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giffingthingsss · 11 months

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Men Must Endure

If only people (including myself: I also have fears) were still brought up with the idea that life is a battle where death and wounds await us at every moment, so that courage is the first and most necessary of virtues. - C.S. Lewis

I have seen you shine brighter than any son of man - Joy

"a power of hating with an almost incredible intensity"

Lewis says that his life really began with the death of his mother when he was nine ("all settled happiness, all that was tranquil and reliable, disappeared from my life."). Then came the boarding schools. He once wrote in reply to a young reader:

I was at three schools (all boarding schools) of which two were very horrid. I never hated anything as much, not even the front line trenches in World War I. Indeed the story is far too horrid to tell anyone of your age.

Lewis was sent to the first school, in another country no less, within two weeks of his mother's death. It was run by an abusive man who was rumored to be insane.

I half divined then, and seem to see clearly now, what all his whipping boys had in common. They were boys who fell below a certain social status, the boys with vulgar accents. Poor P. - dear, honest, hard-working, friendly, healthily pious P. - was flogged incessantly, I now think, for one offense only; he was the son of a dentist.

His experience at his second school was perhaps tainted by the perceptions and scars that he carried over from the first, for Warnie later convinced him it had not been so bad as he had thought. Here he was mainly bored by the teaching and exhausted by the workload and bullying inflicted on him by older boys.

One learns here a power of hating with an almost incredible intensity.

He retreated into a 'priggish' attitude, despising 'these course, brainless English schoolboys.' He complained loud enough to get his father to agree to send him to a private tutor, and there he was intellectually challenged and flourished.

Then came the war.

I have gone to sleep marching and woken again and found myself marching still…The frights, the cold, the horribly smashed men still moving like half-crushed beetles, the sitting or standing corpses, the landscape of sheer earth without a blade of grass… often seems to have happened to someone else.

A wound cut his career short, but it lasted long enough to produce recurring nightmares the rest of his life.

"come and see me"

The war had at least served to cure a good bit of that 'prigishness.'

When a man can sleep between sheets as long as he will, sit in arm chairs, and have no fears, it is peevish to complain... I came to know and pity and reverence the ordinary man.

During training, Lewis' bunkmate was Paddy Moore. Paddy's mother and sister followed him during his training and stayed nearby. When on leave Paddy would go see them and take Lewis along.

It was on the last stay that Lewis and Paddy were rumored to have pledged to look after each other's family if one or the other did not survive. They were sent to different brigades. Paddy never came home.

Lewis was injured. The timing of it probably saved his life. Lying in hospital, the news kept coming in -

Nearly all my friends in the Battalion are gone. Did I ever mention Johnson who was a scholar of Queens? I had hoped to meet him at Oxford some day, and renew the endless talks that we had out there... He is dead.

Upon first hearing of the injury, Warnie commandeered a motorcycle and raced 50 miles to go see him. But once reassured that his brother was going to live, he had to return to his own duties.

Jack spent months in the hospital. A long time to be alone. Often he dropped his pride and pleaded with his father to come visit.

I was never before so eager to cling to every bit of our old home life and to see you....Come and see me. I am homesick, that is the long and the short of it.

But Albert Lewis always had some excuse. Bronchitis, etc... Not to say that he didn't love his son. But he didn't visit.

Mrs. Moore did.

"the whole thing irritates me by its freakishness"

Jack recovered and went back to school, Mrs. Moore and her daughter stayed close and Jack would visit and stay with them. After a time, they all lived together. (There was a Mr. Moore who stayed in Ireland and never entered the picture.)

Jack's family grew concerned. Speculation flew. Why was Jack living with this woman? Was it some strange love affair? Was it some promise made to Paddy? Surely he could fulfill an obligation without living like this? He was giving her his money!

Warnie wrote to their father:

I think perhaps you are making too much of it. Have you any idea of the footing on which he is with her? Is she an intellectual? It seems to me preposterous that there can be anything in it. But the whole thing irritates me by its freakishness.

Perhaps it was simply that during a period of time when Jack was lonely and needed someone, the Moores were there offering a house and a family he hadn't had since he was nine. All of those on the outside speculating about the nature of their relationship, were not.

After Jack's death, Warnie published some of his letters. Their cousin wrote to Warnie after reading them -

Mother and Pappy were very much distressed by Uncle A's [Jack's father] refusal to go see Jacks in hospital... Mother did not like to go for fear of showing Uncle A up. If she had gone she might have been able to give him the necessary feminine love and so saved his turning to Mrs. Moore for it.

"on his selflessness her selfishness fattens"

Jack's brother Warnie was usually on the sidelines of Jack's existence helping him in any way he could, observing with humor.

The two of them had turned to each other for comfort after their mother's death ("two frightened urchins huddled for warmth") and were close the rest of their lives. When Warnie retired from the military, he added himself to the ramshackle family.

All of this to say that Warnie was protective of his younger brother and watching Mrs. Moore (whom they nicknamed "Minto") keep him at her beck and call, slowly began to infuriate him.

The older she got, the more possessive of Jack she became. He spent the last fifteen years of her life not daring to even take a vacation.

Jack referred to her as 'the old lady whom I call my mother.' He took her waning health and increasing demands on his time in stride.

Warnie seethed.

The pity of it is that on his selflessness her selfishness fattens... It is an appalling thing to say, but she seems to me to be going mad through trying to live on hate instead of love... I went in by taxi at 9:15, feeling very guilty at leaving poor J alone with that horrid old woman in that abominable house...

At one point Jack wound up sick in the hospital. The doctor said he was so exhausted that any bug would have knocked him down. Warnie had had enough.

I got home sick with fright and savage with anger, and let her ladyship have a blunt statement of the facts...I ultimately frightened her into agreeing to grant J a month's leave.

But Warnie brought his own troubles to the table. Before Jack could take his vacation, Warnie had an alcoholic relapse. This made it impossible for him to take care of Minto while Jack was gone. Jack never got his vacation.

Minto finally had to be moved into a nursing home and Jack visited her every day until she died.

A lady wrote to Lewis saying that she had just finished reading a book about him and envied his life. Jack replied:

Walsh didn’t know much about my private life. Strictly between ourselves, I have lived most of it in a house which was hardly ever at peace for 24 hours, amidst senseless wranglings, lyings, backbitings, follies, and scares. I never went home without a feeling of terror as to what appalling situation might have developed in my absence. Only now that it is over do I begin to realise quite how bad it was.

It probably hindered his career (not much time to hobnob) but may have aided his creativity. Is not half the motivation for making up worlds to give yourself somewhere to escape to? And George Sayer pointed out that

If Jack had lived the cloistered existence of a bachelor don, his writing would have suffered from a loss of warmth, humanity, and the understanding of pain and suffering.

But Jack and Warnie now settled into the life of a couple of confirmed old bachelors. They enjoyed a few years of sitting. And walking. And reading. And smoking.

"any lame dog"

A teenager named Jill stayed with them during the war and helped take care of Minto. Lewis called her the most unselfish person he had ever met and she was reportedly the blueprint for Lucy. She said that Minto resented Jack going to Inklings meetings.

Lewis paid for Jill's schooling, but not hers alone. He redirected all the money he made from his talks to others without touching it, and in an almost comic twist, nearly destroyed himself in the process.

It never occurred to Lewis that he would have to pay tax on these royalties, and he soon found himself with a huge tax bill.

After this fiasco, Owen Barfield helped Lewis set up a charitable fund, into which he poured two-thirds of his income.

What he really liked was to find someone through a personal connection or hearsay whose wants might be alleviated. He was grateful to me for suggesting any lame dog whom my profession had brought to my notice. - Barfield

"the tragedy of Joy Gresham"

Around this time a woman from America began writing him. Helen Joy Davidman Gresham was herself an author. She went by Joy.

Warnie described it in his diary as:

one of those fantastic things which does happen to J…She appeared in the mail as just another American fan….she stood out from the ruck by her amusing and well-written letters, and soon J and she had become 'pen-friends.'

Early in this correspondence, Joy wrote to their mutual acquaintance, Chad Walsh -

Just got a letter from Lewis in the mail. I think I told you I'd raised an argument or two on some points? Lord, he knocked my props out from under me unerringly; one shot to a pigeon. I haven't a scrap of my case left. And, what's more, I've seldom enjoyed anything more.... a craftsman's joy at the sight of a superior performance.

Little of their correspondence remains, but there is at least one example of Lewis giving his opinion on a science fiction work she had recommended (this eventually led to Lewis meeting Arthur C. Clarke).

Joy attended a science fiction author's club when she moved to England. Years later she wrote -

How extraordinary it is for us lifelong fantasy and sci-fi readers to have real spaceships flying past the moon! I can't resist the temptation to yell, "Yak! I told you so!" at all who jeered me for predicting it. But there's a curiously anticlimactic feeling when one's been reading the stuff for so long; life is slower than imagination and seems only a blurred copy.

(You read that last line and you tell me she and Lewis weren't made for each other.)

Joy was married to William Gresham, another author and a veteran who apparently suffered from PTSD, among other things.

"the woman despises herself for being a fool and a sucker"

Joy took a trip to England and stayed part of that trip with Jack and Warnie.

Lewis said in a letter that the bachelors were quite 'circumvented' by an American visitor who 'talks from morning to night.'

A rapid friendship developed; she liked walking, and she liked beer. - Warnie

Good enough for Warnie

Joy's vacation ended with a blow. She wrote to a friend -

Bill and I are on the point of divorce. I can't pretend I'm sorry; I've been pretty wretched for years, and my conscience wouldn't let me quit ... Bill decided he wanted to marry the cousin I'd left keeping house for me... I never felt I could talk to anybody about my married life, in the past. But when this new situation developed I asked Lewis for advice and told him a good deal of the story — an expurgated version, at that. Some of it I simply can't put into words. Anyhow Lewis strongly advised me to divorce Bill; and has repeated it even more strongly since I've been home — Bill greeted me by knocking me about a bit... One of Bill's queer traits is his refusal to admit that his actions could ever be wrong or could ever hurt anybody. Two days after he'd half choked me, he asked in all seriousness, "Have you ever known me to do a brutal or unkind thing?"

Joy spent much of her remaining time in America trying to warn her cousin off of him.

One of the things about being the victim of such a man is the self-contempt it brings — the woman despises herself for being a fool and a sucker. And I know you tend to undervalue yourself anyway. So remember this: I'm a fairly bright girl, and yet I was so much under Bill's influence that I had to run away from him physically and consult one of the clearest thinkers of our time for help before I could see clearly what he was! So don't call yourself a stupid fool. People with honest emotions are always more or less at the mercy of the clever, conscienceless, heartless scoundrel with a talent for acting.

We don't have the letters between Lewis and Joy during this time, but years later Lewis replied to another woman who had written him with her troubles -

This is dreadful. It comes home to me a bit more than you might expect, because dear Joy went through something not quite unlike it from her first husband (only with him there was a clearer cause–alcoholism). The sooner you are all out of that man’s reach the better.

"I will never laugh at parents again"

Joy packed up her sons and moved to London. Some time after, her divorce was finalized and Bill married her cousin the same day.

After moving to England, there are lots of letters back home to Bill. Updates on the boys, thanks for money or asking for money, etc.... They're mostly cordial. As Joy wrote to Renee -

Try not to hate him too much, for that kind of hatred is only reversed love and will hurt you terribly - I know.

Bill became passionate about AA. Even so, work was elusive. He found it difficult to support the boys much at all. Lewis helped.

Jack pays the food bills or we'd go hungry... I've learned to stretch a pound note until Britannia screams.

Joy and the boys spent Christmas with Jack and Warnie. Lewis describes the experience of two bachelors in a suddenly raucous house -

Warnie and I are dazed: we have had an American lady staying in the house with her two sons...I now know what we celibates are shielded from. I will never laugh at parents again. Not that the boys weren’t a delight: but a delight like surf-bathing which leaves one breathless and aching. The energy, the tempo, is what kills. I have now perceived (what I always suspected from memories of our childhood) that the way to a child’s heart is quite simple: treat them with seriousness & ordinary civility–they ask no more.

Joy was trying to support herself writing. Being an immigrant, she was limited on what else she could do. Lewis paid her to type his manuscripts, including Surprised by Joy (nothing to do with the lady of the same name).

Joy also gave her feedback. She had written a couple of novels, but considered her true strength to be collaboration.

[Jack] has finished his autobiography. I've got the last chapters here now and must set my wits to work on criticism.

Once it was published, Bill wrote saying he had read it and sensed an undercurrent of grief in Lewis' life. Joy agreed.

I don't think he's ever got over his grief and horror at his mother's death - who would?...Jack's sorrows, instead of breaking him down, seem to have strengthened him, made him something like a saint.

"can you forgive me for the tacit lie?"

The relationship between Jack and my mother developed over a period of several years. It was slow, I mean Jack was a slow learner in some ways. He had found this woman whose intellect was probably the equal of his own. And of course a lot of people in England say, 'oh no no couldn't possibly be.' But the truth of the matter was that my mother's mind was in some ways superior to Jack's…and the two of them just struck a chord. - Douglas

Her mind was lithe and quick and muscular as a leopard...It scented the first whiff of cant or slush; then sprang, and knocked you over before you knew what was happening. - Lewis

For Jack the attraction was at first undoubtedly intellectual. Joy was the only woman whom he had met...who had a brain which matched his own in suppleness, in width of interest, and in analytical grasp, and above all in humor and a sense of fun. - Warnie

It's not clear when Lewis became aware of his feelings, but Joy had been in love with him for a long time.

Can you forgive me for the tacit lie - love concealed in friendship and in laughter? - Joy

(No, seriously, go read her poems. She really loved him.)

Joy advised Lewis on how to write from a feminine perspective for Till We Have Faces and critiqued it as he went along. Lewis dedicated it to her. He described it as 'far and away my best' work, but it didn't sell. (Perhaps these intellectual giants underestimated the public's interest in re-told greek myths.)

One need only read Joy's poetry to know her feelings. The nature of Jack's feelings are a little harder to pin down, for he certainly never admitted to anything until life put his back against the wall.

I don't believe that it took Jack long to develop love rather than friendship for Mother, but it may have taken considerably longer for him to come to a conscious identification of his feelings, and then even longer to a conscious admission of them even to himself. As early as 1955, I, a mere child, could see how he brighted in her presence, and how she positively reveled in his proximity.

For a long time, Joy remained convinced that Lewis would never return her feelings. She tried to be content with friendship while using poetry as her emotional outlet. Then she moved closer.

In the summer of 1955 she hired a house in Headington...and she and J began to see each other every day. It was now obvious what was going to happen. - Warnie

There was really only one major hurdle standing in the way of marital bliss: the rest of the world.

The problems of how to accomplish such a thing in the face of embarrassing opposition, not only from the Church, but also from many of his colleagues and "friends," must have given poor Jack considerable food for thought. The opposition has never died. - Douglas

Joy seems to have inspired either intense like or dislike in those who met her. I can see how this opinionated firebrand might offend a sensibility. She would probably piss everyone off at some point.

Lewis enjoyed arguing with her. He enjoyed collaborating with her. Eventually he realized he loved her.

The most precious gift that marriage gave me was this constant impact of something very close and intimate yet all the time unmistakably other, resistant — in a word, real. - Lewis

"disaster overtook us"

In the spring of 1956 the British government told her they would not renew her visa. Lewis married her in a civil ceremony, insisting it was just so she could stay in the country.

J assured me that Joy would continue to occupy her own house as "Mrs. Gresham" and that the marriage was a pure formality designed to give Joy the right to go on living in England: and I saw the uselessness of disabusing him. - Warnie

The way Joy saw it is clear from what she wrote to Chad Walsh after her diagnosis:

One good thing has come of all this - I can now tell you that Jack and I are married; have been for a few months... We've been trying to get the Bishop to rule my former marriage invalid, but he daren't. So Jack and I have been married only civilly, but I don't feel it matters a scrap.

It was likely a source of contention between the two of them. But he was beginning to cave on the issue of letting Joy and the boys move into the Kilns (Joy was already having health issues and had already had to stay there sometimes to be looked after).

Joy, whose intentions were obvious from the outset, soon began to press for her rights, pointing out with perfect truth that her reputation was suffering from J being in her house every day, often stopping until eleven at night; and all arrangements had been made for the installation of the family at The Kilns, when disaster overtook us. - Warnie

Joy had been tired and in pain for a long time with what she thought was 'fibrositis.' In October, a broken leg revealed terminal cancer.

The x-rays showed the bone looking 'moth-eaten'...In short, it is fairly probable that I am going to die. - Joy

Joy wasn't expected to live more than a few months. She wanted to officially be Mrs. Lewis before she died.

Lewis went looking for a priest who would flout orders from headquarters and perform a church ceremony. He found one in Peter Bide, an old student of his. Bide technically bent some rules, but if ever there was an occasion to do so, this was it.

It reminds me of something Lewis wrote about Huck Finn -

The scene in which Huck decides to be ‘good’ by betraying Jim, and then finds he can’t and concludes that he is a reprobate, is really unparalleled in humor, pathos, & tenderness. And it goes down to the very depth of all moral problems.

"I have married a dying woman..."

Jack wrote to a reader -

I have lately married a very ill, probably a dying, woman. My world is not bleak or meaningless, but it is tragic. If there is more pity and depth in my last book than in its predecessors, perhaps my own recent life has something to do with it.

The civil ceremony they had told almost no one about. They published news of this one very quietly, wishing to avoid the publicity and the avalanche of mail that would most likely descend, as well as the judgment of Jack's colleagues.

At least Chad Walsh congratulated them -

It probably won't come as any surprise to you to know that Eva and I had suspected - and devoutly hoped - that something was brewing. When we were in England, we thought we detected matrimony in the air, and it was all I could do to keep from volunteering my clerical services on the spot... I'm going to be writing Jack soon, but meanwhile, I wish you'd tell him how happy he has made us by making you and himself happy.

Lewis wrote to Dorothy Sayers -

Indeed, the situation is not easy to describe. My heart is breaking and I was never so happy before: at any rate there is more in life than I knew about.

Warnie on the wedding -

I found it heartrending, and especially Joy's eagerness for the pitiable consolation of dying under the same roof as J; though to feel pity for anyone so magnificently brave as Joy is almost an insult. Why one asks, should J have had the life which has been his - the best 32 years of it eaten out by Minto, and then the prospect of "peace at eventide" so cruelly snatched away?

Joy's happiness was mixed with regret -

Jack is terribly broken up. How horrible that I, who wanted to bring him only happiness, should have brought him this! Perhaps it would have been better for him if he'd never known me, though he says not.

She was moved into the Kilns to die. Lewis wrote various people telling them of the situation. He mentioned to one that he had mainly gained two stepsons, for while she would soon be gone, they would now be his responsibility.

"you have tortured one who was already on the rack"

Joy wrote to Bill telling him of her condition.

I am only moderately afraid for myself...but I am alarmed for the boys. My will appoints Jack and his lawyer as their guardians... Please, please don't try to get them back to the States.

Bill wrote Lewis pleading 'his side' of the story, essentially accusing Joy of plotting all along to marry Lewis and take the boys away from him.

He stated his intention to take the boys back to America, whereupon any cordiality Joy might have expressed in her letters promptly fell away.

Lewis wrote two letters to Bill, one for himself and one shortly after on behalf of Joy. He sidestepped the marital feud and begged Bill to think about what the boys wanted.

The boys remember you as a man who fired rifles thro’ ceilings to relieve his temper, broke up chairs, wept in public, and broke a bottle over Douglas’s head…. Your letter reached Joy after a day of agony. The effect was devastating...You have tortured one who was already on the rack; heaped extra weights on one who is being pressed to death. There is nothing she dreads so much as a return of the boys to your charge.... Their return to the U.S.A. when their education is finished is of course quite a different matter. Now, bitterly against their will, coming on top of the most appalling tragedy that can happen to childhood (I went through it and know), tearing them from all that has already become familiar and shattering all sense of security that remains to them, it would be disastrous. If you realized the cruelty of what you are proposing to do, I am sure you would not do it... You have a chance to soothe, instead of aggravating, the miseries of a woman you once loved. You have a chance of recovering at some future date, instead of alienating forever, the love and respect of your children. For God’s sake take it and yield to the deep wishes of everyone concerned except yourself.

Lewis threatened any and all legal action that would be required. One can't help but think that he greatly sympathized with the boys given his own childhood.

Bill acquiesced, but likely only because Joy lived. (A few years later he came to see the boys. About a year after the visit, he was diagnosed with throat cancer and killed himself.)

Douglas says Lewis never tried to replace his father, but wound up filling that role anyway.

Probably the safe rule will be ‘When in doubt what to do or say, do or say nothing.’ I feel this very much with my stepsons. I so easily meddle and gas: when all the time what will really influence them, for good or ill, is not anything I do or say but what I am. - Lewis

"they both had enormous amounts of courage"

Joy settled in for her last days, but rather than expiring, she went into remission. A joyful time with a shadow cast upon it.

Hardly any hope for the long term issue, but for the moment, apparently perfect health, no pain, eating & sleeping like a child, spirits usually excellent, able to beat me always at Scrabble and sometimes in argument...We are crazily in love. - Lewis

All I really care about is having a bit of life with Jack and getting adequately on my feet for it. He has been growing more attached to me steadily - is now, I think, even more madly in love with me than I with him, which is saying plenty...you'd think we were a honeymoon couple in our early twenties rather than our middle-aged selves....What a pity I didn't catch that man younger. - Joy

They both had enormous amounts of courage. Mother knew she was dying, she knew she had very little time, and she made it work for both of their benefits as long and as loud and as laughing as she could. - Douglas

There are many examples of Joy's humor and personality. I found this one particularly hilarious:

Why did you get my poor Jack mixed up with the ineffable Rakestraw or whatever her name was? She began by criticizing his opening words - "Today I want to discuss…" "Professor Lewis, couldn't you say instead, 'let us think together, you and I about..?" No, he couldn't. "But we want you to give the feeling of embracing them." Jack said if they wanted an embracer they had the wrong man. "Well, perhaps a feeling of involvement…" Ugh! At the end she made him sit absolutely silent before the microphone for a minute and a half "so they could feel his living presence." I told him he oughta charge double rates for that. C.S. Lewis being silent, a unique listening experience. He came home rather shattered with all this; and now we learn - not from the organization but through a friend - that they've decided to suppress the whole series because of Jack's 'startling frankness' on sexual matters! Needless to say he wouldn't have startled anyone over the age of sixteen and the IQ of 80.

Joy wrote to her cousin -

With Bill I lived in perpetual anxiety; if it wasn't women it was drink, and if it wasn't drink it was bad temper…and always it was money; just getting him out of bed in the morning and coaxing him to do a little work meant three hours' exacting work for me! With Jack the only problem is to keep him from working too hard and sacrificing himself to all the rest of us. He is really a saint, and that's not a word I use lightly. - Joy

Happiness had not come to her early in life. A thousand years of it would not have made her blasé. Her palate for all the joys of sense and intellect and spirit was fresh and unspoiled. Nothing would have been wasted on her. She liked more things and liked them more than anyone I have known. A noble hunger, long unsatisfied, met at last its proper food, and almost instantly the food was snatched away. - Lewis

"it's the daily living that hurts"

After a few years of domestic bliss, the cancer returned.

Joy had her right breast removed about 10 days ago, or–as she characteristically put it–became an Amazon.

An excerpt from one of Joy's last letters to Bill -

I admire the lofty fortitude with which you endure my cancer; for me, however, the problems are more mundane - how to scheme for each step I take, how to sit down in the john and worse yet manage to get up again, how to run a house when I can't so much as get to the telephone - how to keep going with a grin in spite of pain, and not make myself a dreary nuisance to everyone else. Anybody can die with fine theological sentiments, it's the daily living that hurts.

And she had done that painful living well with 'a soul straight, bright, and tempered like a sword' until the end.

For years now, it had been Mother's strength, wit and courage which had supported all of us, but Jack more than any of us needed her encouragement and her humor to lean upon... how was he to stand her loss without her?... I had seen him merely ten days or so previously, but since that time he had aged twenty years. His eyes held the look of a soul in hell. My brittle shell smashed, and I broke. "Oh, Jack," I burst out, and then the tears came. Jack rushed across the room and put his arms around me. - Douglas

"the real, raw man exposed bleeding to the public"

Lewis poured his feelings into a journal as a 'defense against total collapse.'

My trusty comrade, friend, shipmate, fellow-soldier. My mistress; but at the same time all that any man friend (and I have good ones) has ever been to me. Perhaps more. If we had never fallen in love we should have nonetheless been always together, and created a scandal. That’s what I meant when I once praised her for her ‘masculine virtues.’ But she soon put a stop to that by asking how I’d like to be praised for my feminine ones. It was a good riposte, dear. Yet there was something of the Amazon, something of Penthesileia and Camilla. And you, as well as I, were glad it should be there. You were glad I should recognize it.

Lewis told a visiting friend that he had been working his feelings out on paper. The friend asked if he could read it.

Roger took it to bed with him that night. The next morning at breakfast, he said "Jack, you absolutely must publish this. It's going to help so many millions of people all around the world who are dealing with exactly the agony you're dealing with now. You can't take this away from them. - Douglas

A Grief Observed was sent to a different publisher under a pseudonym because it was 'unbearably personal.' It was published under his own name after his death.

It was a stream of consciousness…he wasn't working out how to write each phrase… What we get is the real, raw man exposed bleeding to the public. - Douglas

One fan apparently sussed out the true author and wrote Lewis about it. He replied -

I don’t know how you discovered that I am N. W. Clerk. If it was from internal evidence, you must be a good critic. Please don’t tell people. I mean, in general. A confidential whisper in any particular case where you think it would do good, is another matter.

He wrote to another -

As to how I take sorrow, the answer is ‘In nearly all the possible ways.’ ... the moments at which I feel nearest to Joy are precisely those when I mourn her least...a clamorous need seems to shut one off from the thing needed... I must think it over. My youngest stepson is the greatest comfort to me. My brother is still away in Ireland.

"I have learnt to weep again"

It is a pity we don't have much correspondence between Jack and Joy. One circumstance or another (a damp basement, etc..) has robbed the world of their conversations. But maybe it's fitting. Maybe in a world where we have almost every other scrap of anything either of them ever wrote (which they almost certainly never intended for us to read), their talks remain their own.

Lewis 'recovered' but was never quite the same. Douglas recalls seeing him make an effort to seem alright in front of his friends, none of which had gone to Joy's funeral.

Jack, when in company with his friends and colleagues, was (after a while) again the jovial, witty intellectual they had known for years, but only Warnie and I knew what effort that cost him, and Warnie knew less than I, for Jack was careful with Warnie. I was more invisible. - Douglas

I cannot talk to the children about her. The moment I try, there appears on their faces neither grief, nor love, nor fear, nor pity, but the most fatal of all non-conductors - embarrassment. They look as if I were committing an indecency. They are longing for me to stop. I felt just the same after my own mother’s death when my father mentioned her. I can’t blame them. - Lewis

I could not talk to Jack about Mother, for I knew that if I did, he would weep and so also would I, and although now I feel that this might have been good for both of us, then it would have been anathema for me to cry openly, for as an English schoolboy I found it difficult to show my emotions...I have learnt to weep again since. - Douglas

After Lewis' death, Warnie wrote in his diary -

I learned this evening that while I was in Ireland last summer J said, "Warnie is my dearest and closest friend, and I can never be sufficiently thankful for the way in which he accepted my marriage." I had always hoped it was like this, but did not know; for this was the sort of thing neither of us could have said to the other.

Warnie spent more time in Ireland on drunken binges, the only way he knew to deal with his own grief.

Warnie loved my mother as much as Jack did, but in a very different way. She was the sister he never had. - Douglas

"the wheel had come full circle"

Before long, Warnie was off avoiding Lewis' own declining health at the time Jack needed him most.

W., meanwhile, has completely deserted me. He has been in Ireland since June and doesn’t even write, and is, I suppose, drinking himself to death....I fear he’ll kill himself if this goes on much longer.

Jack also had the boys to worry about.

We too have to try to cope with the problem of adolescence; the elder of the boys is now at a Jewish college in New York, and is writing me much more maturely than he did a year ago, so I have hopes for him... The younger one is...trying to pass ‘O Level’ and if you fail to get this certificate, the ranks of the white collar class are closed to you. A fact which does not seem to worry him in the least. However that is his affair; it is his own life he has to live, not mine!

Lewis only lasted about three years after Joy. Warnie thankfully returned from Ireland and was with him when he died.

Once again–as in the earliest days–we could turn for comfort only to each other. The wheel had come full circle: once again we were together in the little end room at home, shutting out from our talk the ever-present knowledge that the holidays were ending, that a new term fraught with unknown possibilities awaited us both.

Warnie kept the estate until his own death, after which it went to the boys.

Years later people interested in restoring the Kilns asked Douglas why he hadn't contributed any money to the cause, intimating that perhaps he was not grateful. Douglas replied, pissed -

Jack and Warnie themselves cared so little for the house that had it not been for my mother, the building would probably have fallen down around us. I, like Jack, feel that people are more important than houses, however much nostalgia they may have attached to them; and thus, also like Jack, I prefer to apply my giving to charitable concerns which have a direct bearing on the welfare of people in need…. Secondly, if everyone is interested in my 'gratitude or ingratitude for my personal fortune', let me tell you at once that I am not in the least grateful for money no matter where it comes from. If gratitude exists at all… it is owed for the home Jack gave me (and I do not refer to the house), the love and care he extended to my mother and myself, and the lessons he taught me.

Indeed, I think Lewis would be amused at best, horrified at worst at the idea that someone would value a chair he once sat in.

"I got very good at running"

When Lewis died, Douglas was around 17. He later dropped out of agricultural school, started a family and became a farmer. He admits to raising some Cain and not caring much about higher education, giving his 'uncle' and stepfather headaches. That and Warnie's drinking caused a bit of a rift in their relationship after Jack's death.

But years later, Warnie was happy to hear a good update:

[Douglas] has apparently at last resolved to face life and is working both hard and successfully...His dairy herd is doing well, the cream realizes a good price, and the skim milk feeds his pigs which are flourishing. As a sideline Merry herself keeps turkeys and this year has sold them well. Pray God that all this may be true!

The older, David, was attending a Jewish school in New York. About a month before his death Lewis wrote urging someone to make sure an allowance was going to David out of his royalties, because he apparently hadn't received one.

I have now had two successive letters from him explaining that he has received nothing: the second quite frantic...I am nearly out of my mind about the business myself... I am, and shall continue to be, most grateful for any countenance you can show him.

Little was said about David down through the years. Douglas finally revealed why.

My brother is now dead. He died on Christmas Day, which is very like him - to make Christmas Day as miserable as he could for as many people as possible.

David's problems are hinted at a few times in Jack and Joy's letters ("intelligent, but moody and spiteful") but never described in any detail. The general picture that emerges of David is one of a perpetual wet blanket.

Jack tried his very hardest for David all the time. He tried to help in every way he could—he was kind and gentle and wonderful with him...none of it was accepted,” Douglas said. “Well, it was accepted, but he was never grateful about it. He was just very badly damaged mentally and emotionally, and he stayed that way.

Douglas alludes to violence in his book when he mentions protecting other children from David, something that the reader could easily take for typical older boy bullying. But now Douglas reveals that David had sometimes literally tried to kill him.

My earliest memory of this, we were taken to a swimming hole in upstate New York one summer day, and my memory is lying on my back in the mud, looking up and seeing the water above me, the sort of light on it, and my brother was standing on me. I suddenly realized that if I didn't do something rapidly, I was going to die right then and there. I would have been probably five or six years old. He made many attempts to get rid of me. I never could understand why he hated me... I got very good at running.

It wasn't until years later in New York that David was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. He refused to believe it and wouldn't accept treatment.

But there was a period of relief, apparently. Perhaps he did seek help at some point. Warnie recounts David coming to visit a few years after Jack's death. He was astonished at the "pleasant young man who has emerged from the really detestable boy from whom we suffered so much."

David eventually died in a Swiss mental institution.

He wasn't cruel deliberately; he couldn't help it. He had no idea that he was doing something bad, I don't think anyway...I would never have said anything to harm him or upset him while he was alive, because oddly enough I still loved him as a brother. In fact, I wept when he died... The only reason I’m releasing it now is because people should know what Jack put up with and what Warnie put up with and how heroic they were to do it at all.

"I at last had forgiven"

In that last year or so, between his failing health and everyone scarce, Lewis found it basically impossible to keep up with his self-imposed burden of replying to everyone who wrote to him. But he did the best he could.

They wrote to him from all over the world with their personal religious or moral problems. And I doubt any of them, unless they were lunatics beyond the fringe, went without a reply... An invalid lady in Washington, whom he had never met, recently sent me for safekeeping a box of the letters she received from Lewis, all in his handwriting, during his last years. There must be well over a hundred of them. When she was expecting to have an operation, he wrote her as often as once a week. - Barfield

In July of that year he wrote her -

Do you know, only a few weeks ago I realised suddenly that I at last had forgiven the cruel schoolmaster who so darkened my childhood. I’d been trying to do it for years: and like you, each time I thought I’d done it, I found, after a week or so it all had to be attempted over again. But this time I feel sure it is the real thing.

His last letter to this particular lady included an offer.

Perhaps I might be able to make up what is lacking of your hospital coverage. How much wd. it be?

He died a month later.

Now and then, I am given a moment when the shadow of pain is lifted from my eyes and I rejoice to see how gold you are. - Joy

Once very near the end I said, ‘If you can — if it is allowed — come to me when I too am on my death bed.’ ‘Allowed!’ she said. ‘Heaven would have a job to hold me; and as for Hell, I’d break it into bits.’

Lewis' death was overshadowed by the assassination of John F. Kennedy, which occurred on the same day. Perhaps some death angel wasn't sure which famous 'Jack' to reap.

Men must endure their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all.

Such was the Shakespeare quotation on the calendar the day that Jack and Warnie's mother died. Warnie had a portion of it inscribed on Jack's gravestone.

I know what it’s like to have to be the comforter when one most needs comforting, and the competent arranger at the very moment when one feels most disabled…. Try to keep clear of the modern fancy that all this is abnormal & that you have been singled out for something outrageous. For no one escapes. We are all driven into the front line to be sorted sooner or later. With all blessings & with deep sorrow, - C.S. Lewis

#a succession of hardships #c.s. lewis #it started with just finding some fun anecdotes #and it ended in a book

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in-tua-deep · 3 years

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idk if you still do au ideas but what if delores was a real person in the apocalypse? how it woul dbe done i have no idea but i love all your aus and thought it would be cool

okay okay I don't tend to go for real!Dolores aus admittedly because I find her much more compelling as what she is: a reflection of five himself and a symptom of his crushing loneliness

but i started thinking about it and you know what?? i think five deserves a little socialization, as a treat

so say like, 0.5% of the population is resistant to abilities. Allison would really struggle to rumor them, Five wouldn't be able to jump with them, and, most importantly, whatever the fuck Vanya's ability does has like, reduced damage or something

and the og apocalypse isn't the moon apocalypse, so let's say that it was pure waves of Vanya's powers that fucked over the earth

so 0.5% of the population survives the apocalypse. though, let's be honestly, the real number is a lot smaller than that. People who might have survived Vanya's initial power wave (miraculously) did not survive buildings crushing them or survive the car/plane/bus/train/other transportation crashes or survive being left alone when they are too young to reliably look after themselves, or the variety of other problems that come with 99.5% of the population dying at once

So, Five arrives in the apocalypse and is met with ruin and fire and a whole lot of dead people. He finds his siblings, but it doesn't matter. They're dead. He doesn't even recognize them at first, these strange grown-ups who he identifies not by their faces but by the umbrellas on their wrists that match his own

As he realizes the full impact of his situation, he hears a voice that says, very succinctly, "holy shit!"

It's a girl a few years older than Five himself, maybe 15 or 16, and she is very excited to see another survivor.

And here's where I u-turn this au around bc i'm not all that interested in real!Dolores, but I would be down to talk about Five meeting survivors in the apocalypse, because if Dolores is real I don't buy no one else survived.

So Dolores shows up and see a Literal Child crying over the corpses of his family and assumes that Five is a fellow survivor, and she immediately grabs him up. Five is incoherent with grief at this point anyway, so he doesn't even protest when she basically hauls him away from the bodies. She's babbling at him, but he doesn't really hear anything she's saying

And then she takes him to her dad

(Why not, let's have the 1% potentially be a heritable thing)

and her dad, let's call him just some dad name. like Rick. it has been a fucking WEEK for him, okay. he had his daughter with him, his ex-wife is on the other coast for her work, and by some miracle he survived the apocalypse and so did his child, and he's been wracking his brains trying to figure out what the fuck to do next

and then his daughter shows up with a traumatized thirteen-year-old in tow

now rick is a good dude. he's a dad. they get out of five that his name is five ("what the fuck" dolores mouths to him over five's shoulder and rick can't help but agree) and the bodies he found were his siblings ("Dad and Ben and Vanya weren't there though," this child cries desperately and rick feels his own heart clench in response, "They might still be alive!")

"We can look for them." Rick assures his new adopted child, because he is an adult in a fresh apocalypse and this kid has presumably lost everything he's ever known (more than rick even knows at the time)

and they do. They each get wagons and they go out and find supplies and look for other survivors. Five is... surprisingly helpful and also surprisingly docile as he is able to rely on Someone Else to give orders while he attempts to (dissociate) process what the fuck has happened

and here's the thing: Five prides himself on being independent, sort of. He's independent for a child soldier, but he's used to taking orders from a male authority figure and Rick happens to be just that

The first time that Five does something dangerous and Rick yells is a revelation

(Rick isn't sure if he hopes that Five's dad is alive or not, because if they find that man alive then Rick might just kill the jackass himself. Also like, Five is bizarrely knowledgeable out survival skills, like way too knowledgeable about it, which is helpful for them but also very concerning)

they find a newspaper and Five finds the article that mentions his father's recent death ("Huh. Heart attack." Five says, and there is no emotion in his voice)

(Years later, years later, Five and Rick talk. "I don't think I wanted to find him, either." Five admits, softly because Dolores is asleep, "I think I was more scared of finding him alive than I was of finding his body. He would've been so mad at me, I think.")

this newspaper is how Rick and Dolores find out about Five being Number Five, Umbrella Academy Missing Person

"Dude, what the fuck." Dolores says, wide eyes, "You're like, thirty?"

"I'm thirteen." Five says, and then checks the date on the newspaper again, "Also I think I would technically be 29 if I lived through all of it, 'cause it's April and my birthday is in October."

"You... time travelled?" Rick asks, which is honestly the more relevant question, "Can you go back?"

And Five just,,, crumples on himself. Because he tried, he tried really hard. It didn't work. "I'm gonna figure it out. I'm gonna go back, I'm going to save them."

That, Rick thinks, is a lot of weight to put on one person's shoulders, but especially the shoulders of a child.

"Alright." Rick says, because what else can he say after finding out his new child has superpowers and is from like, 2004? "What do you need?"

("Oh my god I have so many memes to teach you." Dolores says later, reverently. Five blinks in confusion and Rick mentally prepares himself for the recitation of so many vines)

And it's easier, somehow. Five sometimes feels like it's a betrayal, but he settles into apocalypse life with an ease that surprises him.

He lets Rick fuss over him and help tie his scarf securely around his head every morning before he sets off on supply runs with Dolores. And they're kids! Five has never had a friend before, and Dolores is funny and smart and she's struggling just as much as he is.

"I don't know if my mom's alive." She says to him, in solidarity when he checks the face of every corpse to see if they're Vanya.

Five is practical in the way only a child soldier can be. He's economical with the room in their wagons, carefully examining what might and what might not be useful.

Dolores, on the other hand, constantly takes up space with what Five sees as useless shit.

"Excuse you," Dolores says, shoving a game of monopoly, the entire discworld series, and a pack of glitter gel pens into her wagon, "These are absolutely vital apocalypse supplies."

She challenges him, plays with him in a way no one ever has. "I bet you I can find more batteries today than you can," She grins at him, "Winner gets to pick dinner first?"

"You're on." Five says, directly before Dolores pulls two packs of 24 AA batteries from behind her back, like a cheat.

Dolores makes him take a ten minute break when they find a playground that has been mostly not-destroyed. They rummage around kids backpacks and mother's handbags for some good loot, too numb to corpses to even be bothered all that badly about the corpses they belong to.

"I'm getting on the swings." Dolores says when Five starts making noises about moving on, "I haven't been on a swingset in ages."

"What's the point?" Five grumps.

"Don't be sour because you can't swing as high as I can!" Dolores laughs, getting higher and higher as the swings creak ominously.

Five grumpily gets into the other swing and grudgingly kicks himself back and forth until Dolores takes pity on him and teaches him how to properly move his legs and body to get higher and higher.

Dolores jumps from the swing seat and lands with a flourish and smile. Five jumps out of his seat and then jumps, warping right in front of Dolores and making her yell and hit at him in outrage. Five smiles the widest he has all week.

This is how Five grows up in the apocalypse, with Dolores teasing him into taking breaks and leaning over his shoulder to look at his math and scandalizing him by stating that she'd only just started on matrices in her own high school math class.

Every night they huddle around Rick while he picks up whatever book Dolores picked out that day because it is a travesty that Five has never read hunger games or whatever, and then they read together because it would be a genuine blood bath if they all took turns. The first time Five accidentally mentioned a spoiler and Dolores genuinely considered murder was the birthday of this tradition

Some days the air is too smoky or there are dust storms or it's just plain too dangerous to go out, and they all stay in. Dolores regales Five with stories about public school, and Five tells them about his siblings.

Then they all cry

"I shouldn't be crying." Five sobs.

"Shut the fuck up," Dolores sobs back, "You literally watched me lose my shit over remembering my shitty eighth grade dance and listened to me sob-sing toxic for like four hours."

"In fairness I also wished you would shut up then."

"Let me hug you or I will start singing songs that I only remember the chorus for again you absolute fucker."

"I could always sing some -"

"No, Rick/Dad."

And Five grows up. Rick shows him how to shave very carefully in front of cracked mirrors. Dolores teases him every time his voice cracks. Rick tells Five in no uncertain terms that he loves and cares for him, and that Reginald was a little bitch. There are a lot of heartfelt conversations around that, honestly. Rick telling Five that he and the siblings deserved better, that they were children and deserved to have a childhood.

And that he has faith in Five. Rick and Dolores both do, they bring him back paper and pens and pencils and chalk and anything Five can use to write equations. They poke around any libraries for books on theoretical mathematics and quantum physics. Rick and Dolores go out scouting for food while Five stays home and can work longer.

They also make him take breaks, make sure that he's looking after himself.

They're a little better off than OG!Five when it comes to food, because some animals survive. Enough that Rick figures out how to hunt. Five is the first one to each bugs, and even though Dolores makes faces they all start eating bugs as well.

"Pretty sure there's loads of cultures that eat bugs." Rick says grudgingly, wondering if he should try stirfry the cockroaches and if that would improve the taste. "There's even, uh, cricket flour or whatever, right?"

"Plus you eat like, five spiders a year when you're asleep." Dolores says cheerfully, just to watch her dad's face scrunch up in displeasure.

"That doesn't sound true, but I don't know enough about spiders to dispute it." Five mutters, and Dolores gives him such a proud look that it makes him roll his eyes.

They're in their thirties when Rick dies. He's out foraging and hunting, and the rubble he's standing on gives way and he ends up with a gash in his leg. He manages to stop the bleeding, but the world is filthy and they don't have any antibiotics.

He gets an infection.

"It's okay." He tells both of his kids, "It's okay. I'm just so glad that you guys have each other, y'hear? I'm so glad."

"It's not okay." Five says, voice thick and choked, "It's not."

"Yeah, well, you're going to figure out how to go back, right? Go back in time and save everyone. Then I'll have never died, right?" Rick smiles, "And even if you don't, I'll be waiting for you on the other side and we'll see each other again anyway."

"I'm going to fix it."

"I know. I have faith in you, Five." Ricks says honestly, and that's more than Reginald ever said.

They sit quietly together while Dolores is out scavenging. They've been taking turns sitting with Rick.

"I won't remember you, in the past, will I?" Rick says rhetorically, but Five answers anyway.

"I don't think so."

Rick hums, "Well, doesn't matter. If you need help in the past, you come to me, y'hear?"

"You won't remember me."

"Doesn't matter. You come find me, and you tell me your crazy story until I believe you, and then I'll help you." Rick says firmly, "You're family. You're my son. Timelines? Don't matter. If you need help, with anything, even if it's just with - with filling out a bowling team or something -"

"I have never been bowling in my life and you know it." Five interrupts, but it makes him laugh just a little bit which was clearly Rick's intention.

"Well who knows what you'll get up to in the past! You'll be able to go bowling, you know. Get to wear those uncomfortable shoes. Hey, you go far enough back maybe you can go to Dolores's tenth birthday party and put me out of my misery."

"Was she bad at bowling?"

"Oh, she was wiping the floor with me. No contest."

"Honestly, that sounds absolutely accurate."

"Shut up, bowling just wasn't my sport. Regardless, the point was that I'm giving you a free pass to come and get me. Because I know you, I know how you think." Rick brings up his hand to tap his finger against Five's forehead, "You get it into your head that you need to go it alone, take it all on your shoulders. I'm telling you that if you do that I'll somehow manifest my memories and come smack you over the head for being stupid, you hear?"

"I'm not dragging you into anything." Five says firmly, "I'll have my siblings."

"Who were also children." Rick points out. "And dragging? Dragging is such a strong word for a volunteer."

"A volunteer who won't remember volunteering." Five shoots back.

Rick just shrugs, and then winces when the movement jolts his bad leg. "Five, I'm going to be honest with you here. And sappy. Can you handle a bit of sappiness for a minute?"

"No."

"Well too bad. Can't leave a dying man, you'd feel too bad. So you're stuck with me. But you listen good, okay? Because you aren't dragging me into anything. Whatever life you have, I want to have a part of that. Because you're my son. Wherever you are, whatever you do, I want to help because you're family. What you'd be doing by leaving me out of it is depriving me of someone I love, depriving me of knowing one of the best kids I've ever known."

"Shut up." Five says, choked.

"Nope, it's sappy time." Rick states, "Maybe asking you to come find me is selfish, but I don't care. No matter what version of me exists, I want to be in your life."

"My life is a walking joke, why would you want any part of that?"

"It has been my privilege to watch you grow up. To help you. To be here for you. Of course I'd want to be there to watch you grow up the rest of the way."

"But -"

"Shut up, just let me tell you that I am so proud of you. You never give up, and your heart is so big. You love so much and so loudly, and it's been the highest honor of my life to be included in your family."

Five pauses for a moment to collect himself before simply saying - "You're the best dad I've ever had."

Rick snorts, "Considering my competition, I'd sure hope so. That bar was so low old Reggie was practically limbo dancing with the devil. Now get over here and give an old man a hug."

They don't bury Rick, when he dies. They don't have time and the ground is too hard and they don't have the heart to move him. Instead the pack everything up and seal him in the shelter they'd lived in.

Dolores pulls out a bottle of ancient nail polish and painstakingly writes Rick's name on the wall with his birth year and an approximate current year. They aren't 100% sure though, since time blends together out in the apocalypse, but it's something.

They continue by themselves. They get older.

Dolores jokingly calls him her husband because the way his face scrunches up makes her cackle. They see other people very occasionally, usually passing through. Usually groups. Dolores and Five get to flex their hosting skills, though more than one group declines their cockroach stirfry.

("It's a family recipe." Five says with amusement in his eyes that usually manages to drown out old grief.)

"Jeeze, that kid couldn't have been older'n twenty-three." Dolores complains, "Makes me feels positively ancient."

"They wouldn't have known any world 'cept for the apocalypse." Five muses, pouring some boiled water into wine glasses because they might be living in the apocalypse but they can be fancy.

"Do you ever think about that?" Dolores asks, turning to him with no judgement, just curiosity. "When you go back, you'll be like, erasing them from existence."

Five shrugs, "Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe this place will just split off into an alternate timeline."

"Maybe none of this is real." Dolores says, amusement coloring her voice. "Maybe you aren't talking to a real person at all. Maybe this is just a symbol of your insanity and cracked mind."

"Dolores, I literally have a scar where you stabbed me. Did I somehow manage to stab myself in the back?"

"Scraped you, I scraped you. By accident."

"So you maintain." Five says haughtily, swirling his water in his wine glass like a pretentious prick.

"I could totally be fake. You don't know my life."

"I know way too much about you, Dolores. Like, way way too much." Five scoffs, because Dolores and him have literally no secrets from one another at this point. Five even knows the truth behind what happened at Janet Scranton's thirteenth birthday party. Like, he said, way too much.

"Maybe you made it up. Maybe that's why you know so much."

"Dolores, I'm going to be honest with you right now." Five presses the tips of his fingers to his chin, "If you were a figment of my imagination, you would be so much better at math."

"Hey!" Dolores squawks indignantly, "I didn't even get to finish high school you pretentious prick!"

"Neither did I!"

"You didn't even go to high school, you brat."

"I'm fifty-two I think I've outgrown 'brat.'"

"Tell that to your attitude." Dolores says haughtily, "You're still younger than me."

"Won't be when I go back in time." Five says cheerfully, completely ignoring Dolores's venomous look.

"That's cheating."

"Sucks to suck." Five says loftily, taking another sip of his water.

Sometimes they talk about The Plan, with capital letters. What Five is going to do when he goes back in time, depending on when he pops out. Is he going to adopt his siblings? What about Reginald?

"You don't think I could kill Reginald?" Five says, holding a hand to his chest in mock offense.

"I think you should let me do it. I'll even give you control of tonight's music if you do."

"What are you doing to do? Bite his ankles? What if you're like, seven or something?"

"All the better to get away with it since I'll be too young to convict or whatever."

"Pretty sure that's not how the law works."

"How would you know? Just for that I'm playing Istanbul on repeat again."

"I don't know why you think that's a threat. That song slaps."

It takes a few more years before Five is close enough that the Commission comes to interfere. Because that's what I think happened - Five was getting too close and they stepped in because they might as well distract the man as much as they can with missions, right?

So the Handler shows up. And she offers Five a job, telling him that they have the ability to travel through time. And Five - hesitates.

"Give me some time?" Five asks, and the Handler graciously gives him 24 hours.

And he and Dolores talk it over, because now that his goal is more in sight than it has ever been and Five is scared.

"What are you waiting for? You have the chance to see your siblings again." Dolores says patiently.

"Yeah," Five says, and what he doesn't say is clear. But I won't see you.

"Five." Dolores says, and she cradles his face between her palms like he is something precious, "I have had so much time with you already. More than I would have ever. We have been so lucky, to have this time. How can I demand more than what we have already been given?"

"When have you ever not demanded the world, Dolores?" Five asks, his own hand coming up to cover Dolores's own.

"We've had decades together, Five. We're getting old. I was always going to lose you, one way or another. Nothing lasts forever."

"I don't want to lose you."

"I know. But if I had to choose a way, if I could decide where our story ends, this would be it. Letting you go, because this way you get to live. You get to see your family again. You get to save the world. I could ask for nothing more than for you to get your happy ending."

Five removes Dolores's hand from his cheek so that he can cradle it between them, "I'm happy here with you. I've never been happier. Isn't that silly? That I was happier in the apocalypse?"

"I bet killing Reggie would make you happy." Dolores laughs rustily.

"One day you're going to see the mysterious disappearance of a famous billionaire in the paper and feel a twinge of satisfaction and now have a clue why." Five laughs as well, shaking his head.

Dolores pats Five's hands, "Five, look at me. We've had our time. And you're going to give me even more of it. More time with my father. More time with my mother. I'll never know it, but you'll have saved me."

"What if this is - what if this is an alternate reality? What if I leave you here alone?"

"Then you'll be saving a 15-year-old girl from the same fate as me. Because as much as I love you, as much as I have loved this time we have had together, this is still an apocalypse. This should never have happened, and if you have a chance to go back and prevent it, then I want you to take that chance with both hands."

"Even if it means leaving you alone?"

Dolores smiles at him, "I'm not going to be alone. Far too many creepy crawlies in the apocalypse for that."

"Shut up, I'm being serious."

"Hmm." Dolores hums consideringly, "Maybe I'll head North, to that new settlement that last group said they'd heard word of. Sure they'd find some use for an old woman who's survived this long in the wilderness."

"You can have my half of the record collection." Five says, pulling her against him into a hug that she easily returns.

"As if I wouldn't have stolen them as soon as you left." She scoffs, but it's a little wet, and Five pretends his own eyes aren't leaking tears.

When The Handler comes back, Dolores gives him another hug. She also slips something into his pocket - some photos. They'd taken it a year into the apocalypse, when Dolores had found an ancient looking polaroid camera and towed it home despite Five's protests about practicality. The photos are worn and faded at the edges, but the smiles on Five's little apocalypse family's faces are undeniable.

"You'll have to see if they magically fade when you change the timeline." Dolores whispers to him with a grin, "Like in the movies."

"Okay." Five whispers back.

"You have the list of movies to watch, right?" Dolores says. Five rolls his eyes and nods because he wrote the list last night into his Vanya-book while Dolores hovered over his shoulder and critiqued his handwriting.

"And you promise to try a proper non-expired twinkie at some point?"

"That I do not promise. I think even looking at one would make me lose my lunch. I have twinkie-trauma."

"Shut up and get going." Dolores says, because the Handler is starting to tap her foot impatiently.

And off Five goes to become an assassin. Though - he's much more gentle this time. He's careful, he doesn't kill children and he usually takes jobs that don't require killing at all. He distracts and manipulates events as much as he can without killing.

He's actually much more well socialized, thanks to Rick and Dolores. Less feral child and more determined man on a mission.

Which is why he's so frustrated when he finally, finally manages to get the equations to work and falls through and falls - directly back into his stupid thirteen-year-old body.

"Shit." Five says, loudly, and revels in the surprised look on his siblings faces.

He strides into the kitchen, and they all follow him like ducklings. They look exactly the way they did when they died.

"Wow this is actually way harder than I thought it would be." Five muses, looking at their dead faces. But as Dolores would say, life is hard but you have to keep on trucking sometimes. "Whatever, what's the date?"

"Five, where have you been?" Diego demands, looking irritated. It makes Five snort in amusement.

"The future. The past. If you want like, an exact list of dates you'll have to hold your horses. I spent like, two weeks in Peru once. No souvenirs though, unfortunately."

They look taken aback, like they didn't expect Five to have quite this much sass. Oops. That is definitely Dolores's influence. Or maybe he was always a little asshole. In fairness, what teenagers aren't tiny assholes? He has an excuse.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Diego's eyebrows are furrowed in anger. It kind of takes Five aback for a second, because he remembers a Diego who stutters when he argued.

"When did you learn the fuck-word?" Five asks, raising an eyebrow before her can help it, "Grace ought to wash your mouth out with soap."

Diego immediately goes red, "Shut up!"

"Wow you're so easy to rile up. Aren't you like, twenty-something? Actually, I could figure out for myself how old you are if you gave me the date."

"I'm twenty-nine." Diego growls, like that was the point.

"Haunting!" Five says cheerfully, because that means there is way less time than he would like, narrowing his time down to a six month window.

It's extremely funny how his cheer makes all of them make faces.

It's Klaus who leans forward, "Why do you need to know?"

Klaus's face is open and curious and - (looks exactly like he did when Five found him all those years ago) - and Five can't help but answer him. "The world end on April 1st, 2019. No it isn't an April Fools joke, yes I have heard that joke like a million different times. I just want to know how close I landed so I can, you know, start working on how to fix that."

"Woah woah woah, roll it back." Allison says, holding a hand up, "What?"

"The apocalypse occurs on April 1st, 2019." Five says, slowly. "I have traveled from afar to prevent this from happening, because like, everyone dies."

"Everyone?" Vanya says weakly from the side.

She's clearly expecting to be ignored, so Five turns his head to address her directly by wiggling his hand back and forth a little. "Sort of. Like, not too many people survive at all. A handful of the human population, you know."

"But you survived?" Diego recovers admirably, if bitingly.

"Well, no." Five says rolling his eyes, "Wouldn't you just know it, Klaus here has managed to figure out a new ability!"

Everyone turns to look at Klaus, who immediately holds up his hands like he's being arrested or something, "I did not!"

"Wonderful! Now that we've established that I'm alive -"

"Why should we trust a word you say?" Luther says for the first time, looking pensive.

Five blinks, genuinely taken aback. "Because... I'm your brother? Because I can clearly and obviously time travel? Like, yeah, it would have been more convenient if I'd arrived in like, my old-body for proof-purposes, but like. I mean. Thirteen is still a pretty convincing age to be to prove time travel considering if I hadn't, I would be like, almost thirty."

"Roll it back again." Allison says firmly, "What do you mean by 'old body'?"

"Great question!" Five says pointing at Allison and smiling. Everyone looks at him weird again, and Five takes a moment to wonder if they've ever experienced positive reinforcement. Knowing Reginald, probably not. "Wait! Is Reggie alive? Wait, no, answer that in a second. Uh. When I time traveled I fucked up my body I guess, I was like, old. White hair and wrinkles-type old from spending decades in the apocalypse. But I fucked up the calculations and got booted back to my thirteen-year-old body, I guess. How, I have no idea."

"What?" Vanya says, still equally weakly.

"You have no idea how fucked up time travel is." Five whispers conspiratorially to Vanya, loud enough for the whole table to hear, "There are so many ways to die. Or permanently tear a hold in space time. But like, with life as we know if ending soon-ish, I figured I couldn't possibly fuck it up worse than it already was, y'know? Speaking of, anyone have the date again?"

"Wait, what was that about dad?" Luther asks, very focused.

"Oh, you still call him dad? Big oof." Five says automatically, because apparently his verbal filter is shot to hell after living with Dolores. It does make Klaus bark out a too-loud laugh.

"What does that mean?" Luther asks aggressively.

"It means Reginald sucks and doesn't deserve the title of 'dad,' what did you think I meant?" Five asks, and now both Diego and Vanya and both cracking smiles, though Vanya is covering hers with a hand.

"Have some respect for the dead." Luther growls, standing up and looking very large and threatening.

Five sways back, craning his head up, "Woah there big buy, sit down before I injure my poor growing spine looking up at you. Jeeze, did Reggie force feed you steroids or something? I wouldn't put it past him but like, I just want to know he at least went over the side effects of the drug with you. Also like, thanks for narrowing it down. Also terrifying! Seriously though, exact date please because if I have less than 24 hours I am going to break down crying and that is a threat."

"I love this Five." Klaus says reverently.

"March 21st." Vanya offers, finally.

"Wow! Terrifying!" Five says, clapping his hands together, "Hate that. Ten days, huh? Well, who wants to get on board the save-the-world express?"

Klaus immediately flings his hand in the air, Five points at his brother appreciatively. "Yes, excellent! I'll take the volunteer in the lovely skirt as my first team member. Any other volunteers?"

"Danke!" Klaus simpers, grinning widely like this is the vest entertainment he's had in weeks.

"I'm not just going to stand here and listen to you badmouth dad and boss us around." Luther slams his hands on the table.

"Well not with that attitude." Five snarks.

Diego raises his hand, "I would like to join team fuck dad as well."

"We can certainly debate team names later." Five says, nodding wisely as Luther gives some sort of scandalized gasp.

"Honestly, I just want to see where this is going." Klaus confesses.

Five shrugs, because he doesn't really care about the reason. "Don't you want to prove me wrong them? Prove what a well-adjusted young man Reginald Hargreeves raised?"

"Shut up." Luther grinds out, looking a moment away from throwing a punch.

"If this is all true, I have to get home." Allison cuts in, looking concerned, "I have - I have a daughter."

"I mean, if you want to give Claire a world to live in then I'd stick around, but that's just me." Five shrugs.

"You know her name?" Allison asks, obviously taken aback.

Five is almost offended, "Uh, yeah. I have her photo as well. Y'all get on like, a bizarre number of gossip magazine covers did you know that?"

Allison manages to outdo herself in terms of being taken aback once more.

There's a beat of silence, and then Five turns, "Vanya? You in?"

"Me?" Vanya blinks, looking shocked. "What can I do?"

"Yeah, what can she do?" Diego asks, crossing his arms and suddenly looking grumpy.

It baffles Five, who scrunches his nose, "Uh, like, a lot? I assume? I mean. I'm going to be honest here, just looking at y'all right now is a lot. In more ways than one! Hashtag trauma and all that, but like, name a single one of you that wouldn't be the most obvious person in the room as soon as you walked into it. Except Vanya, who somehow manages to look like a well adjusted adult, by some miracle."

"Did you just verbally say the word hashtag?" Allison asks, looking so deeply confused.

"More concerned about the trauma he tacked onto there, but y'know, to each their own." Klaus immediately cuts in.

"You think I'm well-adjusted?" Vanya asks, looking oddly touched.

"I would like to direct your attention to Diego's leather pants-scowl combo and Luther's general aura of daddy-issues." Five says pointedly, "I can practically smell the tragic comic book backstory in this room. If I'd jumped back a decade earlier this would have been Batman's wet dream of orphan selection."

"Alright! Game plan!" Five says, waving Diego's knife in his hand.

Diego's hands immediately go to his weird harness looking thing, "Hey!"

"Give me just one moment to get the tracker out." Five rolls his eyes, "Then I'll give it back, I promise. Also if someone could ask Grace for like, some antibiotics that would be good."

"What?" Allison asks, directly before Five stabs himself and there is suddenly panic at the table.

"Relax!" Five says, allowing Diego to remove the knife from his hands. He doesn't need it anyway and his hand immediately drops down to root in the wound.

"Five what the fuck!" Diego yells, but Five just pulls up bloody fingers and waves the tracker into Diego's stupefied face.

"What the fuck is that, Five?" Allison demands, looking very shaken.

"I literally just said it was a tracker." Five points out, "Now, I think our first team activity should be voting on whether we destroy it or take it out to bumfuck nowhere and ditch it to confuse the Commission."

"What the fuck is the Commission?" Diego barks.

"Man. Maybe I should just hit up Rick." Five muses, "This is going to take so much explaining."

"Who is Rick."

"So much explaining."

#survivors au #well adjusted five au #five actually has some social skills!#and an idea of what an actual parent looks like as well #klaus absolutely adores this version of five #who quotes vines and uses gen z slang with the best of them #five has been reliably informed that public education is worse than the apocalypse #but he's also pretty sure working with his family is worse as well #five: i have so much trauma lol #klaus: oh big same #vanya: mood #five is somehow the most well adjusted hargreeves #and the most responsible #he doesn't legally exist and he doesn't pay taxes but somehow he has his shit together #five showing up at rick's house: you don't know me but i know you in the future #rick: what the fuck #five: don't make me bring up bethany midler from highschool because you gave me so many embarrassing stories to convince yourself with #rick: okay okay i believe you and you are???#five: your son from the future lol what's up dad want to help save the world #five arriving back at the manor like: WHAT'S UP LOSERS RICK IS NOW YOUR DAD TOO BC GOD KNOWS Y'ALL NEED AN ACTUAL FATHER FIGURE #klaus calls rick a dilf and five kidney punches him hard enough that klaus can't even properly introduce himself #it's better for everyone that way #delores: 15 and ready to fuck someone up #delores: i'm not staying with this weirdo (diego) while you go off with my dad #five threateningly: don't make me bring up what really happened to dad's good suit in 2012 #delores: i will stay right here #rick: wait WHAT happened to my good suit #five: unimportant don't you want to save the world #long post #far tua long

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blackswaneuroparedux · 3 years

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Anonymous asked: I have always appreciated your thoughtful views on the defence of the British monarchy, and as a university historian it’s reassuring to see someone using history to make invalubale insights to a controversial institution. I wonder what are your own thoughts on the passing of Prince Philip and what his legacy might be? Was he a gaffe prone racist and a liability to the Queen?

I know you kindly got in touch and identified yourself when you felt I was ignoring your question. I’m glad we cleared that up via DM. The truth is as I said and I’m saying here is that I had to let some time pass before I felt I could reasonably answer this question. Simply because - as you know as someone who teaches history at university - distance is good to make a sober appraisal rather than knee jerk in the moment judgements.

Contrary to what some might think I’m not really a fan girl when it comes to the royal family. I don’t religiously follow their every movement or utterance especially as I live in Paris and therefore I don’t really care about tabloid tittle tattle. I only get to hear of anything to do with the royal family when I speak to my parents or my great aunts and uncles for whom the subject is closer to their heart because of the services my family has rendered over past generations to the monarchy and the older (and dying) tight knit social circles they travel in.

Like Walter Bagehot, I’m more interested in the monarchy as an institution and its constitutional place within the historical, social, and political fabric of Britain and its continued delicate stabilising importance to that effect. It was Walter Bagehot, the great constitutional scholar and editor the Economist magazine, who said, “The mystic reverence, the religious allegiance, which are essential to a true monarchy, are imaginative sentiments that no legislature can manufacture in any people.” In his view, a politically-inactive monarchy served the best interests of the United Kingdom; by abstaining from direct rule, the monarch levitated above the political fray with dignity, and remained a respected personage to whom all subjects could look to as a guiding light.

Even as a staunch monarchist I freely confess that there has always been this odd nature of the relationship between hereditary monarchy and a society increasingly ambivalent about the institution. To paraphrase Bagehot again, there has been too much ‘daylight’ shone onto the ‘magic’ of the monarchy because we are obsessed with personalities as celebrities.

Having said that I did feel saddened by the passing of Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh. After the Queen, he was my favourite royal. Anne, Princess Royal, would come next because she is very much like her father in temperament, humour, and character, so unlike her other brothers.

I have met the late Prince Philip when I was serving in the army in a few regimental meet-and-greet situations - which as you may know is pretty normal given that members of the royal family serve as honorary colonel-in-chiefs (patrons in effect) of all the British army regiments and corps.I also saw him at one or two social events such the annual charitable Royal Caledonian Ball (he’s an expert scottish reeler) and the Guards Polo Club where my older brothers played.

I’ll will freely confess that he was the one royal I could come close to identify with because his personal biography resonated with me a great deal.

Let’s be honest, the core Windsor family members, born to privilege, are conditioned and raised to be dull. Perhaps that’s a a tad harsh. I would prefer the term ‘anonymously self-effacing’, just another way of saying ‘for God’s sake don’t draw attention to yourself by saying or doing anything even mildly scandalous or political lest it invites public opprobrium and scrutiny’. The Queen magnificently succeeds in this but the others from Charles down just haven’t (with the exception of Princess Anne).

However, many people forget this obvious fact that it’s the incoming husbands and wives who marry into the Windsor family who are relied upon to bring colour and even liven things up a little. And long before Kate Middleton, Meghan Markle (very briefly), or Lady Diana Spencer, were the stars of ‘The Firm’- a phrase first coined by King George VI, Queen Elizabeth II's father who ruled from 1936 to 1952, who was thought to have wryly said, "British royals are 'not a family, we're a firm,” - it was Prince Philip who really livened things up and made the greater impact on the monarchy than any of them in the long term.

Prince Philip’s passing belied the truth of a far more complex individual: a destitute and penniless refugee Greek-Danish prince with a heart breaking backstory that could have been penned by any 19th Century novelist, and also eagle eyed reformer who tried to drag the royal family into the 20th century. At the core of the man - lost scion of a lost European royal dynasty, a courageous war veteran, and Queen’s consort - were values in which he attempted to transform and yet maintain much older inherited traditions and attitudes. Due to his great longevity, Philip’s life came to span a period of social change that is almost unprecedented, and almost no one in history viewed such a transformation from the front row.

Prince Philip would seem to represent in an acute form the best of the values of that era, which in many ways jar with today’s. He had fought with great courage in the war as a dashing young naval officer; he was regularly rude to foreigners, which was obviously a bonus to all Brits. He liked to ride and sail and shoot things. He was unsentimental almost to a comic degree, which felt reassuring at a time when a new-found emotional incontinence made many feel uncomfortable. Outrageous to some but endearing to others, he was the sort of man you’d want to go for a pint with, perhaps the ultimate compliment that an Englishman can pay to another Englishman. This has its own delicious irony as he wasn’t really an Englishman.

There are 4 takeways I would suggest in my appraisal of Prince Philip that stand out for me. So let me go through each one.

1. Prince Philip’s Internationalism

It may seem odd for me to say that Prince Philip wasn’t English but he wasn’t an Englishman in any real sense. He was a wretch of the world - stateless, homeless, and penniless. That the Prince of Nowhere became the British Monarchy’s figurehead was more than fitting for a great age of migration and transition in which the Royal Family survived and even flourished. That he was able to transform himself into the quintessential Englishman is testimony not just to his personal determination but also to the powerful cultural pull of Britishness.

He was born on a kitchen table in Corfu in June 1921. A year later in 1922, Philip, as the the great-great-grandson of Queen Victoria and nephew of Constantine I of Greece, was forced to flee with his family after the abdication of Constantine. He grew up outside Paris speaking French; ethnically he was mostly German although he considered himself Danish, his family originating from the Schleswig border region. He was in effect, despite his demeanour of Royal Navy officer briskness, a citizen of nowhere in an age of movement. From a very young age he was a stateless person, nationally homeless. Indeed, Philip was an outsider in a way that even Meghan Markle could never be; at his wedding in 1947, his three surviving sisters and two brothers-in-law were not permitted to attend because they were literally Britain’s enemies, having fought for the Germans. A third brother-in-law had even been in the SS, working directly for Himmler, but had been killed in the conflict.

Even his religion was slightly exotic. He was Greek Orthodox until he converted to Anglicanism on marrying Elizabeth - what with his wife due to become supreme head of the Church and everything - but his ties with eastern Christianity remained. His great-aunts Princess Elisabeth of Hesse and by Rhine and Tsarina Alexandra are both martyrs of the Russian Orthodox Church, having been murdered by the Bolsheviks; Philip’s mother went on to become an Orthodox nun and a “Righteous Among the Nations” for saving a Jewish family during the Nazi occupation of Greece, spending much of her time in squalid poverty.

His parents were part of the largely German extended aristocracy who ruled almost all of Europe before it all came crashing down in 1918. When he died, aged 99, it marked a near-century in which all the great ideological struggles had been and gone; he had been born before the Soviet Union but outlived the Cold War, the War on Terror and - almost - Covid-19.

The world that Philip was born into was a far more violent and dangerous place than ours. In the year he was born, Irish rebels were still fighting Black and Tans; over the course of 12 months the Spanish and Japanese prime ministers were assassinated, there was a coup in Portugal and race riots in the United States. Germany was rocked by violence from the far-Left and far-Right, while in Italy a brutal new political movement, the Fascists, secured 30 seats in parliament, led by a trashy journalist called Benito Mussolini.

The worst violence, however, took place in Greece and Turkey. Following the defeat of the Ottoman Empire, what remained of Turkey was marked for permanent enfeeblement by the Allies. But much to everyone’s surprise the country’s force were roused by the brilliant officer Mustafa Kemal, who led the Turks to victory. Constantinople was lost to Christendom for good and thousands of years of Hellenic culture was put to the flames in Smyrna.

The Greek royal family, north German imports shipped in during the 19th century, bore much of the popular anger for this disaster. King Constantine fled to Italy, and his brother Andrew was arrested and only escaped execution through the intervention of his relative Britain’s George V. Andrew’s wife Alice, their four daughters and infant son Philip fled to France, completely impoverished but with the one possession that ensures that aristocrats are never truly poor: connections.

Philip had a traumatic childhood. He was forged by the turmoil of his first decade and then moulded by his schooling. His early years were spent wandering, as his place of birth ejected him, his family disintegrated and he moved from country to country, none of them ever his own. When he was just a year old, he and his family were scooped up by a British destroyer from his home on the Greek island of Corfu after his father had been condemned to death. They were deposited in Italy. One of Philip's first international journeys was spent crawling around on the floor of the train from an Italian port city, "the grubby child on the desolate train pulling out of the Brindisi night," as his older sister Sophia later described it.

In Paris, he lived in a house borrowed from a relative; but it was not destined to become a home. In just one year, while he was at boarding school in Britain, the mental health of his mother, Princess Alice, deteriorated and she went into an asylum; his father, Prince Andrew, went off to Monte Carlo to live with his mistress. "I don't think anybody thinks I had a father," he once said. Andrew would die during the war. Philip went to Monte Carlo to pick up his father's possessions after the Germans had been driven from France; there was almost nothing left, just a couple of clothes brushes and some cuff-links.

Philip’s four sisters were all much older, and were soon all married to German aristocrats (the youngest would soon die in an aeroplane crash, along with her husband and children). His sisters became ever more embroiled in the German regime. In Scotland going to Gordonstoun boarding school, Philip went the opposite direction, becoming ever more British. Following the death of his sister Cecilie in a plane crash in 1937, the gulf widened. As the clouds of conflict gathered, the family simply disintegrated. With a flash of the flinty stoicism that many would later interpret, with no little justification, as self-reliance to the point of dispassion, the prince explained: “It’s simply what happened. The family broke up… I just had to get on with it. You do. One does.”

In the space of 10 years he had gone from a prince of Greece to a wandering, homeless, and virtually penniless boy with no-one to care for him. He got through it by making a joke of everything, and by being practical.

By the time he went to Gordonstoun, a private boarding school on the north coast of Scotland, Philip was tough, independent and able to fend for himself; he'd had to be. Gordonstoun would channel those traits into the school's distinct philosophy of community service, teamwork, responsibility and respect for the individual. And it sparked one of the great passions of Philip's life - his love of the sea. It was Gordonstoun that nurtured that love through the maturation of his character.

Philip adored the school as much as his son Charles would despise it. Not just because the stress it put on physical as well as mental excellence - he was a great sportsman. But because of its ethos, laid down by its founder Kurt Hahn, a Jewish exile from Nazi Germany.

Hahn first met Philip as a boy in Nazi Germany. Through a connection via one of his sister’s husbands, Philip, the poor, lonely boy was first sent off to a new school - in Nazi Germany. Which was as fun as can be imagined. Schloss Salem had been co-founded by stern educator called Kurt Hahn, a tough, discipline-obsessed conservative nationalist who saw civilisation in inexorable decline. But by this stage Hahn, persecuted for being Jewish in Nazi Germany, had fled to Britain, and Philip did not spend long at the school either, where pressure from the authorities was already making things difficult for the teachers. Philip laughed at the Nazis at first, because their salute was the same gesture the boys at his previous school had to make when they wanted to go to the toilet, but within a year he was back in England, a refugee once again.

Philip happily attended Hahn’s new school, Gordonstoun, which the strict disciplinarian had set up in the Scottish Highlands. Inspired by Ancient Sparta, the boys (and then later girls) had to run around barefoot and endure cold showers, even in winter, the whole aim of which was to drive away the inevitable civilisational decay Hahn saw all around him. To 21st century ears it sounds like hell on earth, yet Philip enjoyed it, illustrating just what a totally alien world he came from.

That ethos became a significant, perhaps the significant, part of the way that Philip believed life should be lived. It shines through the speeches he gave later in his life. "The essence of freedom," he would say in Ghana in 1958, "is discipline and self-control." The comforts of the post-war era, he told the British Schools Exploring Society a year earlier, may be important "but it is much more important that the human spirit should not be stifled by easy living". And two years before that, he spoke to the boys of Ipswich School of the moral as well as material imperatives of life, with the "importance of the individual" as the "guiding principle of our society".

It was at Gordonstoun one of the great contradictions of Philip's fascinating life was born. The importance of the individual was what in Kurt Hahn's eyes differentiated Britain and liberal democracies from the kind of totalitarian dictatorship that he had fled. Philip put that centrality of the individual, and individual agency - the ability we have as humans to make our own moral and ethical decisions - at the heart of his philosophy.

At Dartmouth Naval College in 1939, the two great passions of his life would collide. He had learned to sail at Gordonstoun; he would learn to lead at Dartmouth. And his driving desire to achieve, and to win, would shine through. Despite entering the college far later than most other cadets, he would graduate top of his class in 1940. In further training at Portsmouth, he gained the top grade in four out of five sections of the exam. He became one of the youngest first lieutenants in the Royal Navy.

The navy ran deep in his family. His maternal grandfather had been the First Sea Lord, the commander of the Royal Navy; his uncle, "Dickie" Mountbatten, had command of a destroyer while Philip was in training. In war, he showed not only bravery but guile. It was his natural milieu. "Prince Philip", wrote Gordonstoun headmaster Kurt Hahn admiringly, "will make his mark in any profession where he will have to prove himself in a trial of strength".

2. Prince Philip and the modernisation of the monarchy

In his own words, the process of defining what it meant to be a royal consort was one of “trial and error.” Speaking with BBC One’s Fiona Bruce in 2011, Philip explained, “There was no precedent. If I asked somebody, 'What do you expect me to do?' they all looked blank. They had no bloody idea, nobody had much idea.” So he forged for himself a role as a moderniser of the monarchy.

He could not have had much idea back in 1939. Back then in Dartmouth in 1939, as war became ever more certain, the navy was his destiny. He had fallen in love with the sea itself. "It is an extraordinary master or mistress," he would say later, "it has such extraordinary moods." But a rival to the sea would come.

When King George VI toured Dartmouth Naval College, accompanied by Philip's uncle, he brought with him his daughter, Princess Elizabeth. Philip was asked to look after her. He showed off to her, vaulting the nets of the tennis court in the grounds of the college. He was confident, outgoing, strikingly handsome, of royal blood if without a throne. She was beautiful, a little sheltered, a little serious, and very smitten by Philip.

Did he know then that this was a collision of two great passions? That he could not have the sea and the beautiful young woman? For a time after their wedding in 1948, he did have both. As young newlyweds in Malta, he had what he so prized - command of a ship - and they had two idyllic years together. But the illness and then early death of King George VI brought it all to an end.

He knew what it meant, the moment he was told. Up in a lodge in Kenya, touring Africa, with Princess Elizabeth in place of the King, Philip was told first of the monarch's death in February 1952. He looked, said his equerry Mike Parker, "as if a ton of bricks had fallen on him". For some time he sat, slumped in a chair, a newspaper covering his head and chest. His princess had become the Queen. His world had changed irrevocably.

While the late Princess Diana was later to famously claim that there were “three people” in her marriage - herself, Prince Charles and Camilla - there were at least 55 million in Philip and Elizabeth’s. As Elizabeth dedicated her life to her people at Westminster Abbey at the Coronation on June 2, 1953, it sparked something of an existential crisis in Philip. Many people even after his death have never really understood this pivotal moment in Philip’s life. All his dreams of being a naval officer and a life at sea as well as being the primary provider and partner in his marriage were now sacrificed on the altar of duty and love.

With his career was now over, and he was now destined to become the spare part. Philip, very reasonably, asked that his future children and indeed his family be known by his name, Mountbatten. In effect he was asking to change the royal family’s name from the House of Windsor to the House of Mountbatten. But when Prime Minister Winston Churchill got wind of it as well as the more politically agile courtiers behind the Queen, a prolonged battle of wits ensued, and it was one Philip ultimately lost. It was only in 1957 that he accepted the title of “Prince.”

Even though he had almost lost everything dear to him and his role now undefined, he didn’t throw himself a pity party. He just got on with it. Philip tried to forge his own distinct role as second fiddle to the woman who had come to represent Great Britain. He designated himself the First Officer of the Good Ship Windsor. He set about dusting off some of the cobwebs off the throne and letting some daylight unto the workings of the monarchy by advocating reasonable amount of modernisation of the monarchy.

He had ideas about modernising the royal family that might be called “improving optics” today. But in his heart of hearts he didn’t want the monarchy to become a stuffy museum piece. He envisaged a less stuffy and more popular monarchy, relevant to the lives of ordinary people. Progress was always going to be incremental as he had sturdy opposition from the old guard who wanted to keep everything as it was, but nevertheless his stubborn energy resulted in significant changes.

When a commission chaired by Prince Philip proposed broadcasting the 1953 investiture ceremony that formally named Elizabeth II as queen on live television, Prime Minister Winston Churchill reacted with outright horror, declaring, “It would be unfitting that the whole ceremony should be presented as if it were a theatrical performance.” Though the queen had initially voiced similar concerns, she eventually came around to the idea, allowing the broadcast of all but one segment of the coronation. Ultimately, according to the BBC, more than 20 million people tuned in to the televised ceremony - a credit to the foresight of Philip.

Elizabeth’s coronation marked a watershed moment for a monarchy that has, historically, been very hands off, old-fashioned and slightly invisible. Over the following years, the royals continued to embrace television as a way of connecting with the British people: In 1957, the queen delivered her annual Christmas address during a live broadcast. Again, this was Philip’s doing when he cajoled the Queen to televise her message live. He even helped her in how to use the teleprompter to get over her nerves and be herself on screen.

Four years later, in 1961, Philip became the first family member to sit for a television interview. It is hard for us to imagine now but back then it was huge. For many it was a significant step in modernising the monarchy.

Though not everything went to plan. Toward the end of the decade, the Windsors even invited cameras into their home. A 1969 BBC fly-on-the-wall documentary, instigated by Philip to show life behind the scenes, turned into an unmitigated disaster: “The Windsors” revealed the royals to be a fairly normal, if very rich, British upper-class family who liked barbecues, ice cream, watching television and bickering. The mystery of royalty took a hit below the waterline from their own torpedo, a self-inflicted wound from which they took a long time to recover. Shown once, the documentary was never aired again. But it had an irreversible effect, and not just by revealing the royals to be ordinary. By allowing the cameras in, Philip opened the lid to the prying eyes of the paparazzi who could legitimately argue that since the Royals themselves had sanctioned exposure, anything went. From then on, minor members of the House of Windsor were picked off by the press, like helpless tethered animals on a hunting safari.

Prince Philip also took steps to reorganise and renovate the royal estates in Sandringham and Balmoral such as intercoms, modern dish washers, generally sought to make the royal household and the monarchy less stuffy, not to have so much formality everywhere.

Philip helped modernised the monarchy in other ways to acknowledge that the monarchy could be responsive to changes in society. It was Prince Philip - much to the chagrin of the haughty Princess Margaret and other stuffy old courtiers - who persuaded the Queen to host informal lunches and garden parties designed to engage a broader swath of the British public. Conversely, Prince Philip heartily encouraged the Queen (she was all for it apparently but was still finding her feet as a new monarch) to end the traditional practice of presenting debutantes from aristocratic backgrounds at court in 1952. For Philip and others it felt antiquated and out of touch with society. I know in speaking to my grandmother and others in her generation the decision was received with disbelief at how this foreign penniless upstart could come and stomp on the dreams of mothers left to clutch their pearls at the prospect there would be no shop window for their daughter to attract a suitable gentleman for marriage. One of my great aunts was over the moon happy that she never would have to go through what she saw as a very silly ceremony because she preferred her muddy wellies to high heels.

A former senior member of the royal household, who spent several years working as one of Prince Philip’s aides, and an old family friend, once told us around a family dinner table that the Duke of Edinburgh was undoubtedly given a sense of permanence by his marriage into the Royal Family that was missing from earlier years. But the royal aide would hastily add that Prince Philip, of course, would never see it that way.

Prince Philip’s attitude was to never brood on things or seek excuses. And he did indeed get on with the job in his own way - there should be no doubt that when it came to building and strengthening the Royal Family it was a partnership of equals with the Queen. Indeed contrary to Netflix’s hugely popular series ‘The Crown’ and its depiction of the royal marriage with Philip’s resentment at playing second fiddle, the prince recognised that his “first duty was to serve the Queen in the best way I could,” as he told ITV in 2011. Though this role was somewhat ill-suited to his dynamic, driven, and outspoken temperament, Philip performed it with utter devotion.

3. Prince Philip’s legacy

One could argue rightly that modernising the monarchy was his lasting legacy achievement. But he also tried to modernise a spent and exhausted Britain as it emerged from a ruinous war. When peace came, and with it eventual economic recovery, Philip would throw himself into the construction of a better Britain, urging the country to adopt scientific methods, embracing the ideas of industrial design, planning, education and training. A decade before Harold Wilson talked of the "white heat of the technological revolution", Philip was urging modernity on the nation in speeches and interviews. He was on top of his reading of the latest scientific breakthroughs and well read in break out innovations.

This interest in modernisation was only matched by his love for nature. As the country and the world became richer and consumed ever more, Philip warned of the impact on the environment, well before it was even vaguely fashionable. As president of the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) in the UK for more than 20 years from 1961, he was one of the first high-profile advocates of the cause of conservation and biological diversity at a time when it was considered the preserve of an eccentric few.

For a generation of school children in Britain and the Commonwealth though, his most lasting legacy and achievement will be the Duke of Edinburgh Awards (DofE). He set up the Duke of Edinburgh award, a scheme aimed at getting young people out into nature in search of adventure or be of service to their communities. It was a scheme that could match the legacy of Baden Powell’s scouts movement.

When Prince Philip first outlined his idea of a scheme to harness the values of his education at Gordonstoun by bringing character-building outdoor pursuits to the many rather than the fee-paying few, he received short shrift from the government of the day. The then minister of education, Sir David Eccles responded to the Duke’s proposal by saying: “I hear you’re trying to invent something like the Hitler Youth.” Undeterred he pushed on until it came to fruition.

I’m so glad that he did. I remember how proud I was for getting my DofE Awards while I was at boarding school. With the support of great mentors I managed to achieve my goals: collecting second-hand English books for a literacy programme for orphaned street children in Delhi, India with a close Indian school friend and her family; and completing a 350 mile hike following St. Olav’s Pilgrimmage Trail from Selånger, on the east coast of Sweden, and ending at Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim, on the west coast of Norway.

It continues to be an enduring legacy. Since its launch in 1956, the Duke of Edinburgh awards have been bestowed upon some 2.5 million youngsters in Britain and some eight million worldwide. For a man who once referred to himself as a “Greek princeling of no consequence”, his pioneering tutelage of these two organisations (alongside some 778 other organisations of which he was either president or a patron) would be sufficient legacy for most.

4. Prince Philip’s character

It may surprise some but what I liked most about Prince Philip was the very thing that helped him achieve so much and leave a lasting legacy: his character.

It is unhelpful to the caricature of Prince Philip as an unwavering but pugnacious consort whose chief talent was a dizzying facility in off-colour one-liners that he was widely read and probably the cleverest member of his family.

His private library at Windsor consists of 11,000 tomes, among them 200 volumes of poetry. He was a fan of Jung, TS Eliot, Shakespeare and the cookery writer Elizabeth David. As well as a lifelong fascination with science, technology and sport, he spoke fairly fluent French, painted and wrote a well received book on birds. It’s maddening to think how many underestimated his genuine intellect and how cultured he was behind the crusty exterior.

He didn’t have an entourage to fawn around him. He was the first to own a computer at Buckingham Palace. He answered his own phone and wrote and responded to his own correspondence. By force of character he fought the old guard courtiers at every turn to modernise the monarchy against their stubborn resistance.

Prince Philip was never given to self-analysis or reflection on the past. Various television interviewers tried without success to coerce him in to commenting on his legacy.But once when his guard was down he asked on the occasion of his 90th birthday what he was more proud of, he replied with characteristic bluntness: “I couldn’t care less. Who cares what I think about it, I mean it’s ridiculous.”

All of which neatly raises the profound aversion to fuss and the proclivity for tetchiness often expressed in withering put-downs that, for better or worse, will be the reflex memory for many of the Duke of Edinburgh. If character is a two edged sword so what of his gaffes?

There is no doubt his cult status partly owed to his so-called legendary gaffes, of which there are enough to fill a book (indeed there is a book). But he was no racist. None of the Commonwealth people or foreign heads of state ever said this about him. Only leftist republicans with too much Twitter time on their hands screamed such a ridiculous accusation. They’re just overly sensitive snowflakes and being devoid of any humour they’re easily triggered.

There was the time that Philip accepted a gift from a local in Kenya, telling her she was a kind woman, and then adding: “You are a woman, aren’t you?” Or the occasion he remarked “You managed not to get eaten, then?” to a student trekking in Papua New Guinea. Then there was his World Wildlife Fund speech in 1986, when he said: “If it has got four legs and it is not a chair, if it has got two wings and it flies but is not an aeroplane, and if it swims and it is not a submarine, the Cantonese will eat it.” Well, he wasn’t wrong.

Philip quickly developed a reputation for what he once defined, to the General Dental Council, as “dentopedology – the science of opening your mouth and putting your foot in it”. Clearly he could laugh at himself as he often did as an ice breaker to put others at ease.

His remarking to the president of Nigeria, who was wearing national dress, “You look like you’re ready for bed”, or advising British students in China not to stay too long or they would end up with “slitty eyes”, is probably best written off as ill-judged humour. Telling a photographer to “just take the fucking picture” or declaring “this thing open, whatever it is”, were expressions of exasperation or weariness with which anyone might sympathise.

Above all, he was also capable of genuine if earthy wit, saying of his horse-loving daughter Princess Anne: “If it doesn’t fart or eat hay she isn’t interested.” Many people might have thought it but few dared say it. If Prince Philip’s famous gaffes provoked as much amusement as anger, it was precisely because they seem to give voice to the bewilderment and pent-up frustrations with which many people viewed the ever-changing modern world.

A former royal protection officer recounts how while on night duty guarding a visiting Queen and consort, he engaged in conversation with colleagues on a passing patrol. It was 2am and the officer had understood the royal couple to be staying elsewhere in the building until a window above his head was abruptly slammed open and an irate Prince Philip stuck his head out of the window to shout: “Would you fuck off!” Without another word, he then shut the window.

The Duke at least recognised from an early age that he was possessed of an abruptness that could all too easily cross the line from the refreshingly salty to crass effrontery.

One of his most perceptive biographers, Philip Eade, recounted how at the age of 21 the prince wrote a letter to a relation whose son had recently been killed in combat. He wrote: “I know you will never think much of me. I am rude and unmannerly and I say things out of turn which I realise afterwards must have hurt someone. Then I am filled with remorse and I try to put matters right.”

In the case of the royal protection officer, the Duke turned up in the room used by the police officers when off duty and said: “Terribly sorry about last night, wasn’t quite feeling myself.”

Aides have also ventured to explain away some of their employer’s more outlandish remarks - from asking Cayman islanders “You are descended from pirates aren’t you?” to enquiring of a female fashion writer if she was wearing mink knickers - as the price of his instinctive desire to prick the pomposity of his presence with a quip to put others at ease.

Indeed many people forget that his ‘gaffes’ were more typical of the clubbish humour of the British officer class – which of course would be less appreciated, sometimes even offensive, to other ears. It’s why he could relate so well to veterans who enjoyed his bonhomie company immensely.

But behind the irascibility, some have argued there also lay a darker nature, unpleasantly distilled in his flinty attitude to his eldest son. One anecdote tells of how, in the aftermath of the murder of the Duke’s uncle and surrogate father, Lord Mountbatten, Philip lectured his son, who was also extremely fond of his “honorary grandfather”, that he was not to succumb to self-pity. Charles left the room in tears and when his father was asked why he had spoken to his son with so little compassion, the Duke replied: “Because if there’s any crying to be done I want it to happen within this house, in front of his family, not in public. He must be toughened up, right now.”

But here I would say that Prince Philip’s intentions were almost always sincere and in no way cruel. He has always tried to protect his family - even from their own worst selves or from those outside the family ‘firm’ who may not have their best interest at heart.

In 1937, a 16-year-old Prince Philip had walked behind his elder sister Cecile’s coffin after she was killed in a plane crash while heavily pregnant. The remains of newly-born infant found in the wreckage suggested the aircraft had perished as the pilot sought to make an emergency landing in fog as the mother entered childbirth. It was an excruciating taste of tragedy which would one day manifest itself in a very princely form of kindness that was deep down that defined Philip’s character.

When about 60 years later Prime Minister Tony Blair’s spin doctors in Downing Street tried to strong arm the Queen and the royal household over the the arrangements for the late Prince Diana’s funeral, it was Philip who stepped in front to protect his family. The Prime Minister and his media savvy spin doctors wanted the two young princes, William and Harry, to walk behind the coffin.

The infamous exchange was on the phone during a conference call between London and Balmoral, and the emotional Philip was reportedly backed by the Queen. The call was witnessed by Anji Hunter, who worked for Mr Blair. She said how surprised she was to hear Prince Philip’s emotion. ‘It’s about the boys,” he cried, “They’ve lost their mother”. Hunter thought to herself, “My God, there’s a bit of suffering going on up there”.’

Sky TV political commentator Adam Boulton (Anji Hunter’s husband) would write in his book Tony’s Ten Years: ‘The Queen relished the moment when Philip bellowed over the speakerphone from Balmoral, “Fuck off. We are talking about two boys who have just lost their mother”. Boulton goes on to say that Philip: ‘…was trying to remind everyone that human feelings were involved. No 10 were trying to help the Royals present things in the best way, but may have seemed insensitive.’

In the end the politicians almost didn’t get their way. Prince Philip stepped in to counsel his grandson, Prince William, after he had expressed a reluctance to follow his mother’s coffin after her death in Paris. Philip told the grieving child: “If you don’t walk, I think you’ll regret it later. If I walk, will you walk with me?”

It’s no wonder he was sought as a counsellor by other senior royals and especially close to his grandchildren, for whom he was a firm favourite. His relationship with Harry was said to have become strained, however, following the younger Prince’s decision to reject his royal inheritance for a life away from the public eye in America with his new American wife, Meghan Markle. For Prince Philip I am quite sure it went against all the elder Prince had lived his life by - self-sacrifice for the greater cause of royalty.

This is the key to Philip’s character and in understanding the man. The ingrained habits of a lifetime of duty and service in one form or another were never far away.

In conclusion then....

After more time passes I am sure historians will make a richer reassessment of Prince Philip’s life and legacy. Because Prince Philip was an extraordinary man who lived an extraordinary life; a life intimately connected with the sweeping changes of our turbulent 20th Century, a life of fascinating contrast and contradiction, of service and some degree of solitude. A complex, clever, eternally restless man that not even the suffocating protocols of royalty and tradition could bind him.

Although he fully accepted the limitations of public royal service, he did not see this as any reason for passive self-abnegation, but actively, if ironically, identified with his potentially undignified role. It is this bold and humorous embrace of fated restriction which many now find irksome: one is no longer supposed to mix public performance with private self-expression in quite this manner.

Yet such a mix is authentically Socratic: the proof that the doing of one’s duty can also be the way of self-fulfilment. The Duke’s sacrifice of career to romance and ceremonial office is all the more impressive for his not hiding some annoyance. The combination of his restless temperament and his deeply felt devotion to duty found fruitful expression; for instance, in the work of Saint George’s House Windsor - a centre and retreat that he created with Revd. Robin Woods - in exploring religious faith, philosophy, and contemporary issues.

Above all he developed a way to be male that was both traditional and modern. He served one woman with chivalric devotion as his main task in life while fulfilling his public engagements in a bold and active spirit. He eventually embraced the opportunity to read and contemplate more. And yet, he remained loyal to the imperatives of his mentor Kurt Hahn in seeking to combine imagination with action and religious devotion with practical involvement.

Prince Philip took more pride in the roles he had accidentally inherited than in the personal gifts which he was never able fully to develop. He put companionship before self-realisation and acceptance of a sacred symbolic destiny before the mere influencing of events. In all these respects he implicitly rebuked our prevailing meritocracy which over-values officially accredited attainment, and our prevailing narcissism which valorises the assertion of discrete identities.

Prince Philip was Britain’s longest-serving consort. He was steadfast, duty driven, and a necessary adjunct to the continuity and stability of the Queen and the monarchy. Of all the institutions that have lost the faith of the British public in this period - the Church, Parliament, the media, the police - the Monarchy itself has surprisingly done better than most at surviving, curiously well-adapted to a period of societal change and moral anarchy. The House of Hanover and later Saxe-Coburg and Gotha (changed to Windsor), since their arrival in this country in 1714, have been noted above all for their ability to adapt. And just as they survived the Victorian age by transforming themselves into the bourgeoise, domestic ideal, so they have survived the new Elizabethan era (Harry-Meghan saga is just a passing blip like the Edward-Wallis Simpson saga of the 1930s).

There was once a time when the Royal’s German blood was a punchline for crude and xenophobic satirists. Now it is the royals who are deeply British while the country itself is increasingly cosmopolitan and globalised. British society has seen a greater demographic change than the preceding four or five thousand years combined, the second Elizabethan age has been characterised more than anything by a transformational movement of people. Prince Philip, the Greek-born, Danish-German persecuted and destitute wanderer who came to become one of the Greatest Britons of the past century, perhaps epitomised that era better than anyone else. And he got through it by making a joke of everything, and by being practical.

I hope I don’t exaggerate when I say that in our troubled times over identity, and our place and purpose in the world, we need to heed his selfless example more than ever.

As Heraclitus wisely said, Ήθος ανθρώπω δαίμων (Character is destiny.)

RIP Prince Philip. You were my prince. God damn you, I miss you already.

Thanks for your question.

#question #ask #prince philip #duke of edinburgh #queen elizabeth II #the queen of spades #monarchy #britain #british #royalty #politics #history #culture #europe #crown #icon #great briton #society

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froggy-frogz · 3 years

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Do you have Andre childhood hcs ?

Like how he evolved from genius kid raised by pressuring hardcore Christians (who probably overlooked his anxiety, ocd and Tourette’s)

to college dropout year 1

to our beloved stoned bio scientist

A/N: As someone who was also raised by ultra-hardcore Christians and was diagnosed with a bunch of shit from an early age, I relate to him a lot in this aspect!! It was actually pretty interesting to think about how his life would have been growing up. Hope you enjoy this! I had a pretty fun time writing this one.

Andre definitely had a hard time growing up. It'd probably right off the bat when he started school that his anxiety started, and probably his OCD and Tourette's as well.

Kids being kids, Andre would have been bullied a lot. Either because he was raised in a very [probably, let's face it] wealthy, white school district as that's what his parents probably were.

Not just for his Tourette's but also because he seemed so different from the rest of the kids there. Kids are assholes so Andre probably didn't do so well in the social part of school.

Talking about his parents, they were mostly never there for him. In his studies, for his mental health, really not ever there for him at all growing up.

They didn't really raise him and left him to his own devices. This really opened the door for a lot of his personality though and helped shape him into who he is in the show. He got to do a lot of things and start looking into a lot of things without having to worry about his parents getting onto him

But because of this, his mental illnesses were ignored by his parents, and Andre suffered a lot because of this. He didn't know what to do or really who to go to.

It was probably in high school where he started experimenting with drugs. The first one he tried was most likely going to be weed. It's one of the more tamer ones and I can see it helping him a lot.

He's going to get hooked on weed, as it's going to help soothe his anxiety and OCD. He's still getting extremely good grades though, that's something that doesn't change in his first 12 years of school.

Also when he was in high school, he got into a few clubs. He started off with chess, but that was too boring for him, and let's face it, he was also too good. There was also an extra-credit biology club that he joined at random, and this was his first big dip. He really flourished in here.

Another club he joined was probably some sort of RPG club. And yes. They did play high-stakes Elder Scrolls.

Another aspect of him growing up is that Andre desperately wanted his parent's approval and love. He wanted it so bad that it just made his anxiety grow so bad. Que him turning to substance abuse to help soothe this.

After Andre graduated though, his feelings about his parents did a complete 180. He saw how stupid it was for him to try to get anything from them.

He moves out of their house, and it's for the better.

It's probably around this time that he gets officially diagnosed with anxiety, OCD, and Tourette's, but he had known this for years.

Despite having one of the most brilliant brains in his school, Andre doesn't go to a very big college. He goes to some small community college for a major in biology and a minor in chemistry, cognitive sciences, or human development.

He's really good at biology and picks up quickly on it. This is when he starts to study Latin as well, most likely cause he's bored and wants more of a challenge.

[Latin is a very hard language lol, I took it for 2 years, and let me tell you, it's a lot of work.]

After a year or two, Andre gets bored of college. Like, college just doesn't do it for him. Like said above, it's just not that much of a challenge for him.

He starts experimenting. With a lot of different things. Drugs, making drugs, and he even starts to experiment with things like making cures. He finds it so interesting, and it really just pushes him.

Andre probably got spotted for Cognito Inc after they pick up on him and learn what he's been doing on his own. They most likely made a deal with him, because let's face it, he wasn't doing very legal things with his very specific scientific knowledge.

That deal was either he works for them, or jail time.

This was a no-brainer for him though, Andre was very, very quick to hop on the Cognito Inc train.

#inside job #inside job hcs #andre lee #andre lee hcs #hcs

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astrologyandlife · 3 years

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jupiter and saturn together in the natal chart

i have noticed that, in many of my readings, people have both jupiter and saturn sitting in the same house of their natal chart. this makes sense because a conjunction between the two occurs every 20 years. and to me, this signals an important theme: the need to overcome struggle to unlock the opportunities of that house.

first house - there's difficulty expressing yourself fully. it's like you want to be optimistic and have faith in yourself, but something is holding you back from that. you are almost afraid of being let down. as a result, you carry around this fear and caution about everything. you doubt yourself. when people first meet you, these struggles can be visible to them. the important thing here is that you are the cultivator of your experience, and when you can work through your feelings about yourself and your environment, you will notice that you attract good luck and opportunity. you have the power to consciously change how you approach the world around you through a smile, a little bit of faith, and a more positive attitude. second house - growing up, you lacked some form of security in your life. this could have been in the form of coming from a poorer background, or having a parent(s) that did not consistently care for you in some way. and because you were not valued by those in your early environment, you struggle to ascribe value to yourself. you may develop habits of holding onto things out of fear that you will never have them again. the lesson from this placement is to understand your own worth, and to know that you are entitled to a comfortable, happy, satisfying life. using this framework you will attract wealth and opportunity. third house - the hardest part about this placement is that you feel as though you are somehow "stupid" or your ideas aren't worthwhile. you could have struggled in your early school years for various reasons ranging from not understanding the material to being in an environment that refused to accommodate your needs. you rarely share your own ideas, and you fear being rejected, wrong, or made fun of by others. you must let go of this hesitation and remind yourself that you have valuable ideas to share with the world. you have the power to persuade, to motivate, and to invigorate. in fact, once you stop second-guessing yourself, you will notice that your genius shines proudly. fourth house - your early childhood experiences were, and still are, challenging for you. you could have experienced hardship as a result of being treated poorly by your parents or even going through some trauma in the home, especially if saturn makes aspects to mars or pluto. you have fears stemming from your childhood that hold you back. what is going to be important for you is building a home for yourself that is safe, secure, and stable. in doing so, your chosen family will grow and provide you with the support you need to flourish. fifth house - you have artistic and creative talents, but it is possible that when you were younger, you received heavy messaging that these talents were in some way invaluable or unimportant. As a result, relaxation and self-expression on a creative level is severely restricted. you feel like you always have to justify the things you love. however, you are allowed to simply exist and enjoy things for their sake. once you allow yourself to be creative to the extent you are capable, you will find that it will bring opportunity and happiness to you. sixth house - i definitely get the sense that you have had to be responsible from a very young age, taking care of the chores around the house, watching over yourself, etc. perhaps your parents were particularly strict with you and imposed a lot of restrictions on your daily life. these lessons instilled within you have lead you to desire routine and organization, because you fear chaos. you also tend to put too much on yourself, leading to burnout and extreme stress. here you must unlearn any negative habits or routines you have created for yourself, including overworking yourself. in doing so, you will feel much more calm and collected, which will help you physically and mentally. seventh house - there is a lot of stress and anxiety that comes from long-term relationships. the biggest fear here is the fear that you will never find someone who can fully love and commit to you. though you have a lot to offer, you feel completely

inexperienced or as though you are nothing special. there can be a tendency to downplay your own gifts and strengths. as a result, you feel very lonely in your early life and may be distrustful of love. you are afraid of opening yourself up to rejection and pain, so you avoid forming strong attachments or giving too much of yourself. having faith in yourself and what you have to offer, as well as being confident, will attract people who have an abundance of love and affection to give to you. eighth house - this placement can be heavily indicative of one or more life-changing, traumatic experiences, namely when pluto is involved. this experience has transformed you in some major way, likely inducing a fear of change or the unknown within you. you hold on to these memories and this pain in your heart, which stunts your growth as a person. the second half of the healing must be a conscious act by you, wherein you decide that you have what it takes to continue surviving. there is definitely a need for complete rebirth here. once you have come out on the other side, the magic of life itself will be revealed to yourself. you will become resilient in ways you could never imagine, and you will have the strength to overcome anything. ninth house - i have the feeling that your early life was extremely narrow and did not allow you to explore the world around you properly. perhaps your parents were extremely overprotective of you, or overbearing in sharing their opinions with you, and this was a very suffocating feeling. your own opinions and ideas were not welcome by the people in your life, and often they were even shut down. so you must start anew with your independence. remain open and take time to immerse yourself in anything you can, especially ideas radically different from your own. by opening your mind, jupiter will reward you with a wealth of knowledge and experience from which you can draw. tenth house - early on in your life, ideas of what it means to be successful, accomplished, and a productive member of society were heavily pushed on you by the people in your life. you almost feel as though you aren't meant to have agency in your own future, because you are trying to do what you are "supposed" to do. your parents could have been a bit overbearing in trying to prepare you for the future. trusting yourself and forming your own ideas of success and fulfillment will lead to you experiencing much more opportunity within your career. you must overcome a fear of failure here. eleventh house - on a deep level, you feel completely alone in the world. you feel as though it is impossible for anyone to truly understand you, or that they would even want to try. you are a deeply lonely person at times. i could see this placement as indicating that you were a social outcast or somehow distanced from others in your youth, leading to you believing there is something fundamentally wrong with you that prevents you from forming meaningful relationships. you doubt yourself, thinking, am i boring? am i too plain? am i unlikeable? here, you must cast these thoughts away and put forth effort anyways. twelfth house - the biggest struggle with this is that you feel unable to let go of the past and to forgive yourself. the biggest obstacle here is yourself. you have these feelings like you have done too much bad, or something you have done in the past is irredeemable. you may find that, in times of particular stress, you have nightmares or trouble sleeping. the twelfth house challenges you to let go of all of these things, to forgive yourself. you have to look at your pain and grief and allow yourself to feel it, then to let it go. in some way, you have to completely allow yourself to dissolve. after you do these things, you will find that your life as a whole improves, and you can handle anything much better.

some notes as well:

the closer to conjunction the two are, the more intensely this is felt by the native

if they aspect the sun, moon, or angles, these lessons will come up in the individual's day-to-day life

if jupiter is closer to the beginning of the house, it can lessen the impact of saturn

#astrology #saturn #jupiter #first house #second house #third house #fourth house #fifth house #sixth house #seventh house #eighth house #ninth house #tenth house #eleventh house #twelfth house

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dilucslittleangel · 3 years

Text

𝐀 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐈𝐥 𝐃𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞

Hello!! Usually I wanted to write this same thing with Scaramouche until unfortunately his canon past came out and I had to delete the whole thing- so now, while Dottore will sure take some time to appear in the game, I'm taking my chance to write how I think his past maybe looked like.

Some sentences towards the end have been taken off his artifact!

Word count: 1584

I'd like to say this may or may not fit into canon!! (however I wouldn't mind if this became canon)

So. Where to we begin?

I like to think Dottore had a golden child syndrome from a young age.

Most parents want to see their children thrive and flourish. In fact, the desire to see your child succeed is a normal desire of parenting. Moreover, even good parents sometimes have unrealistic expectations for their children.

But good child syndrome can happen when a child consistently reinforces their parent’s desires for them. These children don’t just want to satisfy their parents- they feel obligated and responsible for doing so. It becomes a significant part of their identity, meaning it affects their overall development. Either one or two of the parent role, are naracisstic.

A healthy child usually wants to succeed and make their parents proud. Golden children take it up a few notches. They may present as anxious children early in life. Similarly, they experience immense anxiety and guilt when they fail to meet certain expectations.

Despite how a golden child syndrome usually develops in a child, it was a little different in this case.

Dottore's father did not give him lots of attention at all. Just like the insane, crazy doctor / scientist he is himself now, so was his father. His father was a mad man, a man who's experiments are more important to him than his own family.

The young boy often watched his father, watching experiments a young boy like him should not see. All his father's attention went to the experiments, did he have to do the same?

The young lad did various of things, but they all were helpless. Nothing made his father even look at him, heck not even at the dinner table they talked. However he didn't want to stop trying. He had to keep on going, so he thought.

His mother? Dottore was just 7 years old when his mother started to feel worse and worse everyday. So worse even she had no other choice but to rest in bed, having a doctor visit every week as her husband was no doctor, just a scientist who couldn't care less. Why did they even marry?

Dottore brought his mother meals every day - at least whenever a helpful aunt came over. Dottore pretty much looked up to the doctor that came over every week. Did he also become so clever and brilliant to maybe help his mother? He sure thought so.

Day and night the young boy spend hours of looking into medical books, learning anything he possibly could. Often would he fall asleep on the ground, all exhausted from studying. He wanted to help his mother.

Besides studying medical stuff and trying to do anything that would make his father give any attention, he'd also spend other day and nights to get the best of grades, always did he bring good ones home. Never would you see anything below 95 points. Dottore didn't even think about having friends, they only were in his way and annoying. He had no time for friends, he only had himself.

Everytime he brought good grades home, he would bring the paper to his mother. She was more than proud of him. „One day you'll be such a handsome man, helping out so many people.. You make your mother really proud..”the sweet voice spoke. He couldn't let his mothers expactions down now could he?

More and more years have passed. Years of studying, years of writing good grades, years of wanting his father to also be proud of him. Dottore was under a pressure of making his parents be nothing, he didn't want to be a good-for-nothing, - a pressure he put himself under. He just wanted to mean something to both of his parents. He wanted to be worth living. Something cracked in the mind of his.

One day, the boy came home in the cold times of the years but he had great news, he scored the best once more in a big test, wanting to share the great news to his mother. He hadn't seen his mother since yesterday, he was happy to see his mother again. „Mother! Mother! Look!”he said proudly as he ran upstairs, he didn't even put his backpack down. „..Mother?”he asked as he entered the room. He walked over to the bed and looked at his mother. Her eyes were closed, chest not rising nor sleeping. „...?” he gently shook his mother, having his hand on the mother's arm, he felt the coldness. The heater was on, how could she get so cold? It got him worried.

„Mother??”he asked loudly, keeping on shaking her till he heard it knock on the door. He put his test paper on the bed and walked downstairs. He opened the door, looking at who was knocking. It was the doctor, wanting to check on the mother as always. „Uhm Doctor.. I don't think mother is feeling well.... She's quiet and so cold..” he spoke. The doctor looked at him. „..?..”the doctor quickly walked upstairs, of course did the boy walk after him. Dottore stood at the door frame, watching the man.

The doctor stood there silently for a few seconds, shrugging a bit together as he suddenly left the room, walking downstairs. „Where's your father kid??” he asked. „I..don't know. He was suddenly gone one day 2 years ago or so..”he answered. „..what?? Then where's your aunt, let me call her, boy.”

Dottore didn't quite understand what was going on but he knew nothing good happen. He looked back at his mother. He walked up to her, climbing onto the bed and hugging his beloved mother. He brushed away the long dark blue hair. Silently, he sank his head on the mothers chest, closing those pure red eyes. He widened his eyes a little as he heard no heartbeat. „...Mother..”. What a shame, he was just supposed to turn 14 in a few days.

Many many more years have passed. While he grew up along his aunt, Dottore had not given up what he did before. Now he had to make his aunt all proud, now that he's the oh so poor failure that couldn't save his mother hm? At least he thought that way, again.

Now being proud 20 years, living on his own in a old lab, doing various of experiments no one would like to recall. He'd just become the madman his father once was. The word "failure" does not exist for him. He cannot be a failure once more, after all.. He's such a big genius. How could a hardworking child with a great smile go to a madman with a short temper who's plans cannot go wrong?

So judgemental the god of his homeland Fontaine, so the people. Fontaine's people were disgusted of the man, afraid of him, they wanted him gone.

Chased away with pitchforks, clubs and angry words, he took fled to the all famous Sumeru Academia where he continued his crazy studies and experiments. He had so many logical theories, yet no one wanted to hear them. One would not even like to look at him. He truly was sick of everyone, of everything.

Years later again, once more the man took fled. Next day awoken, the social reject's legs have given up. Falling into the sand, with a little lake aside, he took a look at his reflection. Half of his face had gotten burn scars, had the man's charm left his side too? Hand covering half the man's face, he remembered it all.

A night of a harmless experiment with potions and fire had kept the man awake. Yet, the man had been tired. Sitting at the table, where he rest his head on his palm, the man closed his eyes. Dottore silently listened to the liquid heating up under the hottest flames. Maybe him closing his eyes was a terrible mistake which he soon got to suffer for.

The liquid had been heated up too much, the man should've turned off the fire by now but he soon was about to reach the beautiful dream realm. Glass exploding and hot liquid splashing against half his face awoke the man. Quickly the man stood up and pressed the towel against his face, sharp breaths escaping, silent cries filling the room, free hand turning off the fire.

How foolish of him, hm?

The man shook his head and closed his eyes. A grip on his shoulder made the man turn around. „..Fatui?”

"Merely an enhanced human? If your great nation can furnish me with sufficient resources and ample time, I could even manufacture that which you would call a god. What say you?"

True indeed. First of the fatui has tracked him down. In the desert that shone bright like liquid gold, he inquired of the Snezhnayan diplomat:

"Will you treat me like the Academia did? Will you call me a monster, a madman?"

"Or will you treat me as my hometown did, and chase me away with pitchforks and clubs...?"

...

"Good. Then, we are now in partnership."

"As for the matter of your title — what do you say to this..."

Taken completely by surprise by the sheer irony of the title he was given, the young man burst into hysterical laughter.

If you'd know ask the man about his theories and experiments, shall you see a sparkle of excitement...

...

(Drawing of Dottore in the age of four. From right to left -> "Daddy" "That's me!" "Mommy")

#genshin impact #genshin impact il dottore #dottore genshin #genshin il dottore #dottore #il dottore #theory #genshin theory #this is just a theory #please let this get any attention #golden child syndrome #he may be a social reject but I can fix him guys!! 🤪🤪#i hope this makes sense #will anyone even read this #bye #will anyone care?

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loyalshipper · 3 years

Text

May I introduce the Tumblr DC community to one of my two favorite Batfam AUs I have created. Bruce Wayne owns a hotel/museum near an ocean cliff and still has a chronic adoption problem but doesn’t fight crime. (If anyone writes this you can make it to where heroes still exist, the Batfam are the inly no capes)

WE still exists but it isn’t run by Bruce it is run by Lucius because back in the 60s Thomas and Martha bought the hotel and wanted that to be their legacy. They still die the same way but Bruce puts all his efforts into running and blossoming the hotel which was his parent’s dream project.

I’ll get back into the hotel in a minute I’m taking about the kids now

Dick is gotten a similar way, he visits the Cape with Haly’s Circus, his parents die because of faulty wiring sold to the circus by Zucco and Dick becomes an orphan. Bruce just so happened to use his one night off in a while to go see the circus. He keeps thinking about Dick and ends up adopting him. He helps Dick and the Circus bring Zucco to justice and sues the hell out of him and shuts down his business. (Adopted at 8))

Jason was found living in one of the shut down rooms of the hotel. Because his dad left and was in prison and his mom od. So Bruce treats him like a wild animal and starts to leave food out on a regular schedule until Jason gets comfortable with him and he adopts Jason. (five years younger than Dick)

Tim was the son of two wealthy archaeologists who were gone 11 out of the 12 months. Bruce met Tim because he liked to come into the museum and take pictures of the museum exhibits and hotel architecture and shoreline which he would develop and give copies to Bruce. So he opens his house to this little boy with a penchant for photography. Until one day Tim’e parents call Tim telling him that they are staying in Egypt permanently because the archeological dig is producing wonderous results and they’ll be hiring him an around the clock sitter. Only for Tim to wait three weeks and no one shows up. They went so far as to fire Ms. Mac but never hired a sitter for their son. So he goes to Bruce in tears and explains everything, because this is it-his parents finally did abandon him, and Bruce sues them for custody of Tim. (Three years younger than Jason, adopted at 7)

Damian was the result of a relationship Bruce had in college while studying hotel management and hospitality. Talia is the daughter of a hotel conglomerate owner who is currently trying to buy Bruce’s hotel so it can be torn down and Ra’s can built a new hyper expensive hotel in its place. Damian was sent to live with Bruce to try and get Bruce to have Damian inherit the hotel so Ra’s can get it and destroy it, but that backfired because instead Damian falls in love with the hotel and his new family (reluctantly) and wants to see the hotel and museum flourish, not tear down this historical piece of architecture to replace it with a soulless hotel only available to the wealthy elite. But something available to everyone that families vacation to because there is so much history and beauty in a thing that has stood for centuries. So Damian turns against Ra’s. Due not that while Damian and Tim do have a sibling rivalry it is not as vicious and cutting as it is in canon. They love each other they just don’t mesh well while in the same room. And yes, Damian still has his variety of pets (7 years younger than Tim)

Cass came to the hotel with her “father,” David Cain, who went to the Cape for business, and just ended up leaving and forgetting Cass at the hotel. He was still abusive and Cass had trouble speaking but he wasn’t “turn Cass into the world’s greatest assassin” abusive. After Bruce finds Cass, he sues Cain for parental custody and then ruins his life unrepentantly. (Couple of months older than Jason)

After Martha and Thomas died, Alfred took over managing the hotel while Bruce was still growing up and while he was getting his degrees, now he is the grandfather to Bruce’s many kids and helps to keep them running and cared for while they run and care for the hotel. He’s also the one that helps the new kids transfer into the life of running a hotel.

Barbara is the daughter of the Police Comissioner still who became friends with Dick and works, first part time at the museum/hotel and then full time. Same with Steph and Tim (1 year older than Dick)

Cullen and Harper work at the museum, Helena works at the hotel. Carrie does both. Duke is the newest acquisition. Only, his parents disappeared and no one has been able to find them yet. So Bruce currently had temporary custody of Duke who lives at the hotel with everyone. (Harper is a year older than Tim, Cullen is a year younger than Tim, Carrie is the same age as Jason, Duke is a few months younger than Tim)

Each person has different jobs. (Dick is concierge/check-in, Jason does guided history tours of the hotel/museum/grounds, Tim works in financials because he deals with the least amount of people, Helena, Carrie and Steph are both maids, Carrie also does janitorial stuff with Cullen, Barbara works hotel check-in with Dick, Barbara and Harper work cashier at the gift shop, Duke doesn’t have a job yet because he is still dealing with the disappearance of his parents, Damian does every job to see where he fits in best.

JARRO IS THE FAMILY PET STARFISH THAT TIM ADOPTED WHEN HE FIRST JOINED THE FAMILY AND RESCUED FROM BEING EATEN OFF THE BEACH

The hotel is still fully staffed with not-batkids, like grounds keepers and other hotel cleaners and janitors.

Location time!

I’m turning Gotham nicer and changing the geography of the city.

The hotel Museum rests about 200 yds from a cliff that overlooks a beach. There is a well maintained stair case put into the cliff for people to walk down, as well as a longer gravel path that follows the cliff edge down to the shoreline. It is frequented by seals, sea lions, and in the distance, dolphins and whales. The hotel it’s self has about 100 or so acres of land and a long drive but it is technically within walking distance to the city. And it’s a normal coastal town with a port and touristic areas. Kinda eerie at night when the fog rolls in but that’s part of the charm of the NorthEast.

Selina is just Bruce’s friend in this. She is Helena’s mother and Bruce was a surrogate for her. She decided she wanted a baby and Bruce offered to be a donor. So Selina had Helena and Bruce is part of her life but not as her dad, which was the agreement. Selina takes care of the stray animals on the grounds and favors the cats.

Clark is a reporter that was tasked to right an article on the hotel and it’s history, became good friends with Bruce and brings his family (Lois, Jon, Bizarro, Kon, Kara, Lena, Chris, Ma, Pa, and Lex) on vacation to it every year. Lex and Clark are divorced husbands that left on good terms and are friendly enough to coparent their son, Connor, who was made the same way as canon but less hush hush and illegally, Kara is Clark’s cousin and Lena is her fiancée, Lois is his wife, Jon and Bizarro are their two biological sons (Bizarro has autism), Chris is their foster son. Bizarro latches onto Jason in a way that he hasn’t before and always loves coming to the hotel, Jon and Chris are best friends with Damian, Connor and Tim are long distance dating.

Collin, Maya, and Maps are Damian’s best friends from school (Damian has a crush on Collin) and he’s trying to convince them to join the hotel staff like his siblings’ friends but they are a) too young and b) not interested.

Roy has all of his problems as in canon and gets help for it, so as a way to try and bring the family closer, Oliver and Dinah arrange a vacation to the hotel for them Roy and Lian. As a stepping stone kind of thing. Get away from daily stress. Roy is resistant at first until he and Jason hit it off and start talking and Jason talks sense into him and they strike up a friendship turned romance.

The Flashfam visit the museum diring a countrywide roadtrip and mad the stop because Bart is a history buff and wouldn’t stop talking about it the entire trip. He becomes fast friends with Tim and is the only person to ever get a Tim Wayne history tour. No matter what Kon tells you he is super salty about it. Wally and Dick were internet friends and used the roadtrip as a way to be able to meet up.

Thad is the obligatory complainer who doesn’t want to stay in a musty old hotel.

Ivy is the main grounds keeper and is in charge of the native wildlife sanctuary most of the land is used for, as well as taking care of the native plantlife and lives in town with her girlfriend, Harley. Harley helps the kids prank Bruce.

Harley is a children’s psychiatrist hired by Bruce to help the kids deal with their various traumas. Her coming to the hotel for sessions is how she and Ivy met.

They started dating between Dick and Jason and Dick talks up each of them to the other, but each individual kid that comes in think they’d be cute together (since they are both professional while working there isn’t immediate proof that they are dating. But they will flirt with each other if they see each other) and it’s basically a right if passage to try and convince their siblings to help them get together and then try and set them up on their own and find out the hard way that they’re already together. They love seeing all the different way the kids try and set them up. They tend to go along with it until either the kids realise or they take pity on them.

Their favorite was Damian’s where he set up an entire romantic dinner at the hotel restaurant and Dick managed to slyly convince him to set it on a certain day that turned out to be Harley and Ivy’s anniversary.

Alfred is the head chef for the hotel, making room service meals and the breakfast buffet line up. Jason will help him out if he isn’t busy with other things.

Victor Fries and his wife hold an ice cream social ever summer at the hotel with all the ice cream flavors they came up with over the last year.

Edward Nygma, famous escape room designer, is hired to make an escape room themed on the hotel and museum that is built on the grounds near the main building.

Another ritual that starts, begins with Tim, where the older siblings convince the newest one that the hotel is haunted and Jason takes them on a “haunted ghost tour” of the abandoned part of the hotel (the part that is too dilapidated and run down to remodel safely) while the others are stationed at different parts of the hotel and grounds to run whatever scenario to scare the new kid. The only one that hasn’t been done to is Cass because even after several years she still jumps a little too hard at loud noises. But one time Jason accident closed a door a little too harshly while Cass and Tim were doing something and it caused her to jump so hard she knocked over Tim and started crying. They were contemplating whether she was strong enough to do it or not and that cemented that she wasn’t.

Tim and Cass are nearly inseparable and are commonly referred to as the Wayne Twins. For Halloween they decided to go as each other.

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bigbadredpanda · 4 years

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Helloo, would it be a possible interpretation that the ideals and mindset that wwx follows is close to the religion and practice of Taoism?

Hello! That’s a fascinating question and I wish I had more knowledge to delve deeper on the subject but I’m a bit more familiar with the philosophy/spirituality part of Taoism than with its religious practices and rites. As always, anyone is welcome to add to the discussion or correct me if I misconstrue something, this is a vast topic and I’m just an interested layperson!

Xianxia in itself is a literary genre rife with references to Taoism: the pursuit of immortality, the internal alchemy to form a golden core, the Taoist exorcisms to drive out evil spirits, Taoist incantations and talismans, etc... But that does not necessarily make cultivators Taoists.

At the heart of Taoism is the philosophy of espousing harmony with nature, with the self, with the Tao. It’s about simplicity, spontaneity, non-attachment to worldly desires. In the introduction of my copy of the Zhuangzi (庄子), one of the main Taoist texts, the translator chooses the hero Yu the Great to epitomise the “going with the flow instead of fighting against the current” attitude dear to Taoists. Yu the Great is a legendary figure whose father, Kun, was tasked by the emperor Shun to protect the country from floods. Kun built barrages and dykes that held momentarily the waters in check but they ended up bursting, causing a flood even more devastating. The emperor banished Kun and entrusted the son, Yu the Great, with the same mission. Yu the Great succeeded by digging canals to help the course of water and let it flow to the sea. Yu the Great is referenced several times in the Zhuangzi and, interestingly, Wei Wuxian himself takes him as a model when he challenges Lan Qiren in the classroom and sows the seeds of what would become the foundation of his demonic cultivation:

魏无羡道：“横竖有些东西度化无用，何不加以利用？大禹治水亦知，堵为下策，疏为上策。镇压即为堵，岂非下策……”

Wei Wuxian said, “Anyway, there are some things that cannot be liberated so why not make use of them? Yu the Great who controlled the waters knew that building barrages to block was ineffective and dredging canals to reroute was the superior method. Suppression counts as blocking, wouldn’t is also be considered ineffective...” (ch.14)

The carefree and unfettered part of Wei Wuxian’s nature does fit Taoist ideals, you even have the opposition of the more Confucian-oriented Gusu Lan Sect and its rigid abidance with rules and ethics. However, Wei Wuxian is at odds with a key concept of Taoism: the principle of non-action (无为 wuwei). It’s not passivity or laziness, it’s letting nature runs its course, letting things fall into place. Wei Wuxian is very much shown to be assertive, even wilful, when his mind and heart are set on one thing. He does not hesitate to take matters into his own hands and jump into action. That’s especially true of his younger self who would rebel instead of do nothing, his older and wiser self after he is reborn is a bit more circumspect and knows when to speak out and when to hold his peace. Non-action is seen as the guiding principle of an ideal ruler, without the interference of government meddling, the state would (hypothetically) flourish on its own. I’ve seen some good meta on both the Chinese and the English-speaking sides of the fandom that makes good arguments that it’s actually Lan Xichen who personifies best this concept (x). Speaking of other characters from MDZS that parallel Taoist parables, Nie Huaisang reminds of the good-for-nothing tree which is praised by Zhuangzi. Because it bears no fruit, no one tore its branches to strip the fruits from them, because its wood is of poor quality, no carpenters cut it down. It is left alone and it is able to live long.

The Tao Te Ching (道德经, Daodejing) expounds three basic virtues called the Three Treasures (三宝): compassion (慈), frugality (俭) and humility (不敢为天下先, lit. ‘daring not to put oneself before others’ or ‘daring not to be first in the world’). The first two are for sure among Wei Wuxian’s qualities but the last one is more contentious, not because he is arrogant or boastful but because he dares setting himself apart. The following analysis in from a commentary of the Taoist text:

The third treasure, daring not be at the world's front, is the Taoist way to avoid premature death. To be at the world's front is to expose oneself, to render oneself vulnerable to the world's destructive forces, while to remain behind and to be humble is to allow oneself time to fully ripen and bear fruit. This is a treasure whose secret spring is the fear of losing one's life before one's time. This fear of death, out of a love for life, is indeed the key to Taoist wisdom. (Ellen M. Chen)

Wei Wuxian did not hesitate to ‘expose himself’ by being willing to be the first practitioner of demonic cultivation and in the end his downfall was at the hands of ‘the world’s destructive forces’, warmongering rumours and bloodthirsty hostility. Wei Wuxian is also not subject to fear of death, there are a few quotes that exemplify his carefree, devil-may-care mindset:

使我徒有身后名不如即时一杯酒。

Better have a cup of wine here and now rather than leave behind a posthumous good name. (ch.75 & Wei Wuxian’s CQL character song Qu Jin Chen Qing)

The quotation above comes from A New Account of the Tales of the World (世说新语), a collection of various anecdotes that was compiled in the 5th century, fittingly it’s from the “The Free and Unrestrained” (任诞) section.

��前哪管身后事，浪得几日是几日。

Why care about what happens after death while one is alive? Better live life to the utmost while one can. (ch.16)

I’m not sure if this one is a literary citation or not as I haven’t been able to track down a quote with this exact wording but it was very reminiscent to me to a chapter of the Liezi (列子), another Taoist text, attributes the following thoughts to the hedonist philosopher Yang Zhu:

One hundred years is the limit of a long life. Not one in a thousand ever attains it. Suppose there is one such person. Infancy and feeble old age take almost half of his time. Rest during sleep at night and what is wasted during the waking hours in the daytime take almost half of that. Pain and sickness, sorrow and suffering, death (of relatives) and worry and fear take almost half of the rest. In the ten and some years that is left, I reckon, there is not one moment in which we can be happy, at ease without worry. This being the case, what is life for? What pleasure is there? For beauty and abundance, that is all. For music and sex, that is all. But the desire for beauty and abundance cannot always be satisfied, and music and sex cannot always be enjoyed. Besides, we are prohibited by punishment and exhorted by rewards, pushed by fame and checked by law. We busily strive for the empty praise which is only temporary, and seek extra glory that would come after death. Being alone ourselves, we pay great care to what our ears hear and what our eyes see, and are much concerned with what is right or wrong for our bodies and minds. Thus we lose the great happiness of the present and cannot give ourselves free rein for a single moment. What is the difference between that and many chains and double prisons?

"Men of great antiquity knew that life meant to be temporarily present and death meant to be temporarily away. Therefore they acted as they pleased and did not turn away from what they naturally desired. They would not give up what could amuse their own persons at the time. Therefore they were not exhorted by fame. They roamed as their nature directed and would not be at odds with anything. They did not care for a name after death and therefore punishment never touched them. They took no heed of fame, being ahead or being behind, or the span of life."

The myriad creatures are different in life but the same in death. In life they may be worthy or stupid, honorable or humble. This is where they differ. In death they all stink, rot, disintegrate, and disappear. This is where they are the same. [...] The man of virtue and the sage die; the wicked and the stupid also die. In life they were Yao and Shun [sage-emperors]; in death they are rotten bones. In life they were Jie and Zhou [wicked kings]; in death they are rotten bones. Thus they all became rotten bones just the same. Who knows their difference? Let us enjoy our present life. Why should we worry about what comes after death?” (A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy, trans. Wing-tsit Chan)

It’s quite a long extract so I highlighted the most relevant parts that echo Wei Wuxian’s ideas and in particular his motto in life:

是非在己，毁誉由人，得失不论。

Right and wrong are decided by oneself, praise and condemnation depend on others, gains and losses are insignificant. (ch.75)

This is for me the defining quote of the novel that encapsulates the overarching theme of the story. This sentence is so popular that it’s the go-to quote on Wei Wuxian-related merch and it also features on the cover of the book in simplified Chinese.

We find in the Yang Zhu chapter of the Liezi the same ‘carpe diem’ attitude, the nonchalance about death, the disregard of social conventions and the futility of reputation. Nevertheless, Yang Zhu does not exactly have a place with other Taoist thinkers as he promotes acting in self-interest, a form of ethical egotism that does not take heed of other people’s benefit. The translator from the extract above calls it ‘negative Taoism’. As we are well aware, Wei Wuxian has a much more benevolent and altruistic outlook:

我娘说过的，你要记着别人对你的好，不要去记你对别人的好。人心里不要装那么多东西，这样才会快活自在。

My mom said that you should remember the kindness you received from others and not the kindness you gave. That's the only way to find happiness and be free as the heart can only carry so much. (ch.113)

Wei Wuxian’s life philosophy is about remembering the good you've been granted and keep giving without expecting anything in return. If you let yourself to be fettered by bad memories, if you dwell on the past, negative feelings like anger and envy will take roots in your heart. It takes great courage and integrity to be able to move on from painful experiences without holding grudges and retain the ability to greet the future with a smile.

These themes remind me of the lyrics of the song Enlightenment (悟) from the film Shaolin,《新少林寺》, it’s a moving song that draws a lot from Buddhist influences:

为何君视而不见规矩定方圆

Why do you look without seeing and let conventions decide the rules?

悟性悟觉悟空心甘情愿

I open my heart, coming to my senses and awakening to emptiness

放下颠倒梦想放下云烟

Let go of your confused dreams, let go of the things fleeting like mist

放下空欲色放下悬念

Let go of idleness, desire, pleasure, let go of the trouble weighting your heart

多一物却添了太多危险

One thing more adds too much danger

少一物贪嗔痴会少一点

One thing less and vices will be alleviated [lit. ‘greed, aversion, delusion’, the Three Poisons in Buddhism]

唯有心无挂碍成就大愿

Only with a heart without worries can your wishes be accomplished

唯有心无故妙不可言

There is no greater marvel than an unburdened heart

This ended up to be such a long-winded and maybe inconclusive answer but to me, Taoism, Buddhism and Confucianism, have all deeply shaped Chinese customs, ideas and culture with sometimes no clear boundaries where one begins and the other ends. Wei Wuxian’s ideals, his free-spiritedness and his probity, are reflected in these different schools of thoughts and spiritual currents but there is not a single all-encompassing one that matches him to a tee. In the end, what perhaps defines him best is his name that befits his nature, Wei Ying, the guileless innocence of a child, someone who can cheerfully go through life with a clear conscience and an unburdened heart.

#mo dao zu shi #cultural notes #philosophy #wei wuxian #majesticshayshay #i'm unable to quote anything from buddhist scripture but this is very good song #一世随缘，随缘一世，才能活得自在 #mdzs meta

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chudleycanonficfest · 3 years

Text

Four Little Sips

Day 28, Post #2

Title: Four Little Sips

Author: JohnMcHacker

Pairings: Harry/Bill/Charlie (platonic), Harry/Ginny (romantic), Gryffindor Quidditch Team (platonic), Fred/George/Ron (platonic), Ron/Hermione (romantic)

Prompt: In Vino Veritas

Rating: PG

Trigger Warnings: Alcoholism, Referenced death, Language

Note to admin: Thanks for organising, this is my first time submitting, sorry if I'm late or if it doesn't meet requirements. I have also posted to the AO3 collection.

* * *

You see, Harry had never really had anyone just a few years older to look up to. Alright, there was Hermione, but they were classmates and best friends and at roughly the same place in life, it wasn’t the same.

That summer of 1998, in the wake of all that pain and death and sorrow, the Weasleys pulled together and pulled him in with them. On a few occasions, this meant having a few drinks with Bill and Charlie, in various nondescript Muggle pubs in the vicinity of Ottery St Catchpole.

“Just because Kingsley cut you some slack doesn’t mean you have to take the offer,” said Charlie. “You’ve spent your whole life fighting Voldemort, one way or anoher. You deserve to take a break. Live a little. Or else, what have you been fighting for?”

Harry thought of several memorable sunlit days, and found he couldn’t really disagree.

“Or at the very least, know why you’re putting your life on the line, once again,” said Bill. “Well, alright, you were the Chosen One, you had your job to do then. But now that that’s over, you ought to think twice why you’re risking your neck on your own account.”

“Well, I think I’d be good at it,” said Harry. “And someone has to do it. The Aurors are short-handed and too many of Voldemort’s thugs are still out there.”

Bill shook his head, munching a handful of chips. “That’s not good enough. Merlin knows I’d love a crack at the bastards myself. But your neck’s not just your own now, Harry. Ginny has a say too. That’s part of what being together means.”

“Muggle birds ain’t bad,” said Charlie, nodding at a trio of pretty college-age girls gathered round a table across the pub. They caught him watching, giggled, and winked in reply. “Don’t limit yourself to witches. But if you do, don’t mess ‘em around, play fair, and come clean as soon as you can.”

“The most important part of my relationship with Fleur is trust,” said Bill. “We don’t have secrets, and she trusts that I won’t suddenly run off hunting Death Eaters or dragons or Hor... whatever. And I trust her not to do the same.”

“Family’s what it comes down to,” said Charlie, draining his glass.

“Family,” nodded Bill. “Your first responsibility.”

“My shout,” said Harry, because that was something else they had taught him was right, to stand his round, and he went to the bar to get the drinks. When he returned, they had moved on to other important matters.

“Free advice, Potter, take it or leave it,” said Charlie, tapping the side of his nose, “women; you’ll never go wrong if you please ‘em first, know what I mean?”

“Oi! That’s our sister you’re talking about!” snapped Bill, trying not to laugh.

“So what? She’s got fi... four of you looking out for her. Maybe I just want to see fair play.” Charlie winked at Harry. “Let me tell you about what I call ‘wandless magic’, and trust me, it is magic.”

“That’s it, you’re done, Perce is my new number two, it’s you that Mum and Dad should disown...”

“There’s more where that came from, Harry. You want to know how to beat Ron at chess? He can’t play gambits worth a damn. Stick with me, I’ll show you something called a Smith-Morra, aye?”

Advice, experience, honour, laughter. Maybe this was what it was like to have older brothers, thought Harry. It filled a hole in him he never even knew he had.

* * *

Oliver would never have allowed it, but Angelina Johnson was a more fun-loving kind of Quidditch Captain. She passed the word around quietly, and so the five Gryffindor players above the age of sixteen met in the changing rooms fifteen minutes before Potter and the younger Weasley were due to arrive. Of course it was the Twins who’d acquired the goods, however they managed it. Fred produced the bottle of Ogden’s from somewhere under his robes with a flourish, and George grinned toothily as he conjured shot glasses from thin air.

“Alright, I know it was my idea, but just the one, got it?” warned Angelina, pouring the drinks herself.

“Aye aye, Captain,” said Fred. George sketched a sloppy salute her way.

Katie Bell was practically trembling with excitement and nerves. “Oooh, this’ll be my first drink ever,” she said, holding up the glass of amber liquid to catch the light. “Are you sure we won’t get caught?” she asked, looking around as if expecting McGonagall to burst out of a locker at any time.

“Course we can’t be sure,” said Alicia Spinnet. “That’s part of the fun!”

Angelina looked round at each of them, and shouted “For the Cup!”

“FOR THE CUP!” they chorused, and knocked back the Firewhiskey.

Two years later, the three Chasers were standing at the bar of the Hog’s Head, but they had Oliver back now, and Angelina knew somehow that that was important, they were going to go to Hogwarts and find Fred and George and Harry and reunite the whole Team, and it meant she had to do this. She leaned over the counter, rummaged through the grimy bottles and found what she was looking for.

“You’re mad!” said Oliver incredulously.

“Probably,” said Alicia cheerfully, “but we did this every match and still won the Cup, didn’t we? Sixth-years and above only, of course, we had standards,” she said, catching Oliver’s outraged look.

“Don’t tell me you’re going into a real battle and don’t want a drink, Oliver,” said Angelina calmly as she poured, and that was that.

Alicia and Katie and Oliver looked at her expectantly. Angelina searched for the words, and found there was really only one thing suited to the occasion. “Fuck Voldemort.”

“FUCK VOLDEMORT!”

And they did.

But oh God, the price they paid.

* * *

The Leaky was too well-known so they usually frequented a tiny hole-in-the-wall further down the street. The clientele was younger and the enchanted jukebox played muggle hits as well as the Weird Sisters, Mega Maggots, and the Bent Banshees, and that was perfect for the Twins. Perhaps half the entire current range of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes had first been dreamed up in this pub.

“Alright, alright, what about this, George? Prank greeting cards.”

“You’re crazy, Fred.”

“Cards that won’t stop singing. Howler cards. Exploding confetti cards. Exploding firework cards!”

George finished his beer and signalled to the barman for another. The barman hesitated, then poured as George slapped a handful of Sickles on the counter. “Confetti yes, fireworks, I dunno,” said George. “Cheers, Fred.”

“It’s brilliant I tell you. Mud in your eye,” said his twin brother, and they drank. Then, quietly, Fred asked: “How’s the family?”

“Same old. They’re doing well. You should see the sprogs, it’s a hoot,” snickered George. “Ron and Gin and Harry and good ol’ Hermione, sneaking around trying not to get caught shagging like rabbits. God, the sights I’ve walked in on...”

Fred chortled along with George, and he finished the pint. The bell over the door jingled and new customers came in, but the twins barely glanced that way.

“Speaking of which. About her... you should do something about it, George,” said Fred kindly. “I see all the signs and I know you do too. She’s waiting on you. Go be a gentleman, Georgey-boy, go on.”

George sighed. “Not you too. Look, I get enough of this crap from Bill and Charlie, alright?”

“You two need each other. Besides, it’s too quiet around the flat.”

All at once, George’s face crumpled. “You don’t get to say that. Not you. Not you! YOU don’t say that!”

Fred said nothing, he only smiled, and walked away. George turned his head quickly to follow him, but as always, Fred slid out the corner of his eye and was g...

And then it was another Weasley brother standing in front of him.

This time, it was Ron they’d sent. Good old Ron, lanky and solid and biting his lip in sympathy as he came to find his older brother sitting alone at the bar hunched over a half-empty glass. On the counter beside him was one untouched full pint, the frothy head long since evaporated.

“Come on, George,” said Ron gently. “There, I’ve got you. Let’s get you home.”

* * *

She was a girl made of facts and reason.

That was just the way she was wired.

“Dutch courage,” she said to herself, eyeing the glass of probably cheap plonk as if it was poison. Which technically it was.

“What’s that?” asked Ginny.

“Dutch courage,” she repeated. “It’s a muggle term, meaning the confidence gained from drinking alcohol, according to the Cambridge English Dictionary. Although,” she amended, “it’s derogatory to Dutch people and we probably shouldn’t say things like that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind in case I meet anyone from Orange Tulip Land,” said Ginny, rolling her eyes. “You certainly don’t need that sort of thing, Hermione, you’re one of the bravest people I know!”

Probably just hyperbole, thought Hermione, as that would be quite something, given that Ginny hung around with Aurors and Quidditch players and her boyfriend Harry Potter, or ‘His Excellency Most Spiffing Chosen Boy Who Lived To Kick Voldemort’s Arse’ as George called him. She picked up the glass, sipped it carefully, decided she quite liked the taste of Chateau Diagon Alley or whatever this was, and had a bigger swig.

Here’s a fun fact: it takes 6 minutes for the brain to react to alcohol.

Six minutes later, she didn’t think she felt any different. Warmer perhaps, but the New Year party was in full swing and Hermione thought maybe it was just the ambient temperature rising from all the people circulating, moving, dancing, talking, laughing.

Fun fact: drinking is ‘fun’ because alcohol lessens tension, eases social interaction, and reduces inhibitions.

Hermione sat in her corner and nursed her glass and knew she wasn’t really a social drinker, or any kind of drinker, or even at all ‘sociable’ to begin with. She envied how effortlessly Ginny and Bill and Parvati and everyone else were visibly enjoying themselves; Hermione would honestly prefer a nice book, a pot of peppermint tea, and perhaps with the company of...

Breathless from joking with Aurors and Obliviators and Patrolwizards and friends, Ron flung himself down beside her and threw an arm around her, and Hermione’s stomach fluttered pleasantly. “Alright there, Hermione?” He followed her gaze towards the wineglass. “Not poisoned, is it? Cause that’s no fun, believe me.”

Fact: I want to say I...

“That’s not funny, Ron, you could’ve died,” chided Hermione, although she couldn’t help giggling. “No, I just... it’s Dutch courage.”

“What’s that?” Hermione told him about English soldiers and gin and bravery, and the way he looked at her as he listened made her feel warm all over. “Nice. You know everything, Hermione,” Ron said admiringly.

“Not everything,” said Hermione wistfully. “I don’t know how to have fun at parties. Well, maybe that’s one more thing I do know now,” she joked lamely.

Fact: I...

Ron laughed at her probably atrocious attempt at humour, and said “Rubbish party anyway. Too many plonkers just wanting to be seen with heroes like Harry and Neville” (characteristically, Ron excluded himself from that category, Hermione observed) “and they’re only here because Kingsley said they absolutely had to be. I’d much rather have a quiet night in at home with you, Crookshanks, a nice fire, maybe a...”

No, I don’t know everything, thought Hermione. But I know this fact. “I love you, Ron Weasley.” And she grabbed him and snogged the hell out of him, ignoring the catcalls and cheers that rose all around.

Was it really the Dutch stuff, or was it all her own self, after all?

To be continued...

#chudleycanonficfest2021 #HP fest #hp canon pairings #canon fest platonic #canon fest romantic #submission #tw: alcoholism #tw: referenced death #tw: language

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woodrokiro · 3 years

Text

Bar Service (fic)

Fandom: Bleach

Characters/Pairing: IchiRuki

Summary: Bartenders--especially bartenders around the corner from her apartment--are strictly off limits. Restaurant AU. Written for @ichirukimonth . TW warning for mentioned child abuse.

She doesn’t think much of the restaurant a few blocks away from her new apartment.

She always passes it to and from her work commute, of course. Maybe from time to time she glanced over, musing how it looks cute enough--a great place to take a date or some friends....

Before Rukia remembers: 1. She doesn’t have the time or capacity to date, and 2. She has no friends here yet… And probably won’t for a while, considering her lifelong difficulty making them in the first place.

It’s fine by her, honestly. She likes throwing everything she has into her job, loves doing her best to earn a smile or laugh from her patients. That’s enough social interaction for her, and at the end of the day she can go home, pour a glass of wine, switch the television on to some silly drama and order takeout without mourning the “loss” of a Friday night.

So for the first few months that she’s living in Karakura: no. She doesn’t even think about stepping foot in Amore e Morte.

Until she gets a particularly bad case at work.

The fact that it was a foster child case alone makes her heart hurt--but of course, there’s always more with these sort of situations.

A little girl named Hina, aged eight but looking so much smaller waiting there in her office. The social worker sitting with her--a woman named Rangiku, who Rukia knows a little and actually quite likes--squeezes Hina’s tiny hand before pulling Rukia to the side, quietly explaining the situation.

Physical abuse from her former home where she had been for a year. Her teacher kept noticing bruises in odd places and finally called CPS, who did nothing for two months before the behavior escalated and Hina ended up in the ER.

Her new foster mom is a real nice lady, says she hasn’t been acting out or anything but… Rangiku shrugs, flashing a reassuring smile when the little girl looks their way. You know.

She knows.

So Rukia does what she does best: she goes to the little girl, introduces herself by her first name, and focuses on her work until she can sob angrily in her car at lunch break.

And when her workday is done, when her emotions are fried and she’d really like a drink or three anywhere but her lonely apartment--she sees the restaurant’s sign, glowing warmly in the dusk light.

Amore e Morte. Love and death. A weird name for a restaurant, she thinks, and wonders if the owners either don’t know Italian and thought the name was cool or are just uppity snobs.

If you’d stop being so cynical you might go out and actually enjoy life. She can practically hear Renji’s voice scoffing in her ear now.

She parks her car at home before walking back over to the restaurant.

The outside of the restaurant is nice enough, but the inside is… Well. Lovely.

Brick walls painted white make the entire place look minimalist yet cozy. A couple of trendy paintings hanging sparsely through the restaurant makes the environment chic, but not overbearing. A few hanging lanterns bring just enough light to let everyone see where they’re going, but otherwise candles are utilized at each of the tables for a romantic touch.

Rukia sees by the sheer number of couples there that it is indeed a good place to bring a date.

And by the looks of one dish smelling deliciously of chicken and bell peppers that passes her by in a waiter’s hand, the food isn’t too bad either. Rukia’s mouth waters.

“A table for one, miss?”

Rukia startles from her musings, feeling rather silly as the bright and cheery hostess smiles patiently back.

“Oh! No, I don’t think that’s necessary. I wouldn’t want to take up one of your tables. Do you have bar seating?”

“Of course! Right this way.”

The hostess leads her into an adjacent room that sits tucked away from the main dining room. There’s still a couple of tables in this room, and two of the eight bar stools are occupied but it’s so much quieter here, the noise of the dining room a mere buzz. She breathes a small sigh of relief as she takes the stool at the far end. She wanted to be out and about, just… Not that out and about.

“Our bartender Kurosaki-kun will be taking care of you. I believe he’s just in the back talking to Chef, he should be right back.”

Rukia thanks her, taking a glance at the menu.

She quickly finds out Chef Yasutora Sado’s menu inspiration is Mexican-Japanese fusion cuisine, which is… Interesting, considering the restaurant’s name is Italian. In any case, she’s fascinated. Rukia by no account considers herself a foodie, but the thought of blending traditional Japanese dishes with Mexican spices and turning them into something like sukiyaki tacos makes her stomach growl.

“Can I get you something other than water to drink?”

Her gaze flickers from the menu to the well-toned arm extended out toward her, pouring a glass of water. Her eyes move up the arm to the man it’s attached to.

A handsome guy, she’ll admit: if it wasn’t for the obviously bleached orange hair, the sword tattoo on his forearm peeking out from under his rolled sleeve, and the fact that he looked like he wanted to be literally anywhere else.

If she had to pick him out from a crowd, there’s no doubt she’d know him as a bartender. What a walking cliche.

“Yes, I’ll take--” She didn’t even take a glance at the drink menu. She looks down quickly. “Sorry. Can I get a matcha mojito?”

He nods, his hands suddenly flying through liquors and shakers and mixes to make her drink. “You ready for food, too?”

“Any recommendations?”

“Everything.”

She snorts. She’d be irritated by the subpar service if it wasn’t for his small smirk at her response.

“Seriously, everything’s good here. If you get something you don’t like, drinks are on me.”

“Risky.” Rukia lifted an eyebrow. “You place that bet with every customer?”

“Every single one.”

She highly doubts that, but she appreciates the trust in his workplace nonetheless. She orders a couple of small plates, and he tends to his other drink orders while she sips her own.

The food, when it comes out, is… Infuriatingly good. Infuriating because she would have loved to have scored a couple free drinks off the arrogant punk bartender, but she’ll have to swallow her pride because the sukiyaki taco is absolute divinity. She sips her second drink, already accepting that she’s gonna have to admit to him she’ll be paying full price for everything she ordered.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like she’ll have a chance to gloat. From what she hears next door, dinner service has picked up and with that: drink orders. He’s doing as well as he can--hands expertly flying through the liquors, garnishing the cocktails with an expert flourish before passing them on to a server--but she can tell he’s feeling the stress, particularly when he reads his second to last ticket in the rush.

“Fuck,” she hears as he rolls his eyes, stalking over to the wine cabinet. A server comes by, concerned.

“You need anything, Ichigo?”

He waves a hand, not turning to look at his coworker. “No, no I’m fine. Just annoying when I don't open a bottle before rush, that’s all.”

The server scuttles off to tend to her tables while Rukia watches him bang a (very expensive looking) wine bottle on the counter, clumsily ripping into the foil with an opener. At one point he cuts his thumb, and he half-hazardly wraps a paper napkin around it while he tries helplessly to pull the cork up. The wine opener doesn’t grip the bottle steadily a couple of times, she waits on baited breath to see if he’ll break the bottle. After a few dangerous-looking test runs, he manages to hoist the cork up, cursing out a “fucking finally” at the sound of the cork popping.

The whole thing must have taken ten minutes.

Maybe it’s the matcha mojitos finally hitting her, but she can’t help it. She laughs.

He shoots her a wild look and she covers her chuckles with the back of her hand.

“Sorry, sorry! I’m not--it’s not funny. I just… That was the most atrocious opening of a wine bottle I’ve ever seen.”

Ichigo stares for a moment before scoffing, turning back to his (finally opened) bottle and pours the wine into a glass. “Yeah, well… I don’t do wine service here, lady.”

“Excuse me? That’s ridiculous. You’re a bartender.”

“Exactly. Bartender. I do cocktails, not fancy wine stuff.”

“Let me guess, you consider yourself a mixologist.”

“Don’t ever call me that. Ever.” He’s shaking his head as he moves on to his next order, but oddly enough Rukia feels like she knows he’s suddenly having a good time. “Like I said, I don’t do wine etiquette and all that. That’s for the servers.”

“I’m just… It’s hard to believe you’ve made it this far in a nicer restaurant’s bar without knowing how to open wine.”

“Not that far. I’ve been here for like, six months.” He shrugs at her inquisitive stare. “Old buddies with the chef. I bar backed in college where he was a line cook, so… And if he ever got sick of me, my sister is his sous chef. Then again, she’s more likely to fire me than he is, the brat.”

“Especially with you not knowing how to open a fine vintage.”

“Get over it. When it’s not busy I get one of the servers to help me.” He looks down, having seemingly forgotten about his paper toweled thumb. “Shit. Hang on, I gotta get a bandaid from the back--”

“I have some, if you want.” Rukia starts digging through her purse. “If there’s not some restaurant code for the kind of bandage you’re supposed to use, of course.”

“If it looks neater than a shoddy paper towel job, ‘should be fine. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Here.”

He stares at her outstretched hand. She stares back, getting more irritated as she waits.

“What?”

“... It’s a Chappy bandaid.”

“So?”

“So why are you a grown ass woman carrying around Chappy bandaids?”

“They’re for my patients, for kids.” She’s telling the truth, technically. To say she also quite enjoys Chappy as a character does not need to be mentioned. “Do you want it or not? Swallow your manly pride or go looking for an ugly beige bandage while your tickets pile up again. Tick tock.”

“Fine! All right, already.” He takes the bandaid and starts unpeeling the paper adhesive. “You a pediatrician or something?”

“Child psychologist.” Suddenly Rukia remembers Hina’s sweet face and feels terrible for not thinking about her once this entire dinner.

“Jesus.” Ichigo’s shaking his head, pressing Chappy to his cut.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the guilt, maybe it’s the fact that it’s such a weird response to her revealing her profession, but Rukia can’t help it. She narrows her eyes and crosses her arms.

If he’s uncomfortable with her sudden hostility, he doesn’t show it. He shrugs. “It’s just… I can imagine it’s a hard job. Sometimes, anyway.”

Oh.

“Oh,” she exhales. “I’m sorry, I--yes. It can be, yes.I just… That sort of response I’ve only ever gotten from people that don’t believe in the importance of mental health. ‘Shrink talk’ and what have you.”

“Nah, I believe it.” He’s finished his job of covering his wound and moved on to his next drink order.

She’s abashedly stirring the ice in her glass when she barely hears him say: “I had to go to a children’s therapist once, as a kid. Helped me a lot.”

She raises her head to look at him. He hasn’t changed his facial expression, nor is there any change to his body language as he continues to do his job--but as a psychologist, Rukia can’t help but wonder whether she’s the first person he’s ever told this to.

“Me too. When I was a child, I… A therapist had helped me, too.” She raises her glass and clears her throat. “To recognizing childhood trauma, I suppose.”

He lets out a short laugh at the sudden dark joke, a sound so quick and so… So nice she can’t stop the fleeting thought that it’s a sound she’d like to hear more of. She shoves it away.

Bartenders are absolutely off limits.

He raises the glass that he’s mixing a cocktail in. “Yeah. Cheers.”

Later when she finally picks up the check, she pauses.

“Excuse me.” She waves Ichigo down, maybe just a tad tipsy. “You got the check wrong.”

He frowns, taking the bill from her and scanning it. “What are you…”

“You forgot to put a drink on there. My third one.”

It clicks and he rolls his eyes. “Oh my god.”

“What? I’m being honest.”

“It’s on me.” He slides the receipt back to her.

“But I didn’t dislike any of the dishes!”

“Take some advice, will you Doc? If the restaurant staff didn’t put something on your bill and you still got it, chances are: we wanted to give it to you.” They lock eyes for an intense moment before he clears his throat, looks down to wipe his (suspiciously clean) bar. “‘To childhood trauma,’ and all that. Now stop yapping so loud about it. You want everyone in the restaurant to hear about me giving out free stuff?”

She shuts her mouth at that, but one small detail about what he said is bothering her.

“It’s not ‘Doc,’ so you know. I have a name. It’s Rukia. Rukia Kuchiki.”

“Okay. Whatever, Rukia.” He turns around and waves his hand. “And I’m Ichigo. Just pay your damn bill and come back soon or whatever.”

And with that: she guesses she has a new spot.

#bleach #ichiruki #irmonth2021 #ichigo kurosaki #rukia kuchiki #my stuff #may or may not be multi chapter if I'm being reeeal #but this was fun so maybe

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brokenangelwings22 · 3 years

Text

Here's probably my only entry for IHweek. I've finally returned to writing. This is an excerpt from chapter 2 of my story Come Back Down to Earth. You can read the first chapter either on AO3 or FanFiction

Confession (IHweek 7/4) Please enjoy!

Chapter 2: Crawled In and Never Left

Give me the chance to tonight

I'll prove to you what's in my eyes

(It’s My Turn To Fly - The Urge - Titan AE soundtrack 2000)

Ichigo considered himself a reasonable man, but his patience was growing thin with his roommate.

“C’mon, man! You had a solid chance with Hime last night!” Renji pleaded with him. “Why are you so obtuse?”

“That’s an awfully big word for you.” Ichigo rolled his eyes at his friend. “Ever think of taking your own advice with Rukia?”

Renji let out a long suffering sigh. “You’re both hopeless, and therefore perfect for each other.”

“I’m perfectly happy with how things are with Hime. I don’t want to chance it.”

Renji pulled out a box of pretzel sticks from the cupboard. He fixed a concerned look on his face, and the seriousness unnerved Ichigo.

“Look. I’m not gonna force you. Even if I think you’re absolutely nuts not to. I will, however, point out that you’re an idiot for not telling her how you feel.” Renji pulled out a piece of pretzel and pointed it at Ichigo to emphasize his thought. “You’re gonna lose her one day if you continue to be ridiculous.”

Ichigo narrowed his eyes as his scowl persisted. “You think I am not aware of that?”

Renji placed the stick between his teeth and grinned toothily. “Yup!”

A sleepy noise came from behind the two men just as Ichigo opened his mouth to snap at his friend.

“Mm morning guys,” Orihime yawned as she stepped into the kitchen. “Any coffee? It’s too early.”

“Sorry Hime. Were we too loud?” Ichigo asked, his previous scowl morphing to something more kind.

“No,” she murmured. Her voice was still thick with sleep. She stumbled a little, bumping into Ichigo. “Oh hi wall. You smell nice.” Orihime leaned into his chest and snuggled him.

There was a strangled sound from Renji as he watched the young woman wrap her arms loosely around Ichigo’s waist. Instinctively, Ichigo wrapped his arms around her to steady her.

“Renji,” Ichigo said softly as to not disturb Orihime. “Please brew some coffee for her.”

“Jeez if I had known that Hime could instantly dissolve your sour mood with an embrace, I’d handcuff you both together.” Renji grumbled and shook his head, walking over to the coffeemaker on the counter.

Ichigo hummed a distracted acknowledgement as he idly stroked Orihime’s long auburn hair. She snuggled into his broad chest further. “Thanks. I’ll move her back to her room.” He was already moving towards the living room as he heard Renji’s snarky reply.

“Oh take your time. I’m merely here to serve.”

~*~*~*~

Ichigo sighed heavily as he stepped out from Orihime’s room and shut the door behind him quietly. He turned to walk down the short hallway, only to stop dead in his tracks when he saw his two friends standing a few feet away with evil grins on their faces. Squaring his shoulders and fixing a glare at Renji and Rukia, he taunted “Don’t you both have something better to do? Like, absolutely anything?”

Rukia’s grin sharpened further. “Nah, we’re more interested in heckling you.”

Ichigo grumbled, raking his fingers through his unruly hair. “Yeah yeah. You’re both insufferable.”

He flicked Rukia’s forehead and smacked Renji’s upper back swiftly as he moved to leave.

Rukia’s retort was loud as she declared, “And YOU are the annoying brother I never asked for and yet somehow got!”

Renji’s muttering was barely noticeable under the small woman’s rage. “C’mon, Rukia. Let’s leave him be.”

Ichigo rolled his eyes, stepping around the ornery woman and made his way to the kitchen. Of course, Renji was right. It annoyed him to no end that he hadn’t spoken with Orihime about how he felt towards her. Hell, if he were being honest, he knew that he was in love with her at first sight.

She’d stumbled into his dad’s clinic, buckling under the weight of her brother’s prone body. This girl, only 12 at the time, carried her six foot and change older brother from the scene of the car accident all the way there. She was battered and bruised from the wreckage too. It broke him to his very soul when he had to tell her that his father was unable to save Orihime’s brother. The ambulance Isshin had called to rush him to the trauma ward of the hospital had simply not gotten there in enough time.

He did his best to console Orihime, who collapsed in a heap on the clinic floor. Her clothes were soiled with dirt and caked in her brother’s blood.

Yuzu had entered the room, and with a kind and understanding voice, ushered the broken girl to the bathroom to wash up. Orihime stayed at his house for several days, mostly walking around with mechanical movements, much like a zombie or a robot, just going through the motions of a semblance of normalcy. At night she’d cry herself to sleep. Ichigo stayed by her side when she was awake, and would help her to bed when she could barely stay up right.

Slowly, but surely, Orihime processed the loss of her brother. Ichigo stuck to her like glue, promising her and to himself that he would always be there to protect her. Orihime professed her gratitude to him soon after she moved back to her apartment, telling him that she was eternally grateful for everything he had done. As time went on, they became inseparable. They went to the same middle school and then high school, which introduced them to new friends that they quickly established into a tight-knit group.

Orihime had grown up beautifully. Her smile, warm and bright, had the ability to render him speechless and lightheaded. He felt invincible and vulnerable all at once. Far too many times, their friends would catch him when he was slack-jawed and mindless, teasing him mercilessly when Orihime wasn’t looking.

He began calling her ‘Hime’ their senior year. He hadn’t meant to, but it just slipped out. She had been followed by a group of boys who often flocked around her, taken by her beauty and her curvaceous body. One of them had ventured to put a hand on her shoulder without permission and Ichigo had snapped. Any restraint he had frayed instantly and before he understood what was happening, he had slammed the cretin against the wall and threatened him.

“You don’t touch women without consent, especially Hime.” He growled at the other guy, clenching the offending limb.

Orihime had called his name softly, telling Ichigo to let the man go, and he had simultaneously dropped him and her request. Ichigo made it a point to be by her side every chance he had. To protect her, love her from a distance if need be. It was enough, at that time.

But once Ichigo, Orihime and their friends entered university, the strain to keep a tight seal over his feelings became increasingly more difficult. His best friend flourished in academics and her social life expanded to include other people outside of their small group. With that also came obstacles, and Ichigo had to fend off more than a few of Orihime’s admirers.

Ichigo gripped the handle of the carafe of coffee angrily at the memory. The steam and scent of the hot brew brought him back to the present. He sighed after loosening his grip and poured two cups, adding cream and sugar to Orihime’s.

Soft footfalls behind him reached his ears, along with a quiet yawn. A grin spread on his lips as Orihime came into view.

Orihime blinked away the remnants of sleep from her eyes, smiling brightly at Ichigo when he offered her the cup he’d gotten for her.

Taking a big sip, she sighed happily. “Thanks, Ichigo. You always know how to make my coffee just how I like it.”

Ichigo smiled gently at her, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Well, after knowing you for ten years, I’d like to think I know you well enough to get your preferences right.”

Orihime giggled and gazed up at him from behind the mug pressed to her lips. “You do, and I’m grateful for that. Lord knows why Rukia insists on adding extra sugar and Tatsuki puts in too little cream. You are a hero among men, good sir.”

Ichigo’s smile widened at Orihime’s playfulness. “I try my best, m’lady.”

“Where are Rukia and Renji?” Orihime asked as she looked around the kitchen.

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Hopefully somewhere off annoying someone else more deserving.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

Orihime snorted bemusedly, shaking her head in disbelief as he tried to sound convincingly bored and grumpy. She raised her hand to place it on his right cheek in a fond manner.

“What am I going to do with you?” Her question came out more flirtatious than she intended.

Ichigo’s eyes widened at her sweet gesture and instantly leaned into her touch, closing his eyes and revelling in it. He had never realized how touch starved he truly was until Orihime would step into his personal space with her warm smile and kind gaze. It was as if that one thing, a fleeting brush of her fingers, or a soothing embrace had the ability to heal his wounded heart or eradicate any scar left on his soul.

Losing his mother at such a young age had made him a hardened and angry child. He blamed himself for her death, believing that if he had done something, spent more time with her, taken care of her and his sisters more, that she may very well have recovered from cancer. But his father had explained to him many times that the disease was caught too late, and the malignancy had metastasized from her cervix to her uterus and ovaries very quickly. Ichigo was still struggling with the loss of his mother two years later, when Orihime stumbled into their clinic with her brother.

He’d figured that no matter how miserable and heart wrenching it was, he had found purpose in consoling Orihime. It gave him unbelievable strength to bond with her over the loss. Helping her ultimately helped him as well in the end. The desire to be with her only grew. It had crawled in and never left. He’d become greedy for it, overthrown by his desperation to be close to the light that was Orihime.

She continued to lightly graze his cheekbone with soft brushes against him, her warm fingers causing pleasant tingles on his skin.

Orihime cupped the side of his face as she watched in awe how he was drawn to her touch, feeling the soft smile that pulled at his lips. When he raised his hand to place it over hers, she felt herself being pulled by an invisible force, almost magnetic. He had always been like that, and she adored being the one that he let in entirely. She stroked his cheek and began to pull her palm away until he held fast to her. His eyes fluttered open, and the look he had in them made the breath catch in her throat.

“Ichi-“ she murmured breathlessly.

The raw emotion that flashed in his dark amber gaze made her spine tingle, her heart stutter and her cheeks warm. He had the ability to render her tongue-tied with the flicker of something deep and foreign to her. Ichigo pulled her into his arms, finally allowing her hand to move, and she found herself slipping it to the back of his neck and burying her fingers into his soft hair. He wrapped his arms about her, pulling her to his lean, muscular body and sighed happily as Orihime sifted her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp comfortingly.

Orihime pressed her ear over his heart, as he towered over her five foot one frame. The thumping, strong sound of it beating quieted her mind immediately. He slid his hands up and down her back, and she felt herself melt into it.

“I… I just need this, Hime.” Ichigo’s whisper filtered into her ear as he pressed his lips to her temple, sending a shiver through her body. Though quiet, she heard the fervency in his tone. She nodded against him, continuing her movements through his hair. She felt him shudder in their embrace and the breathless ‘thank you’ that he uttered.

“Were you thinking about something?” Orihime whispered back, her eyebrows drawing inwards as the possibility fluttered through her mind.

Ichigo nodded, letting out a stuttering sigh. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it. I’m better now.”

She hummed thoughtfully at his response, resigning herself to his simple answer. She wouldn’t push him further.

Finally Ichigo pulled back from her to look her in the eyes. His gaze was still intense, as it flickered with what she could only identify as resolve and something far much more akin to what she assumed she wore as an expression often in his presence. It made her heart skip a beat and her mind to race at the possibilities.

“Hime,” he murmured. The way he said her name was like an urgent plea. It caused her stomach to swoop down like she was on an out of control rollercoaster. She waited on baited breath as he gathered his thoughts.

Ichigo’s mind was restless. His need to put into words how he felt about her, loved her, desired her rushed through and permeated the recesses of his brain. He should’ve been used to the intensity of it by now, but he most certainly wasn’t. The way she watched him gave him strength to form the words, stilling the overbearing thoughts warring to leave his mouth.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered. His simple response was anything but, knowing deep down that this could make or break their friendship. The smile she gave him nearly shut down his brain entirely.

“What took you so long?” Orihime breathed before Ichigo’s mouth was on hers, his lips holding nothing back as kissed her with all the desperation and hunger of a man starved. The radiating joy splashed over the burning desire thundering through his veins.

Orihime parted her lips as she let out a sound that would’ve embarrassed her outside of this situation. Instead, she felt exhilarated to an immeasurable degree. Her body quaked at the reverence and pure heat he poured into it. It was as if the dam of years of keeping everything bottled up in fear of losing each other burst and flooded them all at once.

She clenched her fingers in his hair as he delved his tongue into her mouth. Orihime felt her body fight between melting and being drawn taught, like a string on a bow. Ichigo’s hands slid down to her hips, flexing and gripping at her flannel pajama pants and flesh. She angled her head when he held her firmly, seeking out his tongue with her own.

Ichigo was quickly lost in the taste of her skin, the sounds she made and the feel of her. His nerve endings felt like they had caught fire. It was a sensory overload in everything Orihime. If he didn’t think he was greedy before, he certainly was now.

~~~(TBC)~~~

I certainly hope you all liked this! I should have the chapter finished bit up fairly soon. Thanks so much for reading!

Also— I’m uncertain why this isn’t showing up in the tags, so I’ll try it again.

#ihweek2021 #ichigo kurosaki #orihime inoue #ichigo x orihime

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malfoys-demigod · 4 years

Text

All These Years - Spencer Reid x Reader

Requested by anon: Ahoy, could u write a Spencer fic where Readers adopted parents are unsubs on the case she & the team are working on? She doesn't get on with them, so the FBI are her real family. She's badass, and even Morgan is a bit scared of her when she gets the confession out of them. Behind the glass, Spencer is talking to him and Rossi about asking you to become his girlfriend and move in with him after you've been dating for a while but have been best friends for years.

Warnings: Abuse, death, etc.

“I hate Las Vegas,” I complained, saying ‘Las Vegas’ with disgust. “I may have lived there, but I will never consider it my home.”

“What’s in Las Vegas, Lil mama? Got yourself an actual boyfriend you’re hiding from Reid?” Morgan joked, sitting across us in the jet. I gave Morgan a serious look, causing him to put his hands up in defeat, terrified, “I’m sorry, you must really hate it there.”

I looked at Spencer, who must have been sad but understanding as he knew my reasons, “You know you’re the only thing I don’t hate about Vegas, right?” I held his hand tightly. Las Vegas was something I did not take to heart lightly. It may have been the place I first met Spencer since we were neighbors, but it was also the place where my parents died and where my adopted family raised me.

I never did love my new family. I sometimes wished I was in the car with my parents where they died. My new family only took me in, hoping I was a potential move to higher their social standing. You see, they were what Rose in Titanic called, ‘new money’ and they wanted their image to look good by becoming a ‘four-member household family. So when I was 5 years old, my new parents Robert and Maria took me out of foster care into their family, along with their son, Peter.

When they saw that I wasn’t into their pretentious and insecure life, they immediately shut me down, ignoring my needs and wants, only doing things to me that would help their image look better. That’s where I got my rebellious and cold side. Every time I was brought to galas and high-class events, I’d always take the chance to spite and humiliate them, attempting to embarrass them. I became a strong person at a young age as they physically abused me after each spite done to them once we were at home. From there on, I knew my actions had consequences, so I decided to save myself from more bruises and scars. Nobody at my age at these high-class events liked me. They could sniff that I wasn’t one of them, so I was friendless. That was until Spencer moved, residing beside me. I knew he wasn’t one of those socialists so we became friends. It was too unfortunate that we never went to the same schools as he went to a public school while I went to a private one. I thought I could manage different schools but at the age of 12, my best friend moved to California to attend college at Caltech. He once too thought it was the end of our friendship, but I told him to wait 6 years for me as I planned on running away for college. And I did. That’s where I got my independence.

I grew strongly independent as I saved up all my allowances these 6 years to finally run away to California. I wasn’t accepted into Caltech but I managed to get into the University of Southern California which was only 20 minutes away from Spencer who was getting his doctorates, meaning I still had the chance to see him, and I did almost every day.

When I finished University and when he finished getting his two doctorates, we applied together into the FBI academy, becoming agents at the Behaviour Analysis Unit. The team found it cute and humorous how we were best of friends, making them play matchmaker a few years after, managing us to going out together. We’re not yet labeled as ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’ yet but we’re somewhere there and it was good enough for them, especially Morgan.

Despite having a case that revolved around the mass killings of socialites, I still prayed that my family was dead or that I wouldn’t bump into them while working on the case. But I was wrong. I found out my brother Peter was one of the latest casualties whose body was dumped and we managed to pin an unsub, a Michael Brown, who was rejected from high-class society and killed the socialites he encountered, but he confessed that he didn’t kill Peter. The team was hesitant to believe him, but I did. As Spencer and I were rewatching my parents of television, begging to stop the murders, I found their body language quite odd.

After convincing Hotch that there was something weird about them, we traveled to my old house, interviewing them. It was challenging, seeing them after so long. They didn’t even bother taking a second look at me as they preferred to talk to the rest of the team. I knew they were disappointed in me leaving but I was the only one who could get them into confessing.

I made my way into the living room where they sat to talk with Morgan. “Let me talk to them, Derek,” I asked politely but seriously. “Y/N, we don’t want to talk to you-” “LISTEN TO ME.” I forcefully interrupted, “I know there’s something up between you to and you better tell me quickly. I want to get out of this state as quickly as possible.” I screamed, scarring my parents to jump.

“I-I didn’t do anything.” my mother stuttered.

“‘I’ so that means you didn’t kill him,” I then turned to my father, “But he did.” My mother jumped and went on her knees, crying her eyes out, “P-please, your father didn’t mean it, he was only trying to lecture Peter. It was an accident.”

“So let me guess, you helped him dump Peter’s body somewhere far away from this house and tried to frame it on Michael Brown? Fucking pathetic, mother. We’ll be discussing more of this at the police department.” I said, looking at the team, “Let’s go.”

As I walked with Spencer, hand-in-hand, Morgan followed behind, patting my back, “That was badass, Y/N. I’m again sorry for that joke in the jet, I didn’t know.”

“Not to worry, Morgan,” I reassured him.

On the way to the police department, Spencer wrapped an arm around me, holding me tightly, “I’m sorry about Peter and your parents, love.” I placed my head on his shoulders, “There’s nothing you have to be sorry about. My family never loved me. In fact, they aren’t my family, I consider you and the team my family.”

SPENCER’S POV

As we arrived, Y/N asked me if I could take her place to follow up on any questions with Rossi behind the glass. I was beyond grateful for this opportunity as I wanted to talk to her parents.

Before entering I stopped Rossi, “I don’t think there’s anything to follow up with them concerning the case but I was wondering if you could sit with me as I tell them something concerning Y/N and me.” Rossi smirked, knowing where this would go and nodded, “Anything for you, kid.”

When we stepped in, Y/N’s parents looked up as they saw me, a familiar face. “I still can’t believe you and Y/N are still in touch, in fact, working alongside each other.” Maria faintly smiled. “How was she been?”

“For your information, she’s been flourishing.” I proudly said.

“Oh?”

“Yes, after she left you, she attended University at the University of Southern California, graduating top of her class with honors. We were 20 minutes away from each other so I’d constantly helped her in her academics and made sure I was there for her all the time.”

“You’ve been a good friend, Dr. Reid.” Maria nodded.

“Well, we’re more than friends actually. We’re not exactly boyfriend and girlfriend yet but we’ve been going out for quite some time and we’ve been happy together. We complete each other. I love her with all of my heart and I just want to let you know that I’m planning to ask her to be my girlfriend and have her move in with me. I don’t need your permission, I’m just letting you know.” I said full-heartedly, looking at Rossi who gave me a small thumbs up.

Before Maria could speak, Robert finally spoke up, “Well we just want you to know that despite our reputation has shattered, we’re glad Y/N has someone like you to be by her side when we didn’t. You two will make a great couple.” he faintly said.

“Thank you, and I know we will.” I stood up, walking out with Rossi who still hasn’t left his smirk.

“When are you going to tell her, kid?” he asked

“Now,” I replied.

I ran outside the interrogation room, only to find her sitting at a desk, patiently waiting for me. As she saw me, she stood up walking towards me, “How’d it go-” I stopped her by kissing her passionately, wrapping my arms around her body. As we let go, I took a deep breath and said, “Y/N, I love you so much, you know that.” I spoke, “It’s about time I ask you to be my girlfriend and move in with me. Will you do me the honor and accept?”

She happily nodded, “I accept a thousand times.” she hugged me, “The only thing good about Vegas is you, Spence and that’s not a coincidence.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid imagines #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid oneshots #mgg #matthew gray gubler #criminal minds #BAU #BAU team #requested #prompts #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic

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sorcerersofnyc · 3 years

Text

The Last Thing Left (Zemo x F!Reader) 6/9

If it wasn’t so painfully ironic (and hilarious to watch,) Helmut would find the relationship between Sam and James a little sad.

Ghosts weren’t enough to hold two people together.

While they wait for Torres to locate Donya Madani, Zemo brings Sam and Bucky to the home he once shared with you.

You reunite and he reflects upon his relationship with you (his wife’s friend and his friend’s wife) and your journey from being people with mutual friends to partners.

Chapter 6: When he wakes up beside you, Zemo remembers the day everything changed.

Angst, various mentions of death & mourning, Zemo’s wife’s name is Heike because of comics. Implied alcoholism by Zemo as a means to deal with his guilt. I use Serbian Cyrillic as a stand-in for Sokovian. The reader likes waffles (this is a non-negotiable fact).

Note: Main Character is neutral in most regards, but the story was written with my own cultural background in mind. (In other words, I won’t say what she looks like but I envision her as being black.)

First Chapter | Previous

***

Grief softens, but it never truly leaves.

So when Helmut wakes beside you, he isn’t surprised to find grief there as well. Pain has been a constant companion over the years but today’s grief is nothing but a dull throb in his chest.

He had a dream about his wife again. It wasn’t a sad dream, it didn’t hurt to look upon her face, but his heart ached for her regardless.

In his dream, she was happy, happy to sit and chat in a home that wasn’t quite in Sokovia or Spain, but rather a mix of them both. You were there, too, laughing and smiling alongside her.

She was taking the time to explain something to him, something you already seemed to understand. You both laughed when he failed to get the joke.

With a sigh, Helmut sits up in his bed and turns toward the window.

It’s dawn. The rising sun baths the room in an orangy-pink glow and you sleep soundly beside him. He traces little circles unto your shoulder as he thinks about breakfast, what might he make for you. The answer is obvious, really.

He then turns his thoughts toward his mission, whether or not Sam’s associate would locate Madani soon.

He also thinks about what you may do if he kissed you awake.

He thinks about many things as you sleep beside him.

And as he listens to the steady rhythm of your breath, he thinks that he’s truly happy.

***

You never asked what happened to Vasily Zaev and Helmut didn’t offer.

News of his death never reached any headlines in Spain or any other International News Broadcast for that matter.

There were the occasional rumors of a scandal, many of which were exacerbated by social media, but nothing outside the ordinary.

His demise was attributed to liver failure and he’d given his entire inheritance to a young woman about a quarter of his age. Tragic indeed.

In the weeks that followed that night at the Opera, you took an interest in his work. There would be no more missions like the one with Vasily (none would ever be that easy and he didn’t like to see you so scared,) but there were plenty of opportunities to conduct research.

And on some nights, you’d talk about more than just mission, nights when you shared your hopes and dreams for the future, your past sorrows, and secret anxieties.

He’d sit with you while you worked on your art, bought you flowers when you completed a commissioned project, and asked plenty of questions about some of your more unorthodox means.

Sometimes you’d take breaks together and watch television or read.

It was strange, just like the day you first hugged him, Helmut felt as though the two of you had breached something.

He now knew where you were born, how you became involved in the arts, how you felt the night you met Dominik at Heike’s dinner party, (“I always thought she set us up on purpose, but she always denied that she did.”)

It was those stories, those small, stolen moments that made him see you differently.

So by the time autumn settled and painted the leaves orange, red and brown, you were no longer just a friend his wife had—you weren’t even the wife of a friend that he had.

You were a friend to him as well.

“Have you seen this?” You asked one day, sitting right beside him on the couch. You were so close, Helmut could feel the heat of your body pressed up against him.

“See what?” He asked, though he knew what you would say.

��This article.” You slid your phone closer to him, leaned forward so close that the curve of your bosom pressed against his arm for just a moment before you leaned away. For the sake of your pride, he pretended not to notice.

The articles mattered more than creating an awkward situation.

He learned that you found articles about the Avengers to be the most interesting. Each headline would often read something like: ‘Accountability: Who Pays for the Avengers’ Mistakes?’ or ‘Sokovia Six Months Later’ and ‘‘Banning Ironman? One Minister Holds Firm.’

They were engrossing.

“They say the U.N. may get involved.” You said one day. “What do you think would happen if they did?”

“Something I’d like to see.” Was his thoughtful reply. And it was true; because even with your help, even as you grew closer together, the weight of his promise still bore down upon him.

The weight of his failure still haunted his sleep.

So for every moment he spent with you, he worked ten times harder. He worked late into the night to complete his research, learned everything he could about the Avengers and the Winter Soldier to complete his plans.

He had to work; he had no choice. Because every laugh, every smile, every lingering glance, every reprieve from his grief was a betrayal to that promise he made to his family—because happiness, even for a moment, meant that he had forgotten them.

There was no other way to justify his actions. In what other way could he be happy in a world where his family was dead?

He hoped to find the answers at the bottom of a bottle, but scotch, whiskey, brandy, and vodka, couldn’t provide a balm for his soul. Not the way your smile did.

So clearly drinking was his only option, the safest option, because he couldn’t let his thoughts linger on you.

He couldn’t compromise his mission.

But then one day, in mid-November, something changed.

Helmut read the headline for an article he knew would suit your fancy, but you didn’t come down for breakfast to discuss it with him, nor did you open when he knocked on your door.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” you told him—but you never came.

You left your room around noon but you barely spoke a word.

Helmut should have been happy for the opportunity to work, the chance to focus without you stealing his gaze, but he couldn’t ignore the lump that formed in the back of his throat when his thoughts drifted to you.

Over the past 7 months, you encouraged him to talk about his feeling, to open up more—but it seemed you weren’t interested in doing the same.

You left the house a word to him.

So Helmut waited for you to return:

He conducted his research and decrypted more files.

He brewed a pot of coffee.

He prepared lunch.

Had a glass of whiskey.

He checked his phone for messages but found nothing from you.

He reorganized your spice cabinets, bringing the most used containers to the front.

He checked his phone again.

Had a glass of whiskey.

And finally, when evening arrived and you still hadn’t come home to him, Helmut went into your room without permission.

He was careful not to disturb your things, (even if he wanted nothing more than to pick your stray socks off the floor,) and looked around the space.

There were books and magazines neatly stacked across every surface, their genres ranged from art and fashion to relationships and grief.

He lingered on that last title before turning his attention to a paper on your nightstand. The page was wrinkled, spotted, and ripped in many places, but he knew what it was before he even held it in his hands.

It was the letter Dominik kept in his pocket, the one he held on to so tightly, the one he had with him when he died.

He frowned, and his eyebrows knit together in concern for you.

You were grieving, and your grief had taken you backward, back to the promise of a simpler time. The letter was filled with the musings of budding love, a love that had grown and flourished before the cruelties of life intervened.

Helmut understood the unpredictable nature of grief, how it came and went without reason or regard, how days or even months could go by before it returned in full force.

So he set the letter down with a sigh and left your room as quickly as he came. You arrived home 20 minutes later.

“Hello,” He greeted you by the door.

“Oh—hi.” You paused by the door, a bag of groceries in hand. He followed you into the kitchen.

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” He asked.

“No, I’m… I got it.” You placed the bag on the counter, unloading a bag of flour, eggs, and a box of powdered cocoa.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” You said, but then pause when you opened the spice cabinet. Your movements slowed before you stilled completely.

“Helmut? Did you…”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s just… I…”

Helmut didn’t know it at the time, but Dominik would organize your cabinets when he returned from duty. It was his way of telling you he was home if you weren’t there to greet him.

It was that gesture that broke you.

You placed both your hands over your mouth but even that couldn’t force back your cry. “I’m sorry,” you apologized, “I’m sorry—I’m ok,” you lied, but it only seemed to make you cry harder.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Helmut spoke softly. With a hand on your shoulder, he turned you around to face him but you only shook your head. "Let me help you.”

It took a few more moments of coaxing, but once you calmed, you told him everything.

“His… his birthday is next week.” You said, and it didn’t take a genius to know who you were speaking of. “He wanted me to bake a cake.”

You set a yearly reminder to try new recipes a week in advance, a reminder you’d gotten that morning. “Sometimes I look down at my ring and I still can’t believe it. That’s I’m a...that I’m a widow.” Your voice shook around the word and you sniffled again.

Helmut walked you over to the table, helped you sit on a chair, and poured you a glass of Chardonnay.

“… I never wanted to move to Sokovia—did he tell you that?” He did, but Helmut thought it best not to interrupt you. “I wanted to be with him but I never would have considered it before I met Heike… but I loved him, Helmut, I loved him so much and he promised I’d be happy. There are days when I wake up and-” You didn’t finish that sentence, but he thought he knew what you’d say. There were days when you’d wake up and wonder why you were saved, why your loved ones died and you survived. He didn’t know if you remembered, but you told him this before, on the day he first brought you to Spain.

“… He used to wonder if he made a mistake,” Helmut started, “If he’d done you a disservice by asking you to move when his duties kept him away.” He released a bitter laugh at the memory. “He asked me once if he were selfish.”

“What did you say?”

“That he was.” Helmut shrugged, remembering the look of resignation that crossed his friend’s face, a look you then mirrored exactly.

Helmut put his hand on your shoulder.

“He was selfish, but he didn’t make a mistake… your happiness wasn’t wasted and he’d want you to be happy again.” After all, you didn’t fail Dominik. You hadn’t given him a false sense of security, a promise of safety away from the fighting—Not like he had with his own family.

At first, you looked as though he said something outrageous, something you couldn’t quite believe. But then you nodded, releasing your emotions with a shuddering sigh.

“You’re right… he would want me to, want us both to…”

He sat beside you for the rest of the night. He’d listened to you talk and then when there was nothing left to say, he sat with you in peaceful silence, your head against his shoulder.

And on his birthday, Helmut helped you bake a cake.

You stood in the kitchen together, mixing batter and flouring pans. The sweet scent of your creation spread and the home you shared was filled with joy and warm memories.

By the time you finished, you were exhausted, so he offered to take you to the best restaurant in the city.

It was the least he could do for you.

When you arrived, Helmut told the hostess of your reservation—Zemo, a party of two—and she checked his name off a long list that he somehow managed to get ahead of. The hostess noticed your wedding bands, and as she stepped away from the podium, she said,

‘De esta manera, el señor y la señora Zemo.’ Right this way, Mister and Misses Zemo.

Your eyes growing to the size of dinner plates as you turned to him, but he kept his gaze settled on the hostess, his jaw set closed.

It was an honest mistake, one he’s sure others made before, but to hear it said aloud was baffling. He intended to correct the young lady, but she gestured for you to follow before he thought of what to say.

If he said you were friends, others would presume you were having an affair. Normally, the opinions of others wouldn’t concern him, but he didn’t want anyone to think badly of you.

“That was weird,” you said. “I forgot people must think we’re…”

“Should I have corrected her?”

“It was an honest mistake, nothing worth embarrassing her over.”

And that was that.

You both agreed to treat it as a joke, to have fun with the idea because the alternative, explaining how you came to be together, was much worse.

And besides, Helmut thought while taking in his second cocktail, it wasn’t exactly hard to feign some level of attraction to you; you looked beautiful that night. He liked the way your formal clothing fit around your curves, and the way your heels gave shape to your legs.

He felt immediately guilty for that, however, and followed that guilt with another sip of his drink.

But that night wasn’t the only time someone mistook the two of you for a couple. Like meeting someone whose face one begins to see everywhere they go, he began to notice it more and more.

When he signed for your packages the delivery person would look at his ring and never bother to ask for familial confirmation. The old woman at the bakery would smile a secret, knowing, smile when he asked for two pastries to take home with him. The list of culprits went on and on. Everywhere he went people saw his ring and they’d assume he had a wife at home—that you were his wife at home.

On a gloomy day in January, you convinced him to visit an art gala with you. You made a group of friends around the area but one fell violently ill after a trip to New Jersey. You didn’t want to go alone so he agreed to put his work on hold for the evening.

You lead him to a room of abstract paintings and his attention was torn between the open bar and dizzying array of dark shapes pressed across the underside of a canvas. He couldn’t appreciate the work the same way you did, but he tried.

As he looked for what you described as ‘the emotional turmoil conveyed by the paint strokes,’ you drifted to the next piece and a gentleman approached you.

He was tall, with neatly trimmed hair and a clean-shaven face. The man seemed to recognize you from somewhere and offered his deepest condolences for Sokovia.

“Thank you,” you nodded.

“It was a genuine tragedy, a modern-day Pompeii.” His words gave you a reason to pause, which he seemed to take as permission to wax poetic about Sokovia’s demise in some futile attempt to prove his intellectual prowess.

“Yes, well, thanks for that.” You continued on politely. He didn’t seem to notice the exasperated edge. He opened his mouth to say something else, to perhaps touch you on the shoulder, and Helmut made the immediate decision to ensure that didn’t happen.

“Драга,” Dear, he called as he approached you, placing his hand on your lower back. “I’ve brought you a drink.” Helmut offered you the cocktail from the table, one he was about to drink himself before the man made you uncomfortable. You smiled, a look of relief on your face.

The man was no genuine threat, probably just a lover of art, but something in the way he looked at you, the way his gaze drifted from your face to your wedding band and the instant look of shame that overtook his (admittedly handsome) features, gave his intentions away—and Helmut didn’t like his intentions at all.

“Хвала ти љубави,” Thank you, my love, you replied with the mischievous smile you adopted whenever someone mistook you for being his wife. It was a playful flirtation, one that meant nothing.

Helmut greeted the man with a simple nod, pretending to have been oblivious to his blatant flirting, before guiding you away.

“I never would have thought to compare the destruction of Sokovia at the hands of an Artificial Intelligence to the eruption of Mount Vesuvius near Pompeii. How truly genius.” He said in a mocking tone.

“Stop that,” you nudged him, hushed laughter in your voice.

“I hope that isn’t what passes as flirting these days.”

“Flirting? He wasn’t flirting.”

Helmut struck you with a judgemental look. You tilted your head in contemplation.

“He wasn’t flirting,” you repeat. “It was just weird, that’s not really a topic most people bring up at parties.” You finally slowed your steps and you looked at a statue in the center of the room. It was clearly meant to represent a couple, but their abstract forms created a tangle of limbs that hurt his eyes to look at.

It was then he decided he hated contemporary art.

You took a sip of your drink—his drink—and turned to him. Your eyes met briefly, and you smiled, your eyes sparkling with mischievous glee.

“Let’s see what’s in the next room, душо,” Honey. You exaggerate.

“Of course, драга, lead the way.” You hooked your arm around his and you explored the rest of the gallery.

Eventually, you reached the main lobby where you set your empty glass on a table with dozens of others. An orchestra played a mix of soft melodies and something he thought to be tunes from an action movie. The music found it’s underscore in the murmurs of the guests who indulged themselves in cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.

He watched them for a moment and a dark feeling filled his belly.

This was the life he should have been living—perhaps not at a gaudy contemporary art gallery but something just as fabulous and amazing. This was the life you deserved to live.

Had it not been for Ultron, for the Avengers and others like them, he’d be enjoying this life between missions and military tours.

He might have even retired early, lived his life in bliss.

He felt angry, distraught, and disappointed all at once. So many dangerous thoughts spun around in his head and without even thinking, he looked at you. In his moment of grief and self-pity, he looked toward you to anchor him.

Your eyes landed on the couples swaying back and forth on the polished floor of the gallery. He noticed how close you stood to him, how your arm wrapped around his, the way your hand rested on his forearm.

He took a breath and he made himself smile.

“Would you like to dance, драга?”

“I’ve seen you dance, Helmut. I don’t.”

“You wound me.” He said, pulling you toward the others anyway. “You’ve yet to see me waltz.” (Or perhaps you did, at his wedding or your own, but it wasn’t the time to bring that up.)

He unraveled his arm from your and slid into position, pulling you close.

“You remember the steps, don’t you?” He asked because you had far less practice waltzing than he did. You nodded, but your eyes proved less certain than the gesture implied. “Don’t worry, I’ll lead.”

And he did.

Helmut led you through the steps of the dance, a simple box step he mastered many years ago.

“I think people are looking at us,” you whispered.

“They can take notes,” he replied. You were the only person in his gaze.

You anchored him; your kindness, your friendship, your playful banter, and your outlandish sense of design. With you he felt like less of a failure, his grief softened and he could see a clear path forward in your eyes—an alternate path if he was strong enough to take it.

But the U.N. taking actions against the Avengers seemed all but inevitable then. Helmut knew he could use their plans to his advantage, but it also meant he was running out of time.

Still, part of him wanted to surrender to your gaze, but the other part, the part that won, held firm. He tried to look away but then somehow ended up noticing the soft curve of your mouth and the fullness of your lips.

When the orchestra stopped playing, your dance slowed to a stop. But you couldn’t stop staring at each other, both cursed with the knowledge that something between you had changed.

***

Thanks for reading! Next time we'll get to see what happens when your flirtation with Helmut is no longer a game.

Feedback is very much appreciated. Please tell me what you think! This was a fun chapter to write.

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#zemo #baron zemo #helmut zemo #zemo x reader #mcu zemo #this was the longest chapter yet #my goodness

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whump-town · 3 years

Text

Just As Clueless As You

Warnings: cigarettes, underage drinking, past child abuse (for you already know who), and the angst and pain that will come with time

Summary: Emily Prentiss stumbles upon a boy outside of the library one morning and does him a harmless favor. A few months later a poor seating choice makes him her class partner. The rest... she has no idea.

Word Count: 3,057

It's Not Hotchniss-- you'll just have to take my word on that for now

Freshman Year August 1989-April 1990 Semester One: August- December

“Reciprocity”

Waking up on a real mattress is the first dead giveaway that the bed she wakes up in is not her own. Anyone unfortunate to fall for the absolute scheme that is getting a college education knows the back-breaking lumps that are the “mattresses'' supplied to each dorm room on unGodly squealing cheap bed frames that give a shout with each movement. But she’s laying on a real mattress… with no bed frame. She’s really just laying on a mattress laid out right on the floor. For a moment, looking up at a ceiling with water damage and cobwebs she criticizes some of the life choices that she has made getting here. If it were up to her, Emily Prentiss wouldn’t have come to college at all. She isn’t the kind of girl worth wasting that sort of energy on, not when she’s pretty enough to get by on looks and has her mother’s career to fall back on. Her hobbies lie in illegal affairs-- smoking pot and getting drunk. It makes her incredibly social but she’s not book-smart. School just isn’t her thing. (Which is entirely untrue but sometimes self-image distorts lies too near fact hood). Propping herself up on one arm she gathers the sheets up in a bunch in her hand, covering her naked chest from any of the occupants of the room. To call it a room might be a stretch, there’s hardly any room for the mattress on the floor and the desk by her left. She’s also alone she realizes by scanning the room and catching sight of the alarm clock on the floor she understands why. It’s nearly nine-thirty in the morning-- everyone within a ten-mile radius of her is probably in class right now. Well, if you absolve the students like her: campus’s soon to be drop-outs. With a groan she tosses the sheets off of herself, shifting around the room until she can find her clothes and get out of this disgusting house. Without the protection of the sheets, goosebumps break out across her skin. Her naked body shivering against it as she stretches out, raising her arms above her head and heaving a deep yawn. There’s a sticky note waiting for her, informing her that there isn’t any food around but feel free to grab herself some coffee downstairs. She won’t be doing that but at least whoever the guy is he isn’t her typical sleazeball sort. They typically have her walking back home in the dark as soon as they’re done having their fun.

Her clothes have been neatly folded at the end of the bed, even her underwear which is really a surprise. Folding herself back into them, she grimaces at the distinctly dirty feel that they have. The thick scent of booze and cigarette smoke clinging to them doesn’t help. With no hair tie in sight, she knows better than to waste her time looking, she pushes her bangs back with her hands settling on using a pencil she finds on the floor to twist it up and hold it in place. As she’s sliding the pencil against her scalp, securing her hair she spots a joint discarded by the edge of the mattress. She doesn’t waste the energy in contemplating stealing it, just slots it into her back pocket. That will be fun for later, her pregame for the party tonight. A fun little treat for last night. She even finds a Zippo which gets placed in her joint’s neighboring pocket. A real nice treat, indeed. It takes her a moment to get out of the house, the very last thing that she wants is to be seen by any of the other occupants. For the most part, the coast is clear. She thinks she might hear someone downstairs puking but from the stairs to the main door she’s in the clear. There’s no one in sight. With a glance over her shoulder she grabs a round, amber-filled glass she spots sitting turned over on its side by the couch. Giggling as she tucks it under her arm and makes a run for it. The chill of the October morning shakes her thin bones with its just present enough touch ghosting over her bare legs and arms. The weather rarely permits such exposing clothing anymore but the Crown Royal tucked under her arm will warm her right back up, she just needs to make it to the dorms. No sense in wasting good whiskey on a little shivering, not when she has a comforter to crawl into and a hangover to nurse with something cheap and clear. The first time that Emily Prentiss meets Aaron Hotchner he’s fighting the lighter cupped in his hand, standing with his back to the light breeze. He’s shaking from a chill despite it being nearly seventy degrees out and sunny, gripping under his breath and bobbing the unlit cigarette between his teeth as he does so. The large sweater he wears over his boney shoulders does well to hide his thin body but can not save onlookers from the haunted bags under his eyes. They’re the first thing that she notices as she steps up to him. Without a word she flips the lid of her Zippo open, lighting it with an easy flick and holding the flame out for him. He glances at her-- all bloodshot, sleepless brown eyes-- and leans in, fingers trembling as he cups his palms around the Zippo for a protective barrier. Until the end of the cigarette burns bright red and he pulls in a breath, stepping back to get a good shuddering inhale before he pulls off and offers around a plume of smoke, “thanks.” His voice is rasped from the smoke he’s just inhaled but pinched from disuse and he can’t honestly remember the last person he actually talked to. She shrugs, it’s no sweat off her back. This isn’t even her Zipp, well it is now but she didn’t buy it and no one bought it for her. As a semi-excuse for some of her riskier behavior, she made a vow to herself to never let a man put his hands down her pants without her getting something out of it too. Since it’s rarely an orgasm she’s the proud owner of many men’s oversized articles of clothing, small knick-knacks from nightstands, this Zippo, and the joints they leave unattended. It’s just simple reciprocity. “Cigarette?” he offers, holding the box out to her. She lingers just long enough that he assumes she’s a smoker, doing that sort of awkward shuffle that fellow smokers take on before they ask to “bum a smoke”. The same one he does when he runs short at the end of the month and is pretending to have the forethought to consider putting his money to food and not cigarettes. But she shakes her head, tucking her Zippo back into her pocket and walking away. He’d consider it weird if he didn’t know he’d do the same thing. He hasn’t got the time to be messing with skimpily dressed girls, especially

the sort that looks the kind of trouble that she is. He’s here on a pretentious scholarship. The sort that doesn’t blink twice before dismissing students from their program for poor grades and he might have gotten himself here but he is no one’s definition of a genius. He’s going to smoke this cigarette and bask in the sun for as long as he can before going back into the looming walls of the library and to work on an article reflection for his Sociology class. Which he already knows he will get a 92% on because they’re facing the ass end of November and he’s gotten a single hundred on the twenty or so of these reviews he’s written and all the rest the same score of 92. It’s nothing to complain about, that’s a nice score to be sat at, but it irks him just a little to be planted so firmly like that. Unlike Emily Prentiss, his parents could not offer him any real edge or flourish to get him into this college. His father was a lawyer and while he did make great money it was only in the context of the small town they lived in, an impoverished and drug-hungry place. There Aaron was an oddity in every way that a teenager could be-- coming from a household with two college-educated parents, severely underweight from abuse that went entirely unchecked, finding reprieve in the books he could bury himself in, and discovering his best coping mechanism in either the dissociative flick of pages and weight of a book in his hands or chain-smoking. Though he’d never had enough to say to be good at the social aspects smoking can offer. He’s gotten good at standing at the backs of buildings and smoking alone. The stinger, the worst part is that his father has managed to isolate him. Even in death that man never lets him win. According to the will that he left behind his mother can’t give him a dime of the money, nothing to help with tuition or food or to pay for a dorm. If she breaks the terms of his will then she can’t get his pension until Sean’s of age to make decisions about the money. Aaron’s fairly certain that there is nothing legal about that but the will is headed by one of his father’s assistants and everyone in that office was as loyal as dogs to him. Aaron is nothing to them and his mother has never risked anything for him, he knows she won’t start now. Emily is in every way that can be observed by others his opposite. “Knock, knock.” One of the girls from Emily’s floor sticks her head in Emily’s room, flicking on the light to the room without a second thought to the woman buried under the sheets. “Girly,” she says with a shake of her head. “When was the last time you went to class?” She might not be Emily’s closest friend on the floor but she knows she hasn’t seen Emily out of this room for anything more than liquor and parties. Which is none of her business but how can she even hope to do anything without at least doing assignments? They’ll kick her out. Emily groans from under the safe haven of her bedsheets, picking up her head to squint and see who is bothering her. “What do you want?” she asks. “Food. I was going to go to the dining hall, I just wanted to see if you wanted to come with me.” Emily shakes her head, digging her fingers into the tender flesh of her temples as the light makes her head throb and her stomach queasy. She’s hungover and right now she needs to sleep before she self-medicates with the shitty vodka under her pillow and heads to the party they’re having downtown. It’s not a frat party but it’s something and she knows the guy who lives next door. With a groan, she falls back onto her stiff mattress. “I’m good,” she answers. “Catch you another time?” The other girl lingers for just a moment, watching Emily snuggle back into the sheets and she shakes her head. She’s ruining her life. It’s one thing to not place any importance on college, to be the sort of person that just doesn’t see the flourish or point in it. Life is full of balance, not everyone should want to go to college but people like Emily need the balance. People like her need to scrape by and fall flat on their faces-- they need

ups and downs and overwhelming projects to get some sense of what life is actually like. They need a wake-up call and Emily is wasting hers. She’s not strong enough to face the world just yet but if she keeps fucking around like this, nothing her mother does can save her. No money in the world can teach a hard lesson like this one. The night before the meeting she has scheduled with the Dean, the sort that only comes with lots of money and the kind of threats that come from high, scary places, Emily goes out like she always does. Doing exactly as she’d planned: waking up at seven o’clock to shower and apply lipstick that some dumb boy will likely lick and smear off. Placing her bare feet on her cold tiled floor she groans, not even blinking before reaching into her dresser and pulling out Smirnoff she keeps buried under her bras. It stings going down but if she’s patient it’ll dull the splitting ache trying to pry the lobes of her brain open. Burning fingers digging themselves into the soft tissue of her brain. Tonight will end just the last and the one before that. She’ll find a hungry man-- sometimes they look like they’re not waiting for an invite and others that she knows she’s just corrupting-- and let him use her body in exchange for all the liquor she can get down her throat before they can undo her jeans. Wake up, again, in a bed that is not her own and when she’s walking home she’ll find that tall, tree-like kid standing by the back of the library but this time his cigarette will be lit. The expression across his face nearly zin, despite the tears drying against his cheeks. His chin turned up to the sun. She’ll lower her gaze and keep walking. She’s late for her meeting with the Dean. “Miss Prentiss--” Emily recoils, averting her gaze to the old, shitty carpet of the Dean’s office. She hates being called by her last name, hates being something her mother can own. That’s all she’s ever been her entire life, some little flyer for her mother to tac up on her board of accomplishments. An award to float around because motherhood can be commendable if you weaponize it enough. “Emily,” the Dean corrects with a sigh. “You’re on probation, do you understand?” His fingers are steepled on his desk, giving her that look a thousand men before him have given her. She doesn’t even have to look up to know his eyes wander to her breast far too many times to be considered an accident. “I don’t think I have to tell you that this has nothing to do with the school’s faith in your abilities.” Her chest flushes, she can feel the skin heat up under the tone of his voice. Her mother got her into this school, nothing about her grades or her charm. Nothing about Emily is worth anything just the Prentiss she can’t seem to get rid of. “If your grades don’t improve, if you can’t meet the school’s requirements by the end of next semester you will fail out.” He has the most unfortunate voice, so annoying. “Do you understand?” Oh, yeah and he’s a patronizing bastard. She hates it when adults do that shit. Always mocking. Is it not enough they get to listen to themselves go on these long-winded tangents about honor or faith or self-image but to tac that belittling question at the end. To force you to meet their gaze and mumble that you do. All for what? So he can see what her breasts look like when she extends her right hand to shake his? To see if they move when she stands? Fuck him. “Yes, sir,” she says with a nod. “I understand.” She doesn’t shake his hand. Walking out of his office she keeps her head high, refusing to let her emotion show on her face. The heartbreak she feels splitting her chest open. Before she knows it, she’s walking towards the library. She’s never even been inside but she thinks about that boy and the face he’d made this morning. How relaxed he’d looked and she needs that. Needs whatever he found there. To let go of this feeling eating her alive, the sadness she’d told herself she wouldn’t feel when she walked into that office and found that her mother hadn’t even bothered to come. Hadn’t cared to even ask

if Emily was okay. If her behavior was the product of something else. She sinks down against the wall, bringing her knees to her chest, and lets her forehead fall down against them. How could she be so silly? So foolish? Of course, her mother wouldn’t show up to a meeting with the Dean. God, she’s so fucking gullible. So stupid. All she can do is choke on sobs, pulling in shuddering breaths and trying to stifle the sounds she makes. She just wants to burn alive with the anger she feels. To set fire to something and see the destruction. Ruin something. Somewhere between half-expecting the door beside her to fly open and that mess of a boy whose cigarette she’d lit to come out she realizes that she can smell the smoke lingering in the air. He’s had his smoke break and won’t be out anytime soon. For some reason that makes her cry even harder, that she can’t even find comfort in some stranger. But she could just walk into the library and find him, it wouldn’t be that hard. He wears the same thing every time she sees him-- an oversized earth-tone sweater and old jeans. And, as she’s thinking about dragging her sorry ass up and into that library she realizes something. She has the control to go into that building and find the guy. She has the control every night when she goes out to party, to get lost in some boy’s half-assed touches, and cheap liquor. Emily has all of the control. Her mother gave her a second chance, she knows it was purely for the high that old bitch will get when Emily fails out. When Emily finally proves that she’s not good for anything. But she has the control, not her mother. Wiping the tears on her face she pulls in a deep breath and knows. She knows what she’s going to do next. She is going to ruin something. Her mother isn’t right about her. Emily Prentiss turns her face to the sun and she knows exactly what the cigarette boy felt this morning. Release.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #college hotchniss #hotchniss #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #college au

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