#and abstract and mildly horrifying? yeah. that

[isbergillustration]

A few guys from Blade Runner I’m pretty sure I hallucinated.

[wafflebloggies]

the long con - part 2/7

a Don't Feed The Muse/Captain Disillusion crossover story. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

*

When Mark finally lifted his head again, he realised that, of the few people who had been sitting at the long table, there was only one other guy left. He was only a few seats away, eating fries, his eyes fixed on the screen of his small laptop with a poorly-disguised air of conscious embarrassment.

Mark realised that his conversation with Anthony had not been very quiet. The guy had probably heard every word of it, although to his credit he looked as if he’d much rather not have. Feeling rather hot in the face, Mark was ready to just slink off and follow Anthony, except that right behind the first realization came another, even less welcome.

He knew the guy.

Recognized, was the better word. He hadn’t realised right away, because the last time he’d seen him, he’d been sitting alongside Anthony in the hot darkness of the main auditorium. Not only that, but in costume and with half his face painted bright silver, up on stage under a bank of bright lights, pacing, talking, he’d looked a whole lot different from how he did right now. He looked like an entirely different person, just a nondescript guy in jeans and a faded shirt with his lanyard twisted round the wrong way, awkwardly eating fries.

He glanced up, and their eyes met.

Mark didn’t feel like he had a lot of dignity left to preserve, but he tried, anyway, struggling for the first thing he could think of to say to make this less uncomfortable. He half-laughed, indicating the guy’s food, his own.

“Sorry, I was just thinking how I picked the bad ending. Those look way better than, um, this.”

(Cool, great, Mark. Smooth. Well done.)

The guy smiled. “Vegetarian?”

“Yeah.”

“Plain fries are usually a safe bet, even a convention food stall doesn’t have a lot of scope there to...” He gave the lasagna a sympathetic, mildly horrified look, and slid the fries a little way towards Mark.

“Oh, uh, no, but thanks. I guess you go to a lot of cons?” Mark shook his head. “I mean, of course you do. I- you’re Captain Disillusion, right?”

The guy gave a head-shake of his own, a wry, self-deprecating half-smile. “No, just his intern. My name’s Alan.”

“Right, yeah, okay. Sorry.” Mark felt a queasy stomach-spike of embarrassment. Of course the guy didn’t want to be called by his character name, his YouTube persona, when he was just trying to eat and probably catch some alone time. “Uh, I’m Mark. Mark Mayhew.”

“Hi, Mark,” said Alan, lifting his hand in an artless sort of mini-wave. He was older than Mark by at least ten years, a little grey just beginning to fleck his dark, curly hair at the temples, and up close he had the worn, mildly abstracted look of someone who hadn’t slept well for at least a week straight. He was pink around the eyes and slightly sunburned across the nose, and- like pretty much everyone else around them- dressed in a way that suggested his clothes had been screwed up in a suitcase for longer than was good for them.

Mark sat himself up a little straighter. The inevitable sick tension was starting to grow somewhere around the bottom of his throat, as he tried to pull together the enthusiasm, wind himself up for the pitch. It was the absolute last thing that he wanted to do, but with this kind of chance thrown his way, he couldn’t give himself the time to even think of passing it up.

“Hey, are- are you busy right now?”

“Not exactly I’m waiting for...” Alan hesitated, indicated his laptop with a fry. “Well, anyway, I’ve been watching videos of Korean jelly rabbit desserts for like an hour.”

Mark took a deep breath. “I saw your talk on Friday. Really good, the effects, um, especially the way you used pre-recorded stuff? I feel like you put in more effort for just a talk about-” For a nightmare moment, he nearly forgot what the talk had been about completely, but a memory of Anthony raving happily about it afterwards saved him. “-citing sources and stuff, um, than literally anyone else we’ve seen this weekend. Just, really great. A- a lot of fun.”

Alan looked weirdly, wincingly uncertain about the compliment, but Mark thought he looked pleased too. He would have taken anything as encouragement, just now. He’d been doing this (as Anthony had been so quick to point out) in various ways, with varying flavours of abject failure as a result, all weekend. It did not get easier with practice, certainly not for Mark, who in some ways was more sensitive than he would ever been able to admit. Rejection struck him deeply in a very vulnerable place, no matter how he tried to steel himself beforehand.

And sure, while the channel had just been fun, with no pressure and no expectations, he’d only ever wanted the next video to be better than the last. He’d really cared, like Anthony cared, about how good they were for themselves, and how enjoyable they were to make. Fun and creativity, two aspects he’d thrown aside, had to, in exchange for this, for how they could potentially…

“And,” he continued before he could lose his nerve altogether, digging into the front pocket of his backpack and pulling out a card, “I thought, maybe, you might be interested in a collab? I know,” he said, quickly, wishing his hands didn’t feel so immediately sweaty or his face so hot, “it’s not exactly the same kind of content, we’re mainly about the movie reviews so far, but I know you’ve touched on movies before, you did that Ghostbusters thing, so it’s not so much of a jump, right?”

“Um,” said Alan. He looked immediately uncomfortable, and although he did take the card, it was very transparent that he was only looking at it as an alternative for looking up, or anywhere near Mark. “I mean, I don’t-”

“-and we’re not that big yet, but we’ve been growing pretty fast and if you could help us with some visibility I feel like our demographic would really-”

“Hey, listen,” said Alan, gently, “Mark- right?”

“Yeah.” It was on the card, along with Anthony’s name, their contact info, a nice professional embossed front which Mark was starting to really regret paying extra for. Nobody he’d managed to give one to had seemed too interested in actually looking at it. He had a wretched conviction that most of the cards he’d managed to give out over the weekend were lying around in various trashcans around the con, in corners, under booths, discarded in rooms.

Alan did look at the card, at least. He passed it uncomfortably from one had to the other, turning it over.

“This kind of thing really... wouldn’t be up to me,” he said. “You’d have to ask the Captain, but, um…”

He put it down on the table, on top of his own little pile of paper.

“I don’t think he’s looking to do any collabs right now.”

“Right,” said Mark. His stomach was a sick little lump, and his disdain for the guy sitting across from him was rising, despite his efforts to shut off, to not take it personally. Once the initial rejection was over, he was learning, it wasn’t always easy to extract himself without anything happening to make him feel worse. In this case, he didn’t appreciate this guy’s facetious tactic of hiding behind his own made-up character, like it was a joke, like Mark wasn’t even worth taking seriously. It was definitely the weirdest rejection he’d gotten so far, and probably the most cowardly. A kind of ‘you’d have to ask Management,’ when they both knew the Management in question was fictional.

“I guess ‘Captain Disillusion’ usually works with bigger channels,” he said, and the disappointment and humiliation – not just from this, more from this being a sequel of the entire miserable weekend- sharpened his voice far more than he intended it to.

Alan didn’t seem offended, though. He sort-of-laughed.

“I’m starting to see where the ‘Cynical’ part comes in,” he said. “It’s not really about that. When we make a video, we just kind of usually want to make a point, and if there’s a channel that wants to work with us that we feel like would help make it clearer, or more entertaining, and it’s relevant to what we wanted to do…” He shrugged. “It just kind of happens naturally, you know? It’s not always a great idea to push something just because you want to grow, or look better in the algorithm. It’s not how we work, anyway. I mean, it’s not how the Captain works, it… never has been. I really think, that if you just make the stuff you want to make, the right people will find it. It just… takes time.”

This was so close to what Anthony had said, that Mark felt his frustration and the fear in his chest kick up a notch just as if it had been Anthony sitting there saying it. He looked away, picking up his spork and poking at the rubbery cheese-adjacent substance on top of his lasagna. “Right.”

And then, ignoring the small voice that told him not to, the better instinct that whispered that it was a bad idea and he should just shut up about the whole thing and move on with at least a molecule of dignity intact, he said, “It must be great to have the option. Just work with whoever you want, right?”

“Uh-”

“We’re getting there, though,” continued Mark. On some level he was quite aware that he sounded stupidly petty, spiteful, the epitome of sour grapes, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. “I know you don’t do sponsors, I mean, I noticed you’ve never had one that wasn’t, you know, made up, buuut... actually we’ve already had an offer from a pretty big concern? I don’t wanna name-drop until everything’s hammered out, but there could be a lot of money in the kind of stuff they’ve been talking about with us.”

(With me.)

“I mean,” said Alan, thoughtfully, after a pause, “congratulations? Maybe? But, um…” He hesitated, rubbing an ear, looking past Mark and across the disarray of empty seats as if looking for the right words, then sighed and pulled in his chair, leaning in. He had not, initially, struck Mark as the kind of person who felt comfortable making eye contact, often or at all, but now he looked up and caught Mark’s eye. His own look was anxious, but steady, and kind.

“Look, I’ve probably been on YouTube for a couple…” He glanced at the card again. “...or, um, fourteen, years, longer than you have, and if I could tell you anything I’ve learned, it’s probably that if someone… okay, if anyone’s offering a small channel a lot of money up front or… talking about exposure, like, they’ve got big contacts behind the scenes, stuff like that? Maybe?”

He looked up, but Mark had control of himself again, and his face was a wall.

“Then, uh, they probably don’t have... your best interests? In mind. I’m not saying everyone’s like that, but… look, even just listening to you and your friend- sorry, uh, you guys were a little loud- but I can tell you have a lot of enthusiasm. A lot of ideas. And... sometimes that’s a problem, because there’s people who’d be happy to just take all of it, take all of your energy and creativity from you as if it’s all just fuel for…” He spiralled a hand, uncertainly. “I don’t know. Something you’ll never see any return for, anyway. Your creative identity, and- and your ideas, they’re the most important commodity you have...”

With one uneasy hand, he twitched a couple of half-hearted quote marks. “You know, if you want to look at it like that. A- a lot of people do, and I don’t… generally like? Those kinds of people. On YouTube. Or, um… anywhere, really. Not to be like, Old Man Yelling At Cloud about it, but it’s really pervasive, and I’ve seen way too much of it just this weekend.”

Having wandered to the end of such a plate of verbal spaghetti, Alan blinked, looked embarrassed, rubbed his sunburned nose. “I’m sorry, I don’t wanna lecture. You seem pretty smart, Mark. I’m not saying you’d fall for anything like that, but I’ve… I’ve seen it happen, okay?”

Mark hesitated. To some small and unsquashable part of his unhappy mind, Alan’s gentle advice felt like the most solid, inarguable sense he’d heard all weekend. He couldn’t have said why, and it didn’t feel like the why even mattered that much.

He was too weary, too deeply on his guard, too heavily under siege from a dozen directions, too desperate, but for a moment, it all went away. His mind cleared of the fear, the merciless noise,and he nearly found himself sitting up, laying his hands on the table, looking back into Alan’s tired, well-meaning eyes and saying, there’s a thing like a squid-ink soccer ball with eyes in my closet, and it talks to me, and it says it can help me save my mom.

He didn’t. But he almost, almost, did.

Some topics were conversation-starters. Some were conversation-enders. Some things, terrible and volatile, unbelievable and crazy-sounding and traitorous as they were, were more like universe-enders. If spoken, the known world- Mark’s known world, with all of its terrible borderline fragility, its pain and its promise, would just... cease to be.

The feeling, the threat of this severance, was too much. Mark nodded, forced a smile.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Anyway- look, thank you for your time. Really. I gotta go… enjoy the rest of the con. Nice meeting you, Alan.”

“Sure…” said Alan, uncertainly, as Mark hooked his backpack from the floor and bolted to his feet with nearly enough alacrity to knock his chair into the aisle. “You too. Good luck with-”

But Mark was already hurrying away.

*

Alan, left to himself at the long, empty table, watched Mark’s retreating back wind through the lobby and out of view. The thoughtful, vaguely worried look was jolted entirely off his face in the very next moment, as someone dropped into the seat directly across from him with enough jarring momentum to make the whole table lurch across the tiles, let out a long, exasperated sigh, reached over and started eating his fries.

After a first startled jump, neither the violent arrival or the fry-theft had much effect on Alan, who only put Mark’s card away in his back pocket, and said, “Hello, sir.”

“We’ve got an emergency, Alan. The web team have the vod from the talk ready to go up, but they say the audio’s out of sync.”

“W- I- it shouldn’t be.” If Mark had been there to watch, he would have been witness to an immediate and major change in Alan’s overall demeanour, as soon as the Captain had shown up. On paper, they were identical in terms of height and build, identical in appearance aside from the obvious difference of the Captain’s silver skin. The upper half of the Captain’s face- the mask- was identical to Alan’s, everything else the same right down to the colour of their hair and their eyes, although the Captain didn’t have grey hairs unless he felt like it, and the Captain’s eyes were bright and intense and sometimes caught the light in an odd, overly vivid way.

The biggest difference was in attitude. The Captain stood taller, moved quicker, spoke with curt, effortless fluency, an abrupt kind of grace in everything he said or did. With the Captain sitting across from him, Alan looked shorter, smaller, held himself with a perpetually tense, awkward deference. With Mark, he’d been thoughtful, ready to offer advice. With the Captain, he seemed immediately scattered, not so much defensive as defeated.

“I- I checked the whole thing. Are you sure you sent them the right fi-”

“Well, whatever you screwed up, just sort it out with them. I don’t need to know the details, okay?” The Captain stopped eating fries, as if he’d only just registered what he’d been putting in his mouth. He pulled a face. “Did you put mustard on these?”

“On… my fries, yeah, I did. Uh, I could get you some-”

“They’re cold.” The Captain poked around in the container for a moment, searching for mustard-less, untainted fry content, then gave up in disgust and pushed it away over the table. Alan only just caught it before it shot right off the edge, fielding it at the furthest reach of his arm like some Old-West bar patron catching a fast-slung finger of Scotch.

“Anyway, get on it.” The Captain pushed back his sleeve and tapped a few buttons on his comm device. It beeped urgently at him. “We’re supposed to be out of here in like an hour. Is the shuttle packed yet?”

“Uh, no,” said Alan, to the salt crystals scattered across the tabletop. “I was going to start after-”

“Start? I thought you’d be done this morning.”

“I- I couldn’t,” said Alan. “I didn’t have time, I had to- I had to set up for my talk.”

“Oh, right.” With a bored, somewhat petulant kind of emphasis, the Captain sat back, rolling his sleeve back down over his glove. “That thing. When is it, again?”

“Two hours ago,” said Alan.

He closed his laptop and put his notes and the rest of his fries on top of it, ready to go. Sensing a lack of movement from the other side of the table, he hazarded a look as he got to his feet and found that the Captain was staring at him with a very odd expression on his face. It was sort of blank, but there was panic in it, unmistakeable and rising, underneath.

He had seen the Captain panicking before, rarely enough, and almost always with very good cause, usually of the major-unexpected-catastrophe variety. He had never seen this look aimed directly at himself. He didn’t look annoyed, or impatient- just completely, genuinely caught off guard.

“What?” said the Captain.

“Two… hours ago?” repeated Alan. When the Captain said nothing, just continued to look at him as if something apocalyptic had happened, he started to get extremely nervous. For lack of anything else to say, he started, “I think it went pretty-”

The Captain made a sudden movement, tapping his hands together in a T-sign, cutting him off. “Wait, whoah-whoah-whoah, you’re sure?”

“Am I... sure my talk was two hours ago? I mean, yes?”

“No, because, that would have been at four PM, and it’s- six oh eight right now, so that would mean it’s… it happened, already, as in, it’s over, which-” The Captain broke off. “You’re really sure?”

“Sir, I- I was there.”

“But that would mean I missed it!”

Alan had no idea how to field this. The Captain did not tend to demonstrate a lot of unusual emotions in his presence, which was to say, he usually stuck with variations on the two most familiar ones, impatience and contempt. Certain things about the whole weekend had been… unusual, in general, and he really wasn’t sure what this weird display of… interest? Panic? Something, anyway, could possibly be tending to. He felt tired (and worried, still, somewhere at the back of his mind where Mark’s pale and hungry face rested uneasily) and confused. Rather than press the issue, he picked up his little tableaux of laptop and papers and fries and started trying to spot the nearest trash can across the emptying vista of the food court.

“It doesn’t matter, Captain. I’ll go get my stuff and get the shuttle packed. I’ve got the main web guy’s info, I’ll make sure he gets the right- I mean, I’ll fix the audio thing.”

“Alan, wait!”

Alan looked back. He watched, confused, as the Captain extricated himself from the table and caught up with him. That the Captain wanted to say something, was evident in his struggling face and the formless shapes his black-gloved hands made in the air, but all that came out in the end was,

“I- I… I’ll come with you.”

“Okay…?” When the Captain failed to start moving, Alan, who was painfully aware of getting in other people’s way and conscious that the two of them were blocking the whole aisle, took a couple of uncertain steps backwards and managed to spur him into following. He dumped the fries in the trash as they passed, heading for the elevators.

[alwaysspeakshermind]

Top 5 Anti-Varchie Arguments & Why They Make No Sense

#2: “Varchie’s too rushed/forced/there’s no development.”

[Note: this is one of the arguments that really grates my cheese, because the refuting evidence is so! Very! Obvious! that I don’t even know how anyone can bring themselves to actually use it. So be warned...this post is long. Also, it definitely jumps around a bit, because I was in a serious ‘Really, dude? Really?’ mood when I wrote it, and upon calmer reflection, I decided to remove a few overly sarcastic things I put down in the heat of the moment and add a couple of clarifications so it doesn’t sound like I’m trying to insult anything I’ve no intention of insulting.]

Varchie’s too rushed? Varchie’s too forced? Varchie has no development?

Yeah, no.

I’m trying to not lose all pretense of tact here, but this falls in the “anyone saying this must be too young to grasp the concept of abstract reasoning because people cannot possibly be this dumb” type of arguments.

Because again...no.

NOOOOOOOOOO.

Since the beginning of the series, Archie and Veronica have been Riverdale’s best-developed couple. (Yes, even better than Bughead, who, no shade whatsoever because this is by no means a post meant to disparage one of the other three pairings I’m 100% on board with in this show, didn’t even interact in the pilot), and anyone with more than an ounce of common sense can recognize that. Even if they hate it with every fiber of their being and wish it weren’t true—it’s true.

Development (particularly that of the onscreen relationship variety) does not fall in the category of artistic elements that lend themselves to subjective interpretation. It is a technical, structural element, meaning it is either there, or it’s not, and deliberately ignoring or refusing to acknowledge its existence does not render it null and void. Though they are the first of the canon couples to kiss onscreen, Varchie is also the only ship on the show that takes longer than two or three somewhat-romantic interactions to begin a relationship.

No, seriously. 

Give it a second and really think about it…

In six episodes, how many the-average-person-would-recognize-this-as-romantic times do Betty and Jughead interact before they kiss and begin a romantic relationship? [Note: and by “the average person,” I mean “would even your clueless dad who would probably rather be watching something else instantly recognize this as a Definite Romantic Moment™?”]

How many times in twelve episodes do Cheryl and Toni interact at all before romance is inarguably hinted at [in 2x14; 2x14 is where their half-second interactions become more than fanon and the average viewer learns what most of the rest of us already knew anyway]? 

How many times do Alice and FP interact at all in ten episodes (the point when people suddenly decided they had an entire romantic history and “needed to be put together”), and how many times do they interact after that before they begin whatever kind of relationship it is they have?

How many times do Kevin and Joaquin interact at all, period in one episode before beginning a romantic relationship? 

How many times do Kevin and Moose interact in thirteen episodes before beginning a romantic relationship? 

How many times in one and a half seasons do Kevin and Fangs interact at all, period before beginning a romantic relationship? 

How many times do Archie and Val interact at all, period in six episodes before beginning a romantic relationship? 

How many times in two and a half seasons do Archie and Josie interact at all, period before beginning a romantic relationship? 

How many times in two and a half seasons do Veronica and Reggie interact at all, period before beginning a romantic relationship and how many of those scenes also include Archie? 

(I’d also mention Josie and Reggie, but apparently I’m the only one who remembers that pairing. And also Josie and that summer fling “relationship,” but I’m kind of still trying to block that one from my mind because it really horrifies me that my girl kissed a dude who looks like he pours axle grease on his hair every morning, walks around wearing plaid shirts with cutoff sleeves like Larry the Cable Guy, but still has the nerve to whine publicly about her not wanting it to be anything more, so I won’t.)

But, etc., etc. You get the picture.

This is not, of course, to hurl accusations of “worthless!” at any of the above-mentioned ships or those who ship them; it’s just an example used to illustrate the following point:

If any or all of those pairings seem[ed] cute/promising/full of potential and/or not rushed or forced to you when none of them were so much as hinted at in the pilot (and the show goes for long periods of time without those characters even sharing screentime, let alone actual interactions or even glances), Varchie shouldn’t either. 

Especially in light of the fact that Varchie has a stronger romantic buildup in one episode than most teen couples get in three.

For instance:

Varchie Development In 1x01

Diner scene: Archie and Veronica meet at Pop’s and the romantic interest on both sides is made obvious from the beginning.

School Hall scene: Walking with Betty and Kevin, Veronica spots Archie, asks about him, and makes her interest in him explicitly known (“In that case, mind putting in a word?”) once Betty says “we’re just friends.”

Lunch scene: Veronica immediately addresses Archie regarding the song he’s playing, and Archie surreptitiously checks Veronica out  (it’s quick, but he does. If you don’t believe me, go back and watch Archie during that scene while keeping in mind where Veronica’s at.)

Invitation-to-the-dance scene: Veronica calls Archie over from practice in order to give Betty a prime opportunity to finally ask him out, and Archie pays more attention to Veronica during the conversation—jogging over right away, smiling at her, even agreeing to go to a dance he’s indifferent to because Veronica jokingly insists and agrees to come with him and Betty. Also, “Archiekins,” Veronica’s pet-name-of-choice (besides “Lover”) for Archie in the comics, makes it first appearance.

Dance scene: Veronica jokes about how Archie needs to drop the fine arts/sports question for a night so they can all have fun, Archie refers to her as Ronnie for the first time and tells her he’s trying. Veronica teasingly tells him to work faster, and Archie watches her leave with a look similar to the one he wore in the diner when they first met.

Seven Minutes In Heaven scene: As soon as Archie’s name is suggested, Veronica looks his way, and she visibly leans forward to watch the bottle make its selection. Although it does not “clearly [point] to the new girl” as Cheryl claims (the bottle actually lands in-between Betty and Veronica, meaning no one can say for sure who Archie’s going to kiss), Archie’s eyes immediately cut over to Veronica, and Veronica immediately looks at Archie.

Closet scene: There isn’t much doubt what’s going to happen as soon as the door shuts behind Archie and Veronica, because the sexual tension is palpable, and the entirety of their conversation is like a very awkward dance around the fact they are interested in each other. By the time they kiss it feels inevitable, and even the kiss itself is postponed until the end of the scene so that it acts as the exclamation point to the story arc.

 Once they exit and find Betty gone, the next eight to nine episodes consistently juxtapose Archie and Veronica’s new Friendship™ status with mildly flirtatious and subtly romantic moments that hearken back to the 1x01 makeout; by the time they become an official couple toward the end of Season 1, their relationship development is already slower and stronger than that of most of those previously-listed canon ships after three seasons. So, quite frankly, if you can’t recognize/acknowledge exactly how well-developed and non-rushed a relationship Varchie is, the problem is not the show/writers/the Varchie shippers.

The problem is YOU.

**IMPORTANT NOTE REGARDING SLOW-BURN DEVELOPMENT**

When it comes to fictional relationships, development is not the same thing as a preexisting history between characters. In all forms of fiction, everything important—whether it directly impacts/advances the plot or not—must take place on the screen, stage, or page. (The motto is show, not tell.) Character interactions are not excluded from this rule, particularly when it comes to film or television, where narration is an optional touch to be used sparingly, rather than the default mode of conveying information to the audience. While you can absolutely try to argue that “Barchie has the best development, not Varchie” on the grounds that the former has a long history of friendship, the reality is that at this point in the show, Barchie does not have enough onscreen interactions period, let alone romance-tinged interactions over the course of three seasons, to qualify them for a slow-burn status, let alone a good slow-burn status.

Now.

I’m not sure exactly why, but the concept of slow-burn has lately become so popular and so synonymous in fandom with “best development” and “superior quality” that the term gets thrown around until its original meaning is all but lost and everyone seems to think that if a certain potential pairing doesn’t happen right out of the gate, it automatically = EPIC! SLOW-BURN! ENDGAME!** while any pairing that does happen first automatically = boring. forced. predictable.

Which is…just…not…true.

[**Yet another side note: I LOATHE the word endgame. Always have, always will, and one day I will write the essay on the ever-swirling debate regarding Riverdale’s use of that word and why Veronica had to say it in-narrative for the pure and simple reason that people wouldn’t shut up about Kevin saying it that one time back in the pilot, and in math we call that an inverse operation, BUT TODAY IS NOT THAT DAY.]

Fictional relationships are about character dynamics just as much (if not more) than they’re about story, so it really doesn’t matter if the relationship that winds up being the E-word relationship is expected/planned or unexpected/unplanned. Slow burns can be great, but they are not the only type or relationship with value. Furthermore, not every ship that doesn’t show immediate progress on the romantic front is a slow burn, and not every attempt to create a slow burn works.

In TV, there are epic slow-burns, there are mediocre attempts to create epic slow-burns, there are bad attempts to create epic slow-burns, and then there are blatantly terrible pairings that attempt to cloak their pulled-out-of-a-hat-for-drama-ness beneath the heading of “slow-burn.” (Come to think of it, maybe that’s why people are so confused about what actually constitutes a slow-burn???)

Using another Friends example, think the J/R pairing…did they have the potential to be a good slow-burn relationship? Yeah, sure. All the actors on that show had chemistry and everyone interacted enough to make everything narratively plausible. Were they a good slow-burn relationship? No, because they came from left field, happened so late in the game and, worst of all, had to follow a strong relationship with better romantic chemistry and multiple seasons of solid storylines behind it. There are some people who prefer them together, yes, but even everyone who does like them (at least everyone I’ve ever come across) fully admits that they would also have preferred that pairing occurred much earlier in the show, when not so much water had gone under the bridge.

[Or, if Friends isn’t your sitcom, think instead of the giant misstep in How I Met Your Mother’s finale, where 7-8 seasons of plot and character development were bent, clipped, and otherwise torpedoed to splice existing material onto the plan for an ending that was concocted back when the show’s creators expected to only get maybe 3 seasons. Could that ending have worked after 2-3 seasons? Yes! It could’ve even been great. But after all those seasons, and all that story/character/relationship development in directions that wound up being more compelling than the original plan, it just didn’t work. It wound up feeling like someone luring you on a fun-but-long car ride with the promise of dessert at the end, and then being like “Ta da! Here’s a fruit parfait! Eat up!” Because while plenty of people enjoy fruit parfaits and wouldn’t mind eating them for breakfast or a snack, no one really appreciates being served berries, yogurt, and granola when they were led to expect ice cream/cake/cookies/pie. When you expend a lot of time and effort building something up, you absolutely have to deliver. You can’t pull a switcheroo at the last minute and call it good, because all that does is beg the question if this was your plan all along, why did you waste so much time developing everything but this?]

When it comes to creating slow burn, there are no shortcuts. It’s a delicate and tricky road, because in addition to needing to make sense from an in-narrative and character aspect, it also requires careful, unflagging cultivation over an extended period of time. It can’t show up and disappear at random for the sake of plot convenience; it needs normal and consistent onscreen interaction (i.e., frequent everyday conversations with and without other characters present), readily-observable-by-audience romance-tinged interaction every 2-4 episodes (flirting, furtive or longing glances, touches that linger, special smiles, noticeably consistent too much attention paid to the other person’s dating or personal life, etc.), as well as an unwavering attraction/willingness to go there from both parties.

In other words, slow-burn is exactly what the name implies: a long, slow, process where each step depends on the one before it, and you can’t rush it, skip steps, or let it fade into the background for a couple seasons while you work on something else. It must be shown, not told, the connection must be inarguable from the beginning, and there must be so much sizzling sexual chemistry between characters that even interactions in platonic settings resemble mutual flirting rather than friendly banter. After one season, Barchie doesn’t have any of that. After two seasons, Barchie doesn’t have any of that. After three seasons, Barchie still doesn’t have that.

But you know who does have all of that? 

Varchie. 

In every. Single. Season. 

(You know who else does? Bughead, but that’s a different essay.)

S1 takes about thirteen episodes to bring everything that begins the second A&V see each other to fruition, and is peppered throughout with flirty interactions, wistful glances, etc., and every few episodes, they share a moment that unmistakably hints at romance/their continued interest in one another. 

In S2, even their breakup is handled along the lines of a slow-burn formula…they sit on opposite sides of the room and exchange glances at the beginning of the episode. Their “we’re still friends” moment is awkward and laced with obvious sexual tension where a direct reminder of the relationship they’re trying to forget is introduced (the watch), and Veronica’s instinctive grab for Archie’s hand makes everything worse. Their I Love You Too reunion beneath the fake mistletoe is built up to like a first kiss scene. 

In S3, in order to make other pairings seem remotely plausible, the narrative goes out of its way to separate Archie and Veronica and keep them from interacting, but still throws the two of them together every few episodes or so for a moment that underscores their connection and shows how even their best attempts at friendship are sabotaged by the very non-platonic feelings they have for each other.

They are not rushed. They are not underdeveloped. They are most certainly not “forced.”

Oh, and speaking of forced...

Some quick definitions of “forced,” because we seem to be very confused about this word in relation to fiction as well:

(1) Obtained or imposed by coercion or physical power.

(2) (of a plant) having its development or maturity artificially hastened.

(3) (of a gesture or expression) produced or maintained with effort; affected or unnatural.

Beyond the fact that definitions 2&3 clearly refer to plants and facial expressions and thus maybe shouldn’t be used as an argument against a fictional relationship in the first place, none of these apply to Varchie. Their relationship involved no coercion/exercise of physical power whether you look at it from a meta or in-narrative perspective. Neither development nor maturity was hastened; if anything, it was deliberately stalled to create conflict between three of the main characters and then grown on an episode-by-episode basis. It is effortlessly produced/maintained thanks to the actors’ dynamic (which is also the point where the affected/unnatural part collapses; KJ Apa and Camila Mendes work too well together to make their interactions seem anything but natural) and the ease with which the characters’ personalities mesh.

But, hey...you know what could be reasonably construed as “forced?” You know what does actually fit all three of those above definitions? The contortionist-level attempts it took to break Archie and Veronica up in order to pair them with characters they have had hardly any onscreen interactions with in three seasons. If you truly despise forced fictional relationships, then perhaps it would be better to focus more energy on decrying the plot gymnastics that were required in S3 to break up Varchie and bring Archie/Josie and Veronica/Reggie into existence. Because regardless of whether you like or dislike those last two pairings, they are, by positive rather than normative standards, extremely forced.

So, once again...Varchie: not rushed, not underdeveloped, not forced. 

And once again (I’m getting so tired of typing this, but hey, it will never not be applicable, so oh well): You’re perfectly free to be mad that Archie and Veronica  prevent your ship from happening, and/or get all the scenes you’d like your favorite pairing to get. But arguing that they have no development when they are objectively the best-developed and least-rushed pairing on Riverdale is just ridiculous. 

[whumphoarder]

Grand Entrance

Prompt/Summary: "Would you ever write something in which Peter gets carsick with Tony taking care of him?"

Or, in which Tony and Peter attend a science expo just north of the border and Peter vomits his way into Canada.

Word count: 1,869

Genre: Sickfic, whump, hurt/comfort

A/N: Shout outs to @sallyidss for beta reading and being ever so helpfully Canadian, and to @xxx-cat-xxx for all your edits and ideas!

Link to read on Ao3

“I still can’t believe I’m going to be in a room with Søren Thygesen,” Peter says in awe. He’s scrolling through the conference workshop list on Tony’s Starkpad. “Do you think since you’re a speaker too, we can get backstage and meet him? Will he sign my textbook?”

Tony scoffs as he shifts gears on the Audi to overtake a slow-moving semi truck. Peter grins—he loves the rush of the 532 horsepower V10 engine lurching forward. “You have to be the only teenager in this country excited to see a three-hour lecture by an eighty-two-year-old Danish astrophysicist,” Tony remarks.

“A world-renowned Danish astrophysicist,” Peter corrects, looking up from the tablet. “Plus, he’s like the god of clean energy!” At Tony’s raised eyebrows, he quickly throws in, “Well, besides you, of course.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry kid, I’m not feeling threatened by your Scandinavian grandfather.”

“He’s just so awesome,” Peter gushes. “If anyone is going to figure out how to get humans on Mars, it’s Thygesen.” He lets out a long sigh. “I really want to go to the Q&A panel on Saturday, but I don’t know what questions I would even ask.”

“You know you don’t actually have to ask a question to go to a panel, right?” Tony points out for the second time that day. “You can just sit and listen.”

“I know,” Peter groans, “but I don’t wanna waste what might be my only opportunity to ever speak to him.”

Tony snorts. “That’s a good point—he is eighty-two. Probably doesn’t have a lot of science expos left in him.”

Peter whips his head around to throw his mentor a horrified look. “Mr. Stark!” he gasps.

“I’m just saying ...” Tony chuckles. “Toronto isn’t exactly a stone’s throw from Denmark.”

“He can’t die,” Peter says firmly. “He’s Søren Thygesen.”

“What is he, the new Chuck Norris?”

Peter’s brow furrows in confusion. “Who?”

“Never mind. God, you’re young...” his mentor mutters. Tony shifts over to the right lane to take the next exit. “Alright, alright, what about asking him something related to his biosphere project?” he suggests. “Or the new Mars Land Rover design, now that Oppy’s kicked the bucket?”

Peter sticks his lip out in a pout. “Too soon, Mr. Stark...” he complains.

X

After a brief stop for gas, they pull back onto the highway and Peter spends the next half hour pouring over the tablet, looking up every article he can find related to Thygesen’s Mars exploration research. Most of the journals are written in abstract, theoretical language, but Peter has always been a good reader and he can usually get the gist. Whenever he comes across a term or concept he’s unfamiliar with, he reads the paragraph aloud and Tony helps him work out the meaning.

Peter just forgot one little fact.

He can’t fucking read in the car.

The nausea doesn’t come all at once. It creeps up on Peter—slowly, gradually—until he has no choice but to pay attention. By the time he realizes he’s not feeling well, his stomach is already churning inside of him and a headache is pounding in his temples, leaving him feeling as though his forehead has been stretched too tightly around his skull.

He abandons the Starkpad, shifting his gaze to look out the window and doing his best to take deep, even breaths. Tony flips his blinker on and speeds up to pass another truck. The lurch of the engine is the same, but this time Peter’s expression is more of a grimace.

“Um… Mr. Stark?” he mumbles. “Are we almost there?”

“About ten more miles to the border, and then another eighty or so to the conference center,” Tony replies. “Don’t worry, you’ll see your elderly man crush soon enough.”

“Oh.” Peter swallows hard in an effort to push the queasiness back down. “Like, how many minutes is that?”

“Minutes are not a measure of distance, kid,” Tony retorts.

Peter groans and rolls his eyes, then immediately regrets it as his stomach rolls as well. He quickly locks his gaze back on the horizon. Between carefully measured breaths, he mutters, “I was just wondering if we’re going to stop soon.”

Tony frowns at him. “I asked you twice if you needed the bathroom at the gas station, and you said no. It’s been less than an hour and now you need to go?”

Peter feels his cheeks flush slightly. “Never mind, I’m fine,” he mutters. “Just wanted to stretch my legs, but I can wait.”

“Damn right,” Tony scoffs. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he fishes around on the car’s floor with the other for an empty plastic Gatorade bottle and tosses it onto Peter’s lap. “If you have to pee, use this. I’m not stopping because you suddenly remembered you have a bladder.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny,” Peter huffs. He shoves the empty bottle back in the cup holder before twisting in his seat to press his cheek to the cool glass of the window. “I’m fine, Mr. Stark.”

X

Fifteen minutes later, Peter is no longer fine.

“Got your passport ready?” Tony checks as the car rolls to a stop behind a silver SUV.

Peter nods, his lips pressed into a thin line. That’s not entirely accurate—the passport is actually in the front pocket of his backpack, which is currently sitting on the floor beside his feet—but he doesn’t feel quite up to bending down to get it at the moment. Beads of cold sweat are dripping down the back of his neck and it’s all Peter can do to keep his stomach in place as they inch their way towards the border crossing.

“I’m thinking we’ll stop for dinner somewhere around the Falls,” Tony goes on. “Have you ever had poutine?”

Peter chances opening his mouth just long enough to breathe out a quick, “Um, don’t think so.”

Tony hums as he follows the SUV forward another couple meters before braking again. “Gotta admit, I was skeptical the first time Rhodey made me try it, but it’s not nearly as gross as it looks. You’d think it would be soggy, what with the gravy soaking into the fries and the cheese curds sort of half melting, but—”

“Yeah, sounds great,” Peter cuts his mentor off. Saliva’s been pooling in his mouth for the past five minutes, but it’s definitely not from the prospect of eating traditional Canadian food. He swallows hard and breathes carefully through his mouth.

A red minivan ahead of them clears the security checkpoint and each vehicle in their lane rolls another car’s length forward.

“Butter tart isn’t bad either,” Tony remarks, braking again. “And Montreal bagels put New York ones to shame. But if you breathe a word of that to anyone, I’ll deny it.”

With a small grunt of acknowledgment, Peter squeezes his eyes closed, silently praying the man will just shut up.

The border patrol officer waves the next car through.

“Alright, passport time,” Tony announces while the SUV ahead of them moves into the inspection zone. He holds one hand out expectantly over the kid’s lap. “Hit me.”

“It’s in my backpack,” Peter mumbles without making a move for it. His ears are ringing and he’s actually dizzy now. For a brief moment, he wonders if it’s possible to pass out from motion sickness. If only he could be so lucky.

Tony frowns, retrieving his own passport from behind the sun visor. “Well, hurry up. We’re next.”

“Right, right…” Carefully—ever so carefully—Peter bends forward to unzip the backpack. He fishes out the passport, but just as he starts to sit back up, the SUV drives off and the border patrol agent waves Tony forward.

Peter’s stomach lurches along with the car’s movement and he burps, tasting the pickles and ketchup from the hamburger he’d had for lunch. Bile is rising in the back of his throat and instantly Peter knows he has mere seconds to prevent a tragedy. His eyes dart around desperately for a cup, a plastic bag, a tissue box, anything. But there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.

In pure desperation, he does the only thing he can think of to save Tony’s custom leather interior.

The moment the Audi rolls to a stop at the checkpoint, Peter yanks the collar of his hoodie up over his mouth and pukes all down the inside.

At the sound of the kid’s gag, Tony whips his head around. “Jesus, kid!” he swears in surprise.

Standing just outside, the border patrol agent—a gangly red-haired kid who looks to be fresh out of high school—is staring wide-eyed at the gasping teenager in the passenger seat.

Tony blinks at Peter, his expression morphing as the initial shock is replaced with concern. “Are... Are you okay?”

Peter gives a small nod and blushes, trying not to move any more than necessary. Inside his hoodie, hot, gross vomit is running all down his front, soaking through his t-shirt. “Yeah, sorry,” he rasps out. “Just… got kinda carsick.”

Tony blinks again. With barely concealed disgust, he reaches over and starts trying to wiggle the passport out from the kid’s grip, but the officer intervenes.

“Uh, it’s fine. You can just pull on through,” the redhead instructs, still staring at Peter as he waves the car forward. “There’s, uh, there’s a rest stop not too far from here.”

Peter flashes the other boy a grateful thumbs up as he pulls the sweatshirt back up over his face and heaves again.

X

When Peter emerges from the rest stop bathroom, he’s wearing a completely new set of clothes and carrying a knotted plastic Pharmasave bag containing his vomit-soaked hoodie and jeans. In the other hand, he’s clutching the remaining quarter of a package of baby wipes.

Tony is standing in the parking lot beside the car, his arms crossed casually over his chest and a mildly amused look on his face. “Feeling better now?”

Peter gives a half-hearted shrug and deposits the bag and baby wipes in the backseat. Tony passes him the bottle of PC lemon-lime soda he just purchased from the vending machine.

“I’ll rephrase,” Tony tries again. “Feeling better enough to get back in the car? We’re about seventy minutes out from the hotel.”

“Minutes are not a measure of distance, Mr. Stark,” Peter deadpans.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Just answer the question.”

Peter hesitates, opening the soda to take a cautious sip. He’s feeling less sick now that he’s on solid ground and his stomach is blissfully empty, but the thought of getting back in the car still makes him queasy. “Um, maybe in another five minutes?” he mumbles. “If that’s alright…?”

“Sure,” Tony agrees easily. “We can go take a walk by the Falls or something. Maybe pick you up some Dramamine.” His brow furrows in thought. “Although that might knock you out, and your buddy is giving the keynote tonight.”

“I’ll be okay,” Peter assures. “Just need a few minutes.”

Tony huffs out a quick laugh. “Yeah, can’t risk missing Thygesen. Even if you just vomited your way into Canada.”

In spite of everything, Peter grins. “May always said I liked a grand entrance.”

Click here for chapter 2!

A/N: Additional shoutout to @awesomesockes for for helping to invent the exceedingly awesome character of Søren Thygesen, for whom we now hold so many dumb irrelevant headcanons (such as that he holds the Guinness world record for the longest nose hair and can play the didgeridoo).

Fic Masterlist

[camsthisky]

He knows before he’s officially gotten home- before he’s even turned the corner onto his street, really, his every sense attuned to his apartment.  Still, it isn’t until his key is in the door that he finally places the heartbeat he’s hearing- steady, strong, slightly too fast, either young enough to still be growing or upset.  Probably both.

There’s a heavy-looking backpack sitting on the floor, a dripping wet school blazer hooked onto the coat rack they have in lieu of a closet.  He finds room on the floor for his own bag, moves the blazer to a lower hook so his coat won’t get dripped on.  Then he sighs and turns to face the living room at large, and the boy on the sofa.

“Lois went out to grab some food,” the boy says.  His damp hair, so black it shines almost blue, is hanging in his eyes, and only his fingertips peek out of the sleeves of the sweatshirt he has on.  The boy is small enough that Lois could have easily lent him one of her sweaters, but instead he’s swimming in Clark’s old U of M hoodie.  He’s already small for his age, but between the sweatshirt and the tight little ball he’s tucked himself up into, he looks absolutely tiny, and so fragile Clark’s heart aches.  “She didn’t really know what to do with me,” he adds, almost abstract.  Less of a complaint, more of an observation.

“Does she know who you are?” Clark asks, coming into the room a little.  It’s a fair question- Clark himself barely knows who this boy is, for all they’ve met a half-dozen times.

“I told her my name, and she got all,” the boy twists his face, a near-perfect imitation of the face Lois makes when she hears something interesting and is trying not to let her excitement show.  “So. Probably.”

“Ah,” Clark says, because he doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Also, I gave her two hundred bucks,” the boy adds wryly.  “So you probably want to call her.  Dinner’s on me.”

“Robin,” Clark begins.

“Dick,” the boy corrects instantly.  “I’m not Robin right now.”

Clark takes a deep breath to respond to that, holds it a moment, lets it back out again in another sigh.  He moves over to the sofa and sits down carefully on the far end from Dick, for whatever good that will do.  The kid would have to leave the state to be out of Clark’s immediate reach.

“Bruce?” he asks, sparing the boy a sideways glance.  Dick turns himself so he’s facing Clark, leaning back against the arm of the sofa, still tucked up painfully tight.

“Hunting wabbits,” the kid says, and Clark looks sharply over at him, surprised at the faint humor in his tone.  He instinctively scans the boy- he knows Bruce, he knows Batman, he knows the sort of training this boy is getting- but sees no dead spots that indicate any sort of container with a lead lining.  There is, however, a scattering of warm spots up the boy’s side and on his stomach that will resolve into light bruising within a day or two, most of them the size and shape of small fists.  It’s too new to be from anything Batman-related, and Clark spends a moment or two judging the likelihood of this kid getting bullied in school.  “He’s in Edinburg,” Dick continues, oblivious.

“Edinburg,” Clark echoes.  “Business?”

“Yeah,” Dick says with a shrug.  “And Batman stuff, but he doesn’t want me knowing that.  Alfred’s gonna be busy running the comms, so this morning he told me I could hang out at a friend’s house after school.”

“And by a friend, you mean me,” Clark says in patient disbelief, and gets another shrug.  “Would there even be a point to asking how you know where I live?”

There’s a chipped mug sitting on the end table behind Dick, filled with something that smells like some flowery sort of tea.  Dick twists around and picks the mug up, cradles it carefully in both hands as he sips from it.  “You should be flattered,” he says to the mug.  “You’re his number one Batman-related emergency contact.  Not counting me and Alfred, of course.”

Clark shifts a little, braces his elbow against the back of the couch and rests his head on his fist, staring in contemplation at his young guest.  Batman is fiercely protective of Robin and won’t tolerate even the slightest whisper about the little bird, about his skills or his training or the appropriateness of his presence in the field.  It had taken three encounters for Superman to be able to so much as introduce himself to Robin, and even that was with Batman looming close over his young partner’s shoulder.  But Clark Kent has never met Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne’s ward, and he is rapidly realizing that the dynamic is different under these circumstances.

Still, Clark has no desire to start stepping on Bruce’s toes, especially in this area.  “Why don’t you let Alfred know where you are,” he says mildly, and it sounds like a request but it really isn’t.

Dick gives him a brief, considering look.  Then he holds his tea out in clear expectation, and when Clark automatically takes it for him, he dips one hand into the pouch pocket of the hoodie and produces a cell phone.  It has a little S-shield charm tied to its case, and Clark smirks despite himself.  The sweatshirt sleeves get pushed up enough to free the boy’s hands- his knuckles are red and raw, one or two bandaged- and he taps out a fast message.  He waits a moment, then turns the phone around and holds it out, showing the received-and-read message to Clark.  Then he tucks the phone away again and daintily plucks his tea out of Clark’s unresisting grip.  “There.  Now can I stay for dinner?”

“Might as well, since you’re paying,” Clark agrees, and glances askance at the kid.  “Two hundred dollars?”

“Yeah,” Dick agrees without meeting his gaze.  “Turns out, Bruce has like zero understanding of what money is worth.”  He drinks his tea and plucks at the sleeve of Clark’s hoodie with his free hand, rubbing the well-worn fabric between two fingers, and Clark wonders at Dick’s life before the tragedy that had deposited him on Bruce’s doorstep.  He seems almost embarrassed by the wealth Bruce throws around so casually.

The mug is almost empty, drained by Dick’s attempt to avoid further conversation.  Clark holds out his hand in offering, and when Dick passes it over, he rises and heads into the kitchen.  There is no kettle, so Clark merely rinses out the tea dredges and refills the mug with water, adds a teabag from the box on the counter, then puts it in the microwave.  Alfred would be horrified.

“So did you miss out on Edinburg because of the fight?” he asks, still in the kitchen, safety and comfort in the distance.

Dick is silent, not even breathing for a long moment- and Clark is panicking, thinking he screwed up, remembering all the uncomfortable conversations Batman has simply walked away from- but then there’s a noise, the slide of fabric on skin as Dick pulls the sleeves back down over his hands.

“He doesn’t know about this,” he says.  “It’s.”   And he stops, and swallows hard, and Clark turns to look at him.  He looks unsure of himself for the first time since Clark walked in to see him perched on the couch.  “It’s a bad one, the case.  I didn’t want to distract him.”

Ah, Clark thinks.  And there it is- he’s worried.  Worried, and useless, and trying to find something to do with himself.

The microwave dings and Clark turns back to it.  He uses the distraction to pull out his own phone and text Lois- she won’t be happy, but she’ll understand.  This doesn’t really involve her.  Then he gets the tea out of the microwave and heads back into the living room.

“Well, I don’t have a Netflix account,” he says as he offers the tea to Dick.  “But I do get the Game Show Network, and it is-” he glances at his watch, realizes he has no idea, and takes a guess, “- Jeopardy time.”

“Wheel of Fortune,” Dick corrects, but he doesn’t protest when Clark turns the TV on.  And when Clark sits down, in the center of the couch this time, it’s only a matter of seconds before the boy shifts closer.

By the time Jeopardy actually does come on Dick is tucked in against Clark’s side, not asleep yet but working on it.  And when Alfred calls much later to report mission success, Clark elects to tell Dick in the morning, and lets sleeping birds lie.

this is such a wonderful fic thank you anon :)

[what-even-is-thiss]

Fic, Fake Smiles

Got a request for a fic where Roman puts a specific spell on Anxiety. They had a very specific idea on what the spell would be. Read to find out if you haven’t seen that ask. Normally when I write magic, it’s witch Anxiety doing the thing, but sorcerer Prince works too. Oh, yes.

Tip Jar

Warnings: Non consensual change of behavior. 1,597 words.

Abstract: Roman thinks he can “fix” something about Anxiety.

Anxiety is not happy. That’s just how he is. Patton is happiness. Roman is hopefulness and confidence. That wasn’t his job. He didn’t need to be happy or positive. That wasn’t his job.

Roman didn’t understand that. Not in the slightest. One day during a brainstorming session an idea clicked in his head.

Magic. Of course, it’s so simple. If he could force a change, maybe the problem would go away. He decided to consult with Logan.

“Well,” Logan said after considering for a moment, “I doubt that it would actually cause a change in Thomas’ thinking, but it is worth a shot. The mind can have quite an effect on itself. Placebo effect and all that,”

“Excellent,” Roman said deviously. “then it shall be done immediately,”

Anxiety was talking to Patton, trying to talk him out of something. However, he quickly forgot what he was saying when Patton looked confused at something happening behind him.

Anxiety turned around to see Roman chanting something with his eyes closed. A white glittery fog was beginning to swirl at Anxiety’s feet. He tried to move, but it wouldn’t let him. In a matter of seconds, he was engulfed by the spell and the brightness of it hurt his eyes.

He began to think about yelling, but then he didn’t. A fake feeling of calm overcame his body as his mind remained frantic. It was terrifying. It wasn’t right. His face relaxed against his will. A calm feeling mixed with the panic in a confusing way. What was this?

When the fog cleared, Roman and Logan waited expectantly. Morality looked mildly concerned. What they saw was Anxiety standing there with a mostly blank expression on his face.

Slowly, the emo trait looked up and a warm smile appeared on his face. It wasn’t like the rest of them. It was toothy and full of unspoken laughter. However, there was something, something off about it. Something off about the new twinkle in his eye.

“Roman and Logan. Hey, when did you get here?” Anxiety asked, like they were long lost friends.

“Oh, it worked!” Roman said.

“Now Roman, we don’t know that yet,” Logan said trying to hide his amusement.

“Anxiety, are you okay?” Patton asked.

“What? Oh yeah dad, I’m fine. Did you change your mind yet?”

“Uh, no kiddo. I still want to do it,” Patton said, unsure.

“Oh, well that’s okay!” Anxiety said, smiling warmly. “I get that. I’m going home. Bye guys!” He called out.

Anxiety sunk out of the suburban house. Patton slowly turned to roman and gave him the serious dad look.

“Roman, what did you do to him?” Patton asked sternly.

“I fixed him,” Roman announced. “I made him a positive thing and perhaps now he will not harm us as much,”

“I believed it was worth a try. The mind can do wonders on its own at times and he does tend to be quite negative,” Logic added.

“But that’s not who he is,” Patton said. “Pretending to be something you’re not isn’t healthy,” He insisted.

“Nonsense. This shall be wonderful,” Roman insisted.

Later, Roman went to visit Anxiety and see the fruits of his labor. Thomas hadn’t been any less anxious than usual and he was beginning to wonder if the spell had worn off.

Anxiety’s hallways looked as dark as ever. However, when Roman opened the emo trait’s bedroom door, things did not look normal.

The room was clean from top to bottom. The usual mess of negative memory papers in the corner had been neatly stacked and organized. The walls had no stains and it looked as if a fresh coat of black paint had been put on them. Anxiety was happily organizing his bookshelf and arranging a bouquet of black and white roses on the shelf.

“Oh, hi Roman! What brings you here, man? What’s up?” Anxiety asked, rubbing the dust off of his hands.

“Well, I wanted to see how you were getting on with your new attitude,” Roman said. “Are those flowers?”

“Yes they are. Here, have one,” Anxiety said, holding out a white one. “It goes with your shirt,”

“Okay,” Roman said, stifling a laugh. “Well, I’ll leave you to your organizing then,”

“Sure thing buddy,” Anxiety said, returning to his bookshelf.

Roman teleported back to his castle grinning widely. He liked this new Anxiety.

Anxiety still didn’t know why he was acting like this. It didn’t feel right. His face hurt. It was like he was trapped in his own body, and yet he was making the decisions. It was very confusing. He smiled happily at the roses he was arranging on his desk as an angry tear fell out of one eye and made a black trail down his face.

After about a day of nothing happening, Patton decided to pay Anxiety a visit.

Before Patton could even knock on the door it flew open.

“Hey Patton! What brings you here?” Anxiety asked affectionately.

Morality studied Anxiety carefully. That smile looked slightly more strained than it had yesterday. There was something off-putting about how he didn’t hesitate to make eye contact and stand up straight.

“Are you okay, bud?” Morality asked.

“Well, duh. Why don’t you come in?” Anxiety asked.

Patton walked into the room. It was so clean and crisp there was no proof actual living. The covers on the bed were tucked in and neat. Not a speck of dust was to be found. Vases were around the room with various black and white flowers in them. It was beautiful, but somehow it didn’t seem right.

“Kiddo, I didn’t know you liked flowers,” Morality said, trying to stay cheerful.

“Ah well, I know you’ve got a bad memory but that’s okay,” Anxiety said.

He went to a little pot in the corner that had some rosemary blooming in it. Instead of purple, the flowers were stark white. He plucked off a couple of flowers and happily pressed them into Morality’s hand.

“Here. If you eat these they can help. That’s what I’ve heard at least,” Anxiety said.

Patton carefully pocketed the flowers. “Uh, thanks kiddo. I’ll think about it. But really I wanna know if you’re okay. Roman kind of didn’t ask for consent, and I don’t think that’s right. And it’s my job to know right and wrong, so…”

“Patton, dude, you’re worrying for no reason. I’m fine like this. I’m fine,”

Anxiety’s face was ever so slightly strained. A tear ran down his cheek and he seemed to not notice.

“Don’t worry, Anxiety. I’m going to fix this. Just hang tight,” Patton said.

He gave Anxiety a quick hug and then ran off. Anxiety yelled after him “Have an awesome day, dad!”

Patton appeared in Prince’s castle and found him reading.

“Roman, you change Anxiety back this instant,” Patton said, pointing downwards to emphasize his point.

“I don’t think so,” Roman said. “Even though he still has a negative influence he has become far more tolerable. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Patton’s face became dangerously serious. “He is not himself. You are literally torturing him. Anxiety and I have been trying to tell you for how long now? I’ll say it again, Princey. You can’t think though everything,”

“I like that he is not himself,” Roman insisted.

“Lying is wrong, Roman,” Patton said.

“It is entertaining! He is putting flowers everywhere and being so positive. It is hilarious,”

Patton grabbed Roman by the wrist and dragged him out. Despite Roman’s efforts to twist away, he was forcibly dragged along.

Once in Anxiety’s area, they saw the walls had become unstable. They couldn’t focus on any of them. They seemed to wave dangerously. When this happened it was usually a good idea to take cover.

They walked into Anxiety’s room without knocking. Anxiety was playing a video game, but paused it when he saw the other two walk in.

“Hey guys!” He said warmly.

“How are ya doing, kiddo?” Patton asked sympathetically.

“Well, my face hurts a little, but other than that, everything is great,” Anxiety said, beaming.

There was that strain again. That little look of pain and fear in his eyes.

“Roman,” Patton said, “he’s hurting. Please change him back. This changes nothing. Please Princey, do heroes let others suffer needlessly?”

“He is the villain. It is not needless,” Prince insisted.

“Now,” Patton said.

Roman sighed and snapped his fingers. A white mist slowly came out of Anxiety’s every pore and the dissipated.

Anxiety fell forward and caught himself on his bookshelf like he had just run a marathon. The horrifying forced positivity was gone. It was gone. He was back.

“I’m back,” He whispered. “Oh my God,”

“Yeah, you’re back,” Roman grumbled.

“You moron!” Anxiety yelled.

He looked up. It was obvious he was holding back even more anger.

Patton smiled. “Well, it’s good to have you back,” he said, reassuringly.

Anxiety looked at him hard. “Obviously not. You wanted me to be different, didn’t you? Well I never stopped. Get out of my room,”

The look on his face was so dangerous even Patton didn’t hesitate to leave.

Anxiety yanked the covers off his bed and then buried himself in them. The linen was horridly clean and fresh. He pulled it closer to himself to block out the competing smells of flowers around him. It still lingered like a bad taste in his mouth. He hadn’t been himself, and yet he had. He had never been happy. It was two days of fake smiles and forced behavior.

Why? Why did Roman ever think that would be a good idea?

Part 2