watched these groups proliferate, grow. You want to tell yourself that this is a fringe, that the worst, loudest, biggest assholes take over groups like that. That ain’t it. A couple dozen groups have become hundreds, thousands. I’ve read the comments, I’ve clicked on the profiles, and I’ve read the user info for all the perfectly nice, seemingly intelligent, well-spoken citizens cheering ICE incarcerating some sick 10-year-old, saying all Muslim-Americans should be deported, demanding football players who protest the police should be put in jail until they stop kneeling, that some reporter should be thrown in jail for asking the president an uncomfortable question, that Iran and North Korea should immediately be nuked. I’m not talking about five or six unpleasant comments on your local newspaper website, I’m talking about literally hundreds of posts with threads that are thousands of comments long, every day, in every group, exactly like this, in too many groups to count.

So how long would you stay in a group where people post gloat in video of children being physically separated from their family if you didn’t kind of agree? With threads thousands of comments long reveling the torture and murder of civilians, or their nuclear annihilation? Advocating beating and murder for using a bathroom? Or laughing at “another monkey” being murdered in cold blood by the police because “he didn’t follow orders.”

At certain point, sticking around watching a crime makes you complicit, don’t you think? And there are millions of people happily sticking around, watching all this, if they’re not actively participating. They’re not monsters, they’re not the prison gang leader with the swastika on his neck. They’re just folks. They’re filled with hate. But they are still just folks, most of the time. This is America now.

Nobody thought Donald Trump could win the Republican primary because he was just so stupid, so venomous, and so obviously beyond the bounds of what WE tought were the cultural/political norms, but he did. No one thought he could win the election for the same reason, but he did. And he won not despite those flaws, because of them. A huge segment of the population of the United States is filled with hatred so intense they actively want a vastly more authoritarian government that will shove that hatred down the throats of the left. They want fascism. They’re hungry for it, whether they call it that or not. In the kind of Orwellian doublespeak this administration has become famous for, they call it “liberty” or “freedom” or “American values”, but they’re talking about hard authoritarianism. They’re talking about fascism. A lot of them would balk at the term, but they know what they want.

The guy in the apartment next to you thinks this country would be a lot better off if we dealt with drug users the way Trump’s friend in the Philippines does. One of your coworkers doesn’t like the term “Nazi” because his grandfather fought them, but he goes home every night and sits in front of his computer and considers whether or not some of the points Richard Spencer is making might not be exactly what America needs. The cop that gave you a ticket for speeding last night has a 14 words tattoo that he’s been hiding in the locker room for the last couple years, at least around the black officers. And the girl next to you on the bus, on the way home, she’s a fucking Nazi. I guarantee she’s a fucking Nazi.

November 8, 2016, all of us on the left and a substantial segment of the right watched in amazement as Donald Trump rode a burgeoning wave of race hatred and ideological tribalism into the White House. If you think victory has satiated this monster, you are very fucking mistaken. And if you think defeating the Republicans in 2018 or 2020 is going to stop it, destroy it, you’re delusional.

The new authoritarianism is here, it is part of the culture, and it’s making itself comfortable. Ethno-nationalism, white supremacy, hard right authoritarianism, has been back in Europe for awhile and now it’s here. Not the bad part of America you never actually visit, not some backwoods hillbilly America that we get to ignore in our little leftie bubble. Not the supermax the next county over. It’s all around you, it’s next-door, and it’s in a little town in Ohio where a nice, young, newly married couple are starting their life together.

This is something new. Remember when Bush was president, and you’d hold up a piece of cardboard and shout that he was a fascist with a bunch of your friends? Yeah, he wasn’t. Neither was Obama or Clinton or the other Bush or Reagan. They might’ve been terrible presidents, each of them. They might be terrible people. They might’ve done unforgivable things. Every single one of them was squarely within the tradition of Western liberal democracy, and so were the politics. Donald Trump isn’t. His followers aren’t. We are through the looking glass.

If the left doesn’t stop pretending these people don’t exist, pretending they’re an anomaly, pretending they will go away if the Democrats take back the house, or Mueller catches Donald Jr. red-handed, or your friend posts another meme about Donald Trump being orange, the left is going to get its fucking silly ass kicked again. It’s not going to get better overnight, and if Trump loses in 2020, trust me, I know these people — the hard right, the Trump right, the authoritarian right, is going to lose their goddamn minds. If Trump loses, it’s going to get worse. And what do you suppose happens then? What do you suppose happens when the apple pie fascists find someone capable to do the job? What happens when someone capable realizes there’s an opening? What happens when that person isn’t a fucking clown?

This is it. This is American politics in the 21st century. We are going to be fighting the lumpen neo-authoritarian right for the rest of our lives, likely. That’s the political territory. This is new, at least in my lifetime. The ideas existed, the culture existed, but it was never so open, so brazen, so pervasive and acceptable. If it’s going to be stopped, it’s going to be stopped by people who understand what’s actually happening, not people with their heads in the sand and asses in the air. If you care, it’s time hike up your drawers, accept the facts, and familiarize yourself with the culture you’re part of, the parts of it that you’ve been trying to ignore. It’s not going away. It’s likely going to get worse before it gets better. We all need to understand what the fuck is going on before reality slaps us all in the face again, harder, with more permanent and deadlier results.

-- George Godwyn

Source

[qqueenofhades]

Prompt alert: Lucifer getting used to flying again and ends up taking Chloe for a flight

“Wait,” Ella says. “Are you serious? He has wings? Wingy-wings?”

“Yeah.” Chloe rubs the bridge of her nose. “I know I sound a little cracked, but… I kind of figured that you were the only person I could talk to who might get it.”

“Aw, man. That is so sweet. But.” Ella is not going to be distracted. “He has, you know – ” She does an improvised Funky Chicken in the middle of the forensics lab. “Can he fly? Because I’m sorry, that would be awesome.”

Chloe eyes her narrowly. “You’re taking this surprisingly well.”

“Why not?” Ella shrugs. “I’ve always known there was something different about him. Weird. I mean, not weird – well, yes, weird, a lot weird, but more than just that. Him being an angel, I can’t say I’m all that shocked, you know? It’s not like it’s something that I think can’t happen. I believe in a book where it happens a lot. Hey, has he announced anything? Like the two of you are meant to be and having a miracle baby?”

Chloe’s look turns cold. “No.”

“Darn.” Ella sighs. “Anyway. Wow. I have so many questions. I’m not gonna ask them, because  he’ll do that thing where he spooks and runs away like a startled turtle. If turtles ran, but you know what I mean. Is he here?”

“Yeah. In the break room.” At the other woman’s look of barely restrained curiosity, Chloe sighs and decides that since the cat, or rather the angel, is out of the bag, they might as well at least allow Ella a chance to peek. Not that Lucifer is going to be strutting around the station with his wings (or any other part of him, hopefully) hanging out, but still. “Fine. Come on.”

They leave Ella’s lab and start down the corridor to the break room. Just before they enter, however, they hear a familiar voice complaining, “Lucifer, did you eat my pudding again?”

“I did not.”

“It was right there!” Trust Dan’s dessert-related tribulations to be ongoing. “Look, I might not mind letting you have it if you asked, but you can’t just grab it and – ”

“Fine, if it’s that big of a deal, I’ll just fly down to the corner store and act as your personal messenger angel, shall I? More of Gabby’s gig than mine, but if you insist – ”

“Lucifer, can you not say crazy shit for two seconds and just – how’d you fly, anyway – ”

“Oh for goodness’ sake, Daniel! WITH THESE!”

There is a rush of air, a whoosh, a sudden light that does not come from the dismal fluorescents, and papers swirl off down the hall in a miniature cyclone. Chloe stops, stares, and then rushes forward, Ella on her heels, to wrench the door open and find Dan flattened across the far wall looking as if he is about to have a heart attack. This is understandable, due to the fact that Lucifer is standing with wings unfolded, bursting from the back of his usual smart suit jacket, tips almost touching the workplace safety poster on one wall and the coffee machine on the other. At the sight of her, he folds them tidily against his shoulders and smiles brightly. “Ah! Detective!”

“Lucif – ” Chloe shakes her head almost in slow motion. “What are you doing –?”

“I’m trying to get better about being honest about myself, what’s it look like?” Lucifer regards Dan critically. “Though that might have been a bit much, I admit.”

“Have you always had those?” Dan keeps staring, then whirls on Chloe, wild-eyed, as she is obviously more familiar with Lucifer’s bits and bobs than he is. “Has he always had those?”

“I was born with them, yes,” Lucifer says, rather impatiently. “However, they are a recent and unfortunate re-acquisition, so no. I haven’t always had them.”

“Dude!” Ella exclaims. “Those are awesome!”

Lucifer looks slightly mollified – and also touched, even if he glances down quickly to hide it. “Terrible bother, trust me. And Daniel, I didn’t eat your pudding, but as I said, I’ll flap off and get some more if it’ll help.” He seems suddenly uncertain. “Daniel, say something.”

“What the hell.” Dan wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “I knew you were weird, but I didn’t know that involved feathers.”

Lucifer flashes a small, slightly strained smile. “Oh yes. Fuzzy handcuffs, too.”

“I do not need to know about your kinks, man.”

With that, some of the tension eases, and everyone seems to draw a breath as the wings fold out of the visible plane with a soft flutter – which, after all, is quite a remarkable thing to be happening in a suburban police station. Chloe hopes nobody is watching the break room cameras right now. Nobody seems entirely certain what to say, until Ella steps over and – clearly to Lucifer’s shock – hugs him. “Yeah. Be your true self, buddy. We gotcha.”

Lucifer swallows visibly, eyes rather bright, as he puts a hand on Ella’s shoulder and gingerly disentangles her. “Well,” he says, and coughs. “Thank you, Miss Lopez.”

“And here I always thought you were a method actor.” Ella shakes her head. “This is way cooler.”

————–

Chloe still is not entirely sure how she is processing this. It’s been a few weeks since the wing bombshell, and she and Lucifer have tried to go back to their usual work, but all the unanswered questions hang thickly in the air. He’s been parceling out bits of information, dribs and drabs, but he still avoids coming clean in any great rush, and she can tell he’s still on edge and distracted about the whole situation, about what it means for them, about how they can possibly be anything like what they were before. It’s hard, admittedly, to go about your day-to-day life, to question suspects and fill out paperwork, knowing that the guy next to you is – well, who he is. It hasn’t changed anything, really. He’s still Lucifer. But yet it has, and neither of them are entirely sure how or why. Lucifer seems, if such a thing is possible, shy.

As Chloe is leaving the station that evening, having sent their latest case on to the prosecutor’s office and hoping she can get home, take a long bath, and drink a lot of wine, she finds Lucifer leaning against the Corvette in the staff parking lot, having a pensive smoke and listening to the distant sound of traffic. He glances up at the sound of her footsteps. “Detective.”

“Lucifer.” It sounds awkward, almost formal. “So… just. Flashing the station now, huh?”

It’s a mark of how off his footing he is these days that he doesn’t go for the golden opportunity to make some crack about the other kind of flashing he could do, if she’s interested. He blows out a meditative cloud of smoke. “Daniel will probably recover from the shock.”

“Probably, but…” Chloe hesitates. “All this secrecy and evasion, and now you’re just… okay with everyone knowing?”

“It’s not everyone,” Lucifer points out, with some asperity. “You, Daniel, and Miss Lopez. Oh, and Dr. Linda. I showed her at our session this morning.”

“So you’re seeing her again?” Chloe nods encouragingly. “That’s good.”

Lucifer sucks the last drag out of his cigarette and tosses the butt in the air, where it vanishes with a small puff. Chloe has never seen him like this in any number of ways, with this casual and unconscious use of what must be considerable power, and she wonders if she still affects him in the same way. He’s always said she makes him vulnerable, that he’s more human when she’s around, susceptible to injury, but as she can’t cancel out something that’s physically part of him, that does not seem to include the wings. Furthermore, as is evident by their very presence, the rules are changing, and she wonders suddenly if that’s played into some of his standoffishness around her. At least they more or less knew how it worked when he was Lucifer Morningstar, her eccentric but lovable coworker. Trying to navigate the dangerous waters of Lucifer Morningstar, apparently no-longer-fallen-angel and Devil in the flesh, is… different.

“If you’re here to have a go at me for showing them,” Lucifer says after a moment, tiredly, “then why not just get it over with?”

“No. I mean, they’re your wings, it’s your choice who you show them to.” Chloe sucks in a breath, attempting to steady herself. “I just… was going to say that I… well, that I miss you.”

He glances up, startled and wary. “I’ve been back, Detective. Haven’t I?”

“Yes, but… things have just been off with us for a long time, and I understand why they have been, and I know both of us are working through some things, but…” Now that she’s said it, it’s hard to hold back the emotions bubbling beneath the surface. She can’t quite look at his face, just in case. “I miss you, all right? I miss how we used to be, and… I don’t know who this new Lucifer is either. But I wouldn’t mind having my Lucifer back for a bit.”

Both of them catch that, how easily it slipped out – my Lucifer – and it remains hanging in the air for an uncomfortable moment. They cough, neither of them certain if they should acknowledge or ignore it. Then Lucifer blows out a slow sigh. “Come by Lux later,” he says. “Maybe we’ll see what we can sort out.”

“Okay.” Chloe smiles at him, small but genuine, and heads for her car. Drives home, makes dinner, asks if Maze would mind staying home with Trixie tonight (the demon doth protest too much, usually, as she is clearly content to sit and play whatever Trixe thinks up) and then wonders if Lucifer meant something special, or just, you know, drinks with friends. Chloe changes out of her usual jacket and jeans, lets her hair down, but doesn’t want to overdo it. Once it is late enough that most of the rush hour traffic has subsided (though this is L.A., so of course there is still some traffic), she gets back in the car and drives to Hollywood Boulevard.

She parks and goes inside the club. It’s a fairly quiet weekday night, no major events or parties, and the place is only about half-full, mellow jazz, low conversation. Lucifer is sitting by his piano, looking as if he’s spent the last several hours questioning his better judgment (though that would imply that he had better judgment), but he stands up nervously when he sees her. “Ah. Detective.”

“Hey.” Chloe smiles awkwardly, ducking her head, as she follows him to the elevator and up to the penthouse. He isn’t acting like he’s intending to swoop her away (in any sense of the word) and ravish her, though an admittedly thirsty part of her might not mind if he was. But they reach the apartment and step out, and Lucifer hesitates, then pulls off his jacket, leaving Chloe suddenly wondering if a hot night is on the agenda after all. She might have spent more time on her hair if so. “Lucifer – ”

He turns around – white shirt, suspenders, suit slacks, shined shoes. His usual ensemble.Then, with the soft rustle and faint glow that announces their arrival, the wings. It’s somewhat less shocking each time, a bit more normal, as much as this could ever be. He stands there, clearly hideously uncomfortable, as if he’s a museum artifact on display. “I… ah. There they are. If you had, well. Questions.”

Chloe has many, probably more than Ella, but she also doesn’t want to stand there and just interrogate him. What comes to mind is, “Why don’t they tear your clothes?”

“I’m not the Incredible Hulk, Detective.” Lucifer raises an eyebrow. “And besides, they’re angel wings. They don’t obey the laws of human physics.”

Chloe moves closer, circling around behind to look. She can’t help brushing her fingers lightly over them, and sees him shudder. “Do they weigh much?”

“No. Nothing, really.” Lucifer attempts a shrug. “Or perhaps I was just used to them before. They do seem heavier now.”

Chloe makes a small noise in her throat, still unable to believe that anything could be so soft. The question she really wants to know, of course, is the same as Ella’s. “Have you flown yet?”

“I tried. The other night.”

“Did it …  not work?”

“Oh no. It worked.” Lucifer’s expression is odd. “But I’m not sure it’s a wise idea to get into the habit. The bloody things appeared, they could disappear again. Besides, I’m still planning to hack them off again myself if not.”

Chloe does not in the least believe him, but decides not to say so. She can tell that Lucifer is refusing to get into the habit again because he misses it too much to let himself think that he could have it on a consistent basis, or what it would mean to accept the wings rather than rejecting them again. She doesn’t get half of it, but there’s plenty mixed up with them, something that Lucifer cannot take without reservations, or possibly even at all. But be that all as it may, she will kick herself forever if she doesn’t ask at least once. Before she can stop herself, she blurts out, “Can you fly me?”

Lucifer looks as startled as if she just turned blue. “Fl – ?”

“Not for long,” Chloe says, feeling herself blush like a volcano. “Just, you know. Around the block or something.”

Lucifer continues to look stunned.

“I’m sorry, is that a huge angel faux pas or something?”

“I – no. It’s just, I… don’t think I’ve ever done that before. Certainly not to a human. Maybe a very long time ago, when I was a wee young devil, but – ”

Chloe takes a moment to consider the totally adorable mental image of a bunch of baby angels having piggyback races around heaven, and has to cough hard. “I’m sorry. You can forget I asked. I just – ”

“I mean.” Lucifer seems rather taken aback. “I suppose I could try. It will likely be horrible and cold and disappointing, though.”

“I’ll get over the shock.” Chloe musters up a smile, trying not to show how much she wants it. Even if, nothing else, just to touch him properly. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Lucifer mutters something under his breath, then strides to the balcony and steps out, as Chloe hesitates, then follows him. He holds out his arms, and she steps over, linking her own arms around his neck, as he takes a firm grip on her waist. It feels a bit like Tarzan and Jane, really, but they make it work. Then he takes a deep breath, clearly cannot believe he is doing this, and says, “Ready, Detective?”

“Yeah. Don’t, uh. Don’t drop me.”

Lucifer gives her an indignant look, as it is clearly a personal insult to think he would ever be so clumsy. Then he backs up, takes a running start, and hurtles at the edge of the balcony, as Chloe has just enough time to think that she really hopes he’s practiced more than once. She does not particularly feel like being Failed Test Run #2.

The railing rushes toward them, Chloe squeals despite herself, and then they launch upwards in a whirl of white feathers, twenty stories above the ground. The small glowing dots of cars beetle past below, as they gain altitude with a few quick, effortless strokes, rising upward as Chloe likewise hopes that no helicopters are passing through. Her hair whips to every side, her eyes watering, as she tightens her death grip on him and tries not to look down. They are high. She doesn’t know how high, exactly, and probably would prefer not to. It’s definitely high. Very, very high. “Okay,” she squeaks, hoping her dangling shoe won’t fall off. “Got it!”

He glances at her with a distinctly devilish aspect. “Not afraid of heights, are you, Detective?”

“No, not really, just – ” She did, after all, ask for this. The view is also, to say the least, stupendous. Dark mountains to one side, dark sea to the other, and the endless, glittering city that is Southern California between. “But Lucifffff — ahhh!”

The reason for her sudden exercise in new high octaves is due to him plunging headfirst into a nearby fogbank like a kamikaze pilot. However fast she thought angels could go – she wasn’t sure – it is clearly much faster, and she gives an excellent full-throated scream, fingers going numb as she clings onto him for all her life is worth, as he barrel-races through it and emerges higher on the other side, as Chloe thinks she can practically reach up and snatch a star from the sky like a fat jewel. She has never seen the stars in Los Angeles before, and, it goes without saying, certainly never like this. She and Lucifer, damp from the mist and shivering in the wind, hug each other close, her feet dangling several thousand feet above I-10. The wings are still unearthly warm, and Lucifer spreads them to ride an updraft like a hawk, not flapping, just gliding. Chloe is never going to forget this moment as long as she lives.

Neither of them say anything, lost in a trance, as they lazily bank and soar. Chloe hitches her legs up around his waist, clinging to him like a sloth to a log, as he wraps his arms with reassuring firmness around her back. She is still half convinced that he’ll fake-drop her just to be a dick, but the only person more horrified than her at the possibility is him. And she does. Trust him.

After a few more broad swoops, as Lucifer can clearly hear her teeth starting to chatter like a nutcracker, he turns back and propels them the way they came. It is astounding how much power is in even half a beat of the wings, how far it sends them, as they glide through the dark air and back under the fog to the glow of L.A. Chloe is sure she sees someone goggling at them out the window of an office building, and then Lucifer’s own balcony is rushing up at them, he decelerates hard, and comes to an only slightly skidding landing. “Well, Detective?” he says, breathless but pleased with himself. “How was that?”

“That was – ” Chloe is still catching her own breath, which may take several years. “That. Was. Okay. Okay, then. I. Well. Wow. Okay.”

It takes them a moment to work out how to let go of each other, which they do with a slight cough. Her hands linger on him, as do his on her, until he reaches up to tidy a strand of wet hair out of her face. “I’m,” he says, and hesitates, oddly diffident. “I’m glad you liked it, Chloe.”

She has never been so close as she is then to leaning up on her tiptoes and kissing him, kissing him properly, the way she wants to and then some. They seem drawn to each other by some strange gravity nonetheless, leaning in, foreheads touching. In that moment, in that stillness, everything seems restored again. Not the way they were before, not quite, because it cannot be. But something new. And it is then, so simply, that Chloe realizes – not that she’s falling in love, as that would imply that it was half-done, that it could be reversed. No. That she already is. Long since, and long gone. That he is her world and heart and soul.

Rattled, she pulls back. “I – thanks, Lucifer. It’s late, I should get going.”

His eyes hold hers for a moment. If he senses what she just understood, he doesn’t say. Then he nods once, and steps away. “Good night, Detective,” he says. “You’re welcome.”

Barely catching her breath, knowing it’s cowardly, that she’s doing what he does, that she can hardly stand the magnitude of what is rising in her, the heat that is not from the wings – she runs.

[dad-power]

My Story, Part 4

Author’s note: None of this is meant to be mean or vindictive, but a true and accurate accounting of what has happened after My Story, Part 3. It’s been almost 6 years since I posted Parts 1-3.

Catherine’s mother and I have always had a decent relationship since she left two and a half years ago. We’ve been able to co-parent effectively and keep civil. I wouldn’t say we were friends, but we would send each other pics of our daughter, go to her birthday parties, chat frequently via text about her, etc. We got along great and as far as co-parenting, we were doing a lot better than most exes.

Imagine my surprise when, a few days before Christmas, I get served at work with a custody suit. She was going for full custody of my daughter plus child support.

Up until this point, for virtually our daughter’s entire life, we’ve shared custody. It’s been equal, 50/50 straight down the middle. The way it should be. Study after study shows it’s the best way for children to get through a separation. Except for cases of physical abuse, drug use, etc., I’m a huge believer in shared parenting. Why not?

Back when we were working on our parenting plan and had it nearly wrapped up, she said she was going to run it by her female attorney friend to dot the “i’s” and cross the “t’s”. I begged her not to because I knew what would happen. Female divorce attorneys will not stop until you are living out of your car.

Meanwhile, I had been going through some financial troubles. My ex-wife takes a big chunk of my income in the form of child support. My salary is in the high 5 figures. With taxes, support, SS, and medical, a whopping half of my salary is gone before I see my check. This is what I am up against.

Money matters are not something you want to make public. But it wasn’t because of a drug-fueled spiral; I simply didn’t make enough to live on my own after everything was taken from my check. When I show people the numbers they all understand and are totally sympathetic to it. The numbers don’t lie. Most of them were surprised I wasn’t living out of my car. 

She sent me an email explaining her reasoning. In a nutshell, she said I’m unfit to parent because I’ve run into financial difficulty. She also doesn’t like how I parent in general.

I begged over and over via text and email for her not to take any more support because it would put me in a worse situation than I already was. I asked her how taking this would be beneficial for Catherine. How would taking more of my income away with 3 kids benefit our daughter? Ironically, in her pleadings, it stated I wasn’t able to care for Catherine financially, but here she was, taking more money out of my paycheck. It didn’t make any sense. I was met with no reply to these questions, and finally, an email threatening harassment.

I’m a great dad. I don’t do drugs, I don’t stay up all night playing video games, I don’t party, I rarely drink. I have a steady, stable career and have only changed jobs twice in the last 20 years. I love my kids more than anything. They are my life. I just want to be left alone to raise them the best I can with the resources I need. I am not a crazy and unfit parent.

So now it probably looks like she has done a heroic thing: Rescuing her daughter from her horrible, drug-addled Daddy who can’t get his shit together. I am sure this is what everyone thinks. The reality is quite different. There are always two sides to a story.

A little history

Back in 2011, we met through my sister and had a fun, whirlwind relationship. Then she abruptly broke up with me after 4 months. No real reason, she just got tired of it and said we weren’t a good match. 

There were no hard feelings, and since her job as a real estate agent wasn’t producing, I helped her get an internship at a major ad agency where I had worked for almost 10 years. Then she told me how she was flirting with the 70-year-old CFO of this agency several times and secured a full-time job there.

I thought it was strange that she was constantly coming by my desk chatting with me, and I was very close to telling her to leave me alone, but...

... one afternoon she came by my desk with a note that said she was pregnant. In all honesty, had no idea who the real father was because she had broken up with me, telling me to give her “space” and was hanging out with her ex-boyfriend, calling into question the paternity. She claimed it was mine and I believed her, but at the same time, her actions did not make me trust her much. I found her ex-BF’s contact lenses in her guest bathroom while we were “dating”, and there were several other odd occurrences like that. None of this is meant to be ugly, but it was happening and I had no idea what to think.

But we carried on as friends and I was glad she had a full-time job. At least she would have an income. Despite my instincts telling me to run away, I stayed friends with her. Despite my friends and coworkers advising me to tell her to go away, I stuck with her. I was not going to abandon her and our child. 

We started getting closer, and paternity was established. We hung out every weekend at my house, working on the room for the baby, painting the crib, etc., and fell in love again. She asked me if she could move in. I did what I felt was the right thing and welcomed her into my home.

The time around Catherine’s birth was just amazing. Our relationship was better than it had ever been. I absolutely adored her and loved her more than life itself. Life was really good. I thought maybe it was going to turn out beautifully. It was magical, probably one of the best times of my life.

But when Catherine turned 2, she moved out. Then she came back 4 months later. When Catherine was 3, she moved out again, then came back again. Then after some counseling with our pastor, she said she couldn’t commit so I asked her to move out, which was the last time. 

But that’s all in the past. She’s in a serious relationship now and they seem like a great match. It’s awesome and I’m truly happy for her. As long as he’s good with Catherine I’m fine with it.

Custody

The whole custody dispute was very hard on so many levels. After 2 years I was healing and moving on. The suit just ripped the scab open again. I wanted to continue our good co-parenting relationship for Catherine, but it was like a switch went off with her and she made it impossible to be civil. It was awful to see our relationship destroyed.

Normally, if an ex with whom you had an amicable split with and got along with is having financial problems—a person you loved, shared intimate moments with and raised a child with—you would most likely say, “What can I do to help? You’re her father and this affects her also. Let’s find you a decent place to live. Let me help you somehow.” There wasn't a huge event that broke us up, and even though it hurt me, it was fairly mutual in that we both knew it was pointless to continue. But nothing happened to create this sudden change in her. 

But sadly, It was all scorched earth and horrendously ugly. I was immediately an adversary. I was unstable and unfit to parent. I had tried over and over to show her hard financial numbers but was ignored. 

At one point during our negotiations, she told me she would never change her mind and threatened to give me the bare minimum time with Catherine if I didn’t agree to pay her child support. 

According to my lawyer, she fired her first attorney for being too nice. She also forced me to take a drug test. I happily took a 14-panel test and passed it with flying colors.

I was prepared to go to trial and had a 90% chance of keeping our 50/50 schedule. Again, all I wanted was equal time. I wasn’t going for full custody. I just wanted to share equal time with her mother. 

Several different attorneys advised me that status quo for 2 years and the mother’s history of moving out on us were my aces and would be hard to beat, but the judge ordered mediation at the cost of $1000 a day plus my attorney fees. That was it for me, the end of the road. I didn’t have the money. So I caved and signed the agreement. At this point I just wanted it to be over. 

We were together for 4 years. I will never understand the hatefulness and the unwillingness to be reasonable, and the complete lack of empathy towards the father of her child. I will never understand how her heart could become so hardened that she would do something like this. When I have no money, I can’t do certain things with Catherine. That includes necessities. I don’t know why this is was and is so hard for her to understand. All I wanted was to be left alone to provide for my children and have financial security. 

Looking Forward

The last 7 years of my life, I have been humbled, changed, refined. I am not the same person I was before. And for this I am thankful. I am choosing to go forward positively. I pray for her. This isn’t a self-righteous prayer, but a prayer that she is happy and successful. Because it does affect our daughter. I do pray for her heart to soften. I also pray for myself that I continue to stay humble and loving towards her. I do love her and want her to be happy.

I’m going to continue to be a great dad to my kids.

God wants us to TRUST in Him and REST in him. I’m choosing this path.

The other night I had Catherine on one side leaning against me, and Daniel leaning on the other side of me. Both of them adore me. My children love me. They know I’m a good father. That’s all that matters.

God will provide for me as he always has. I am getting back on my feet one day at a time. God is good.

[tobns]

16 & sanvers!

absolutely! from this post (x)

Alex Danvers liked living on the sixth floor because it meant she rarely had a permanent neighbor. The apartment complex she lived in wasn’t the nicest by any means, and the elevator was constantly out of service, which was why most people rented out on floors one through three. Apparently, stairs were a taboo, and the average person could only take a few weeks of hiking up and down them before they called it quits. 

The longest anyone had lasted was sixth months. 

She liked not having neighbors. There was only one other person on the floor, at the end of the hall; Brian, who was alright, but she’d have preferred not to have him, either. She worked ridiculous hours that almost demanded she live somewhere in relative isolation, because more often than not, she’d come in at some ungodly time and pass out on the couch since the bed was a few extra steps that she didn’t have in her. Her apartment’s sole purpose was a place to sleep when they forcibly made her go home, and she’d be damned if she had to go home and sleep next door to a rave. 

Kara’s apartment-warming party was the prime example of when she’d count her blessings at only having Brian down the hall occasionally asking if she had sugar (she didn’t); the hallways were too small and there were too many people and the walls might as well have been made of paper. Not even the fancy mattress Kara’d invested in could have guaranteed her a good night’s sleep, not when her next door neighbors were up at the ass crack of dawn running every last appliance that had a volume classification of ‘high’ that they had to their name. Alex was a certain breed of person, the kind that generally wants nothing to do with the rest of the population. 

So when Alex comes home after a brutalizing forty-hour shift in the lab and realizes that the pounding in her head was also coming from the walls, she’s less than thrilled. New neighbor, she thinks begrudgingly, as she pulls herself off the couch she’d just gotten settled onto.

Another reason she’s fairly positive she never had a neighbor other than Brian longer than a few months at a time: she typically scared them off.

There were rules, unspoken, Alex-implemented rules for the sixth floor, and one of them is that on days Alex had really shitty forty-hour shifts complete with a mountain of HR paperwork (apparently, Vasquez bided her time by filing useless, made-up shit against her), parties are not welcome in any style, form, or capacity. 

Sliding her feet into her bedroom slippers that Kara had gotten her a few Christmases ago and grumbling to herself about the concepts of decency and respect, she flings her door open to figure out where the hell the party was this time. The music was significantly louder out in the hall, and it takes all of two seconds to deduce that the source of the noise is coming from the right of her apartment. 

Alex walks over, fist colliding with the door several times in an erratic pattern out of hopes they’ll even hear her over the music. While she waits, she briefly wonders if the rent’s just cheaper on the sixth floor and that’s why, save for Brian on most days, she winds up with the shitty, party-crazed neighbors.

A brunette finally answers, leaning up against the edge of the door as she looks Alex over with an amused sort of look twisted on her face. Alex imagines she has to look a sight, in her disheveled pajama pants and old t-shirt complete with the fuzzy slippers. “Can I help you?”  

“Um…yeah, I live next door.” The woman merely lifts an eyebrow in response. Alex sighs, folding her arms over her chest and trying to suppress the urge to walk past her, unplug the stereo, and then retreat back to her lair. “I just got off a forty hour shift, if you could maybe turn the music down, that’d be nice.”

“Forty hour shift? Sounds to me like you could use a drink. We have plenty.” 

It’s a bribe, and she’s in no mood for it. Alex blinks twice, expression unfaltering. “I need sleep. So…um, yeah. Music down. It’s appreciated. Thanks.”

As she turns to walk back into her apartment, the brunette chimes back in. “I’m Maggie,” she yells over the throb of the music, Alex stopping in her tracks to glance back over her shoulder. 

“By the way, nice pajamas,” she, Maggie, adds, the teasing hint in her voice enough to light Alex on fire as she closes the door before Alex can have the chance to decide whether or not she’s even in the mood to introduce herself. Alex isn’t sure if she’s really that sleep deprived and is hallucinating, or if Maggie’d really shot her a wink right before there was nothing but the door staring back at her.

Alex doesn’t get much sleep that night even when Maggie does honor her request and lowers the volume.

The next time she runs into her charming new neighbor is on the one day she sleeps through Hank’s text asking her to come in an hour early, which is a sign from the universe that Maggie is probably not good news.

She’s carrying a case of Blue Moon in one hand and the other trying to fish her key out of her back pocket while trying to balance a bag of groceries on her knee when she spots Alex. “Pajamas,” she says in greeting as Alex beelines for the staircase, trying not to make eye contact. 

Alex is running late. She is in good conscience and is aware she is running late. And yet, Maggie is tiny and struggling and for some godforsaken reason, something in her is saying help the girl. Internally, she groans.

Hank is going to murder me.

“You uh, need some help there?” she asks, offering out one of her hands. Maggie takes a quick glimpse, sighs in gratitude, and then nearly flings the case of beer at Alex.

“What’s all the beer for?” Alex is trying to make conversation; she figures she might as well now that she’s going to be penalized for strolling in nearly two hours past expected. Maggie finally manages to get the key from her pocket, shooting a smile in Alex’s direction as she jams her key into the lock.

“You think you’re the only person who works a job with crazy hours? Gotta stay sane somehow,” she explains, emphasizing with the push of the door. She strolls on into her apartment, Alex standing there in the hallway for a second before she realizes that Maggie is waiting on her to follow suit. 

Maggie’s place is everything Alex’s isn’t; no sense of order, boxes still strewn all over the place, images flashing across the TV with the volume put on mute. It feels like a step back in time, back when Alex didn’t have a job and was partying every night in college, times she prefers not to dwell much on. “Nice place,” Alex offers, standing in the middle of the room and unsure of what she’s supposed to do with herself.

“You can just set those on the counter,” Maggie says, as she kicks her shoes off in front of the refrigerator before glancing over her shoulder at Alex. “And thanks, I’m glad someone finds this hot mess of a place somewhat endearing.”

“All the apartments look the same,” Alex clarifies. “I’ve had enough neighbors to know this.”

Maggie pulls a box of cereal out of the bag, one of her eyebrows quirking in amusement. “Oh, so you coming over isn’t some special thing? Gotta say, I’m wounded.”

Alex rolls her eyes, Maggie however keeps going. “I mean, a pretty girl shows up at my door on my first night here? Reason enough for me to want to live here forever, don’t know why anyone would ever want to leave.”

Her face is positively on fire; there’s no way in hell Hank is going to accept ‘my new neighbor was flirting with me’ as a legitimate excuse for being late, but here in this particular moment, it seems like a good enough excuse in Alex’s book. “Yeah, well…” she stammers, words suddenly hard to come by and she briefly wishes she was Kara and could talk forever without any preamble. “This uh, this has been fun—”

“Fun?” Maggie repeats, a laugh escaping her. “All we’ve done was take two steps into my apartment.” Alex rubs at the back of her neck sheepishly, eyes fixed onto the direction of the wood grain on Maggie’s counter. Maggie tilts her head to the side, narrowing her eyes. “You in a hurry?”

“For my demise? Yes,” Alex exhales. “Slept right through the good old ‘we need you here yesterday’ call, they’re going to mount my ass over the entrance to serve as a warning for the rest of my coworkers.”

“Well then you better get to it, Pajamas; elevator’s not working.” Maggie smirks, like the image of Alex hauling ass down the six flights of stairs is a humorous thought even though Alex does that trek daily and she hardly breaks a sweat.

She doesn’t bother to correct Maggie on this mistake either. She’s too busy running out the door.

That’s how she evolves a sort of friendship with Maggie Sawyer; Maggie typically catches her on days she’s running inexplicably late to strike up a conversation, Maggie runs into her whenever Alex comes back from the gym in her sports bra and workout pants and is incredibly obvious as she looks her over, Maggie sees her in the stairwell in passing and asks how the hell Alex isn’t having a heart attack because she’s fit, sure, but these stairs are a whole other obstacle. Maggie quickly figures out Brian is of no help for anything unless it has to do with an accurate weather report for the week and that if the elevator is ever working, hell is on the verge of freezing over, and she finally learns Alex’s name when Kara comes over for sister night and has to wait on Alex to get home to let her in.

She never throws any more parties though, Alex notices. Or if she does, then they do so without music. 

Maggie Sawyer crawls her way into Alex’s bloodstream, she realizes after about three weeks of Maggie showing no signs of relocation. Maggie is what she finds herself absentmindedly thinking about at work when she’s supposed to be paying attention, and she doesn’t know when for sure it happens, but she quickly finds out that she has no idea how to make it stop. She’s not entirely sure she wants for it to stop, either, but it’s starting to get on Hank’s nerves whenever she spaces out. Kara can also tell that she’s thinking about someone; she wonders if being psychic is a power her sister has always had and has just never bothered telling her, because now Kara always gives her that look that suggest things and makes Alex want to hide under her duvet covers.

They always called it a crush for a reason, and although Alex is terrified it’s more of a borderline infatuation, she gets it. It’s meant to destroy you.

She manages not to run into Maggie in her sports bra anymore, a feat she herself is somewhat grateful for but also a little disappointed; but the next time she bumps into Maggie, the elevator is working.

It’s been a relatively easy day at work on her end, no world-threatening matters, just typical lab things that Alex is sure she can do in her sleep, and to her, it’s a treat that the elevator is working. She runs to catch the door, spotting Maggie pressed up against the wall of the elevator.

Alex offers her a smile, but she can smell tequila radiating off of her and she knows she’s probably not going to get much more than that smirk currently plastered on Maggie’s face. 

“You wanna know something, Pajamas?” Maggie slurs as the elevator doors close and they begin the anything-but-smooth way up to the sixth floor. Alex looks over at her, lifting an eyebrow as a prompt to continue. “Don’t ever…don’t ever get your hopes up in this goddamn world. You—you think that for once you’re wrong about people, that maybe they’re going to surprise you after all. And then they do surprise you by being exactly what you hoped they wouldn’t be and they go and blow up a car with someone in it or some shit. It’s fucking stupid, caring.” She cards a hand back through her hair, slumping down farther against the wall. “At least the fucking elevator is working.”

Alex gets the feeling that perhaps, she shouldn’t be hearing this, that this is just the tequila talking for Maggie and that she’s a warm body with a pair of ears to listen. She knows this story all too well; she’s been through quite a few of these nights herself working at the DEO. Her heart is pounding in her chest, scared that Maggie can hear the throbbing inside her rib cage.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Maggie bites. “You wanna know what happened.”

“Not really…” Alex mutters. “I—Maggie, you’re drunk. You’re just looking to take the crazy out on someone. I get it, okay? I just so happen to be the first person you see.”

Maggie scoffs. “And here I thought you were trying to be neighborly.”

“You of all people know that I’m not neighborly by any means.”

“Is that why you just chase off all your neighbors?” she asks. “Because you start catching feelings but you aren’t willing to get up and face the music?”

That’s when the rubber band in Alex snaps, and she decides she really doesn’t like drunk-and-pissed-off Maggie. At all. “That’s none of your business,” she growls. And it isn’t; it’s none of Maggie’s business on why she hates the population as it is (even Alex doesn’t know the answer to that one, really, she’s just generally annoyed by people), it’s none of Maggie’s business about how Alex may or may not feel. If anything, she’s cowering down behind her defenses and wondering how fucking blind she herself must be, since Maggie’s clearly got it all figured out even though she’s as hammered as they come.

Maggie peels herself off the wall, taking a dangerous step closer towards her. “C’mon, Danvers. I know, you know, whether or not you want to admit you know, I’m sure Brian knows.”

“I…I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Every possible warning siren is going off in Alex’s head. Oh god, does she want this. Probably. Maybe. She doesn’t know. All she knows is Maggie is standing too close for her to know how to think and she’s as sober as they come, and yet Maggie seems to be in a pretty good conscience despite being plastered. Alex is scared if she even breathes, something’s going to fall out of her mouth or she’s going to do something that she is severely going to regret. And then she’ll have to move out, and she never thought she’d come to the day where she’d actually miss Brian, but she would, and— 

“Yeah, you do.”   

Maggie gets closer, and closer, and Alex can see the gleam there in her eye and for once in her life she’s wondering why the elevator just had to work on a night like this. She knows where this is going, and her head is spinning and words are trying so desperately to formulate and dissolve all in one go because she’s freaking the hell out, she is. “I’m not…” Alex swallows hard, her breathing erratic and scared her heart might leap from her throat at any second. Maggie is inches away, too close for Alex to even remember how to blink. “Maggie.” She’s not sure if the whisper is more of a plea to stop or a prayer; she’s got no idea what she wants, anymore. A side effect of Maggie being at her fingertips, she’s sure.

“It’s okay, Alex,” Maggie reassures her, a hand brushing over Alex’s shoulder and Alex swears it is as though someone has lit her on fire. “It’s okay to want this.”

Alex chokes, the elevator stopping. The doors roll back to reveal no one, of course, there’s no one else on this floor but them, and she takes that as divine intervention. “Not like this,” she finds herself saying, even though it’s piercing her insides to do so. Maggie’s face doesn’t fall, instead, her upper lip curls even farther into the smirk. “I…not when you’re like this.”

The little half-whisper barely falls from her lips before she’s hauling ass out of that stupid fucking elevator, and if Maggie follows her (which she’s sure she doesn’t) she doesn’t take the time to notice.

Instead, she goes in and gets hammered herself in order to shut her brain up, passing out on the couch at some ungodly hour with Maggie’s name on the edge of her tongue.

She’s nursing a little bit of a hangover the next morning but she’s up and moving, making herself a cup of coffee. Last night’s encounter is still lurking at the back corners of her brain and waiting to spring up again, but she’s making headway with at least forgetting it for now. Putting it off until she’s got absolutely no choice to look it in the eye. That sounds reasonable, optimal. She can do it.

There’s a knock on the door, probably Kara since Fridays are their day off and she remembers at the beginning of the week, a whole lifetime ago as far as she is concerned, making breakfast plans. She pulls herself up from the bar stool, dragging her slipper-clad feet across the floor as she crosses the way to the door, opening it with the complaints to her sister already forming in her throat.

And then she realizes it’s definitely, certainly not Kara at the door. Because Kara doesn’t make her heart take up residence in the middle of her throat. 

It’s Maggie.

“Pajamas,” she greets, leaning up against the door frame. “I think I owe you an apology.”

“No, you don’t,” Alex immediately replies, shaking her head. “Like I said. I get it. I’ve been there, done that, made the t-shirts for it. You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Yeah, I kinda do.” Alex’s throat constricts. Oh, god. She remembers. Of course she does. Her eyes move down to her hands, as if they have suddenly become the most interesting thing to avoid making eye contact, and she’s making a mental note to ask Kara if she can crash on her couch indefinitely. “Whatever…you know, whatever you’re thinking or feeling is your business, not mine, and I really should have kept my big mouth shut. Even if the tequila was pulling the strings.”

“It is…it is kind of your business, though,” she mutters, so softly that even she’s not sure what she’s saying. She finally lifts her head back up, the first thing she sees is Maggie’s eyes and she knows, she just knows she is a goner. 

And then the next thing she knows, she’s stepping over the threshold and taking Maggie’s face into her hands and kissing her. Her heart is exploding in her chest (or at least, that’s what it feels like it’s doing anyways) and her world has focused in on nothing but Maggie Sawyer, her world itself has become Maggie Sawyer and that is fine by Alex Danvers. For a split second, she wonders if she’s made the biggest mistake of her life, being that forward, and then she feels Maggie kissing her back and if it were possible, Alex would have been content to melt into a puddle.

She finally pulls away once she’s gotten her point across—not when she’s reached a point of satisfaction, absolutely not, Alex doesn’t think that’s possible when kissing Maggie felt like that—exhaling deeply as her hands fall to her sides, wringing them out.

Maggie looks at her expectantly, both eyebrows raised in amusement. “I said not like that. That being, uh, drunk. And kinda pissed with the world. But now you’re not…you know. Drunk.” Alex explains awkwardly, gesturing towards Maggie before the hand reaches up to scratch behind her head sheepishly.

Maggie simply smirks, causing Alex’s heart to plummet straight to her ankles. “You know, you’re really something else when you’re all flustered.” 

Alex doesn’t respond, she simply juts her hand out, latches onto Maggie’s arm and pulls her over the threshold into her apartment.

Kara will have to wait.