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perseusjackson-jasongrace · 4 years

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Empires on the Horizon XIV

Jason is a CEO: Part XIV

masterlist for other parts, more jercy, bad headcanons, and an abundance of crackships

SURPRISE!!! i finally got my laptop back and thankfully they didn’t have to wipe anything so i still had all my work! Between you and me i was more worried about all my fanfics than my uni work...... But I’ve learned my lesson. Do everything on google docs now!! Anyway this is a Percy POV and i hope you enjoy because i’ve missed this little universe more than you could possibly know and we’re finally (only fourteen chapters later) getting to the jercy part of this fic?! LOL it’s been wild.

i know i’m releasing a ton of fanfics at the moment so i hope you guys don’t feel overwhelmed. You know i adore your comments and thoughts but please don’t feel pressured to read all the fics i’m posting. I’ve just had a lot of time in the last weeks so it’s been easier to create. Please take care of yourself, i love you very much and i hope you have a magical holiday season!

Percy Jackson stretched his legs out in front of him and draped a blanket over them. There were few things he indulged in, but a good plane seat was one of them. He was spoilt for it but having the space to lay his unreasonably tall body down for eight hours seemed like a worthy investment. The announcements that continuously filtered through the crackly speakers were background noise as the bustle of people getting to their seats flowed throughout the cabins. He stared out his little window at the neon-jacketed guides and airport officials directing people to wherever they needed to be. He loved watching people just do things. There was something calming about knowing others weren’t interested in him in any way. That people got on with their lives despite the turmoil nobody knew about.

A flight attendant stopped next to him with a polite smile, “Champagne sir?”

“No thank you, a water please. Too early for alcohol.” He grimaced.

Mirth danced in her eyes as she glanced up at the rest of the passengers, some dangling flutes between their fingers. “Absolutely sir, anything else?”

He shook his head, before leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes. His pre-flight ritual, which consisted of him snuggling as comfortably as possible it his seat and trying to fall asleep, was already behind. The presence of a certain blonde-haired, blue-eyed CEO taking up the scattered pieces of his mind. It was crazy to think they had met almost a year ago, crazier still to think that about how much they had changed in that time. Percy at least felt like a completely different person to the one who had stepped off a plane from Hawaii all those months ago and attended his alma mater’s dinner. Although the university had surprised them with plaques honouring their contributions, it was seeing Jason Grace, learning about him that felt like the real reward. Hell, he was only half joking when he said he’d marry the guy the next Tuesday.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Please take your seats and fasten your seatbelts. We will be taking off shortly. In the meantime please turn your attention to the screens in front of you for a video detailing the safety measures you will need to know while aboard this flight.”

He blinked back into the world and turned half his attention to the screen and the other half to locating the blonde he couldn’t seem to keep away from. He knew the safety briefings by heart, but he always felt bad for not paying attention. Someone worked hard to make those. He didn’t spot Jason in the two minutes the video played and then it was too late because the plane gave a low rumble and suddenly, they were lurching into motion. His heart climbed to his throat and he gripped his fingers underneath the blanket.

“Okay Percy,” He mouthed to himself, “You can do this. It’s at most fifteen minutes of instability and then you’ll be up in the air and you won’t even feel it.”

“Just fifteen minutes.” He kept repeating, taking deep shaky breaths. “Fifteen minutes.”

The plane jaggered down the runway, slow enough that he could still read the road signs indicating altitudes and compass directions and all sorts of fun information he didn’t care about. He felt the huge machine turn into the long stretch of tar that led them to the sky and his stomach clenched painfully. This was always the worst part. Take off. It felt like his entire body flew off with the plane while he stuck to the ground, superglue cementing him to the floor with no escape. He didn’t feel free. He felt torn.

The plane gave a horrible lurch and then it was screaming down the runway, grass and yellow lines blurring past them. They were going so fast he’s sure they’d break the sound barrier. He squeezed his eyes shut. Knuckles white as he twisted his hands together. The plan flew down the road and into the sky. His whole body felt suspended in space. He wanted to come down. He didn’t want to be here. Even with his eyes closed he could feel how high they were. He hated it.

Slowly, the plane started to level out until he felt his body realign: feet under him, hands beside him, head above him. He opened his eyes, spots dancing in his vision as they got used to the light once more. The seatbelt sign dinged above him, and a series of clicks followed. People got up to use the bathroom and grab things from the overhead compartments. He wasn’t going to get up until he was out of this plane. So he shoved his headphones over his ears and pressed play.

I will always love you how I do

Let go of a prayer for you

Just a sweet word

He gazed out the window, clouds close enough to whisper to, and his lips pulled up in a soft smile. The sky was beautiful. It just sucked that they had to get into a death trap to get to it. With his ocean eyes pinned to the balls of cotton hanging in the blue expanse his mind drifted. Reyna. He blinked. It was almost shameful how little he had thought of her since their breakup considering their year together. She had taught him tai quan do and baked him blueberry tarts. They had escaped to a little bubble in the forest and watched the leaves turn brown as they tumbled in bed. He knew she tapped her right foot when she was annoyed but her left fingers danced when she was excited. He knew she liked her eggs fried hard because she didn’t have time for sloppy yolk, but she liked them scrambled soft because it meant a richer croissant. But despite this she did not light his soul on fire. And he did not light hers either. They were merely striking matches without wood to burn. He heaved a sigh as he watched the threads of his relationship flutter before his eyes and fell asleep to them disappearing in gold strands leaking into the clouds. He succumbed to the bright sun and the soft warmth of memories and he didn’t wake until a loud announcement gave the signal that they were landing.

It was over so fast he didn’t have time to panic and he was grateful. Finally he was collecting his bags and walking out. A driver with his surname scribbled on a plaque stood front and center and with a quick flash of his ID and a hello they were piling into the car. He didn’t get a chance to see the blonde beauty, but the island was small and time was a plenty. They would find each other again.

“To the hotel sir?”

“Yes Luca, and then please stick around for half an hour. It’s just a quick freshen before I go to work. We have a lab meeting.”

The man nodded and then focused on the busy Italian streets they were navigating. He took in the colours and sounds as they whizzed by. It felt like a different universe. People were loud and excited and full of life and the little markets seemed to pull energy from the sun and direct it into joy. He wanted to tell Luca, to pull over, screw work, and take in the beauty of this little section of the world. But his phone buzzed in his pocket and he knew with a disappointed sinking in his chest that adventure would have to wait.

“Hello Percy,” Rachel Elizabeth Dare bubbled, ‘I assume you’ve arrived?”

“Yes Rach,” He sighed but amusement caught between his lips, “Have you got news for me?”

“No,” She sounded suspicious, “Why would I have news for you?”

“Because you only track my exact times when you want something but you’re too scared to ask me so you wait till I’m halfway across the country before asking.” He wanted to laugh as she made an indignant sound.

“Okay fine,’ She grumbled, “I wanted to know if I could close up the scuba for the weekend. I met a girl and i wanted to go out on Friday night with her.”

He couldn’t hold in his laugh any longer, “Of course you can Rachel. But I’m curious to know…” He trailed off.

“Ugh you are impossible.” He could imagine her eye roll so vividly. “It’s Clarisse. The principal from your old school.”

“Well, well, well,” He grinned, “I better be getting premium seats to the wedding.”

“Why does everything always end in weddings for you?” She groaned.

“Scuse me for wanting a happily ever after.” He scrunched his face, “Oh and guess who’s here?”

“Is this a good guess or a bad one?”

“Good.” He smiled, “Very good.”

She gasped, speaker crackling at his ear, “Tell me!”

“Jason Grace.”

“What?” She squealed, “Are you guys going to have hot rebound sex and then realise you like each other more than just casual fuck-buddies and end up getting married and adopting like six children?”

He burst with amusement, “Slow down there Rach. I know I throw around the marriage idea, but kids seem like a big commitment.”

“You right,” She said decidedly, “Kids are a lot of effort. Just get married then. But no eloping!” He pictured the crease in her freckled brows. “I want to be a bridesmaid.”

“Can’t promise anything,” He giggled.

“Perseus Jackson!” She scolded.

“Oof the full name.”

“I will tell your mother and she will kick your ass.”

“Okay, okay,” He laughed, “No eloping. I have to go. But remember to take the keys for the scuba with you. We do not need the fire department breaking the door again.”

She grumbled about hating him and then blew him a kiss and ended the call. With a smile still playing on his lips he thanked Luca and rushed into the hotel. Thankfully the check in was painless and fast and he was stumbling into his room in no time. He barely had time to appreciate the gorgeous floor-to-ceiling windows and the ocean view it laid out before him. He promised himself he would take the time when he got back.

Quickly he hopped into the shower cursing when he realised he’d forgotten to take his socks off. With a horrified shudder he peeled them off and chucked them into the laundry basket, thankful it gets emptied every day. The water beat against his back, fogging up the glass and calming the racing in his veins. He gave himself the luxury of one extra minute to just take a deep breath and screw his head back onto his shoulders and then he jumped out and shoved on a pair of black slacks and a white button down. He didn’t bother to do the top few buttons, figuring he’d have time in the car. Instead he fastened a watch to his wrists, rolled up the sleeves till they sat at his forearms– any attempt to bear the Italian heat– and then he slid his feet into a pair of sleek ankle boots and mussed his damp curls. With half a moments glance at the mirror to make sure his face didn’t have patches of sun-cream and his collar was straight he grabbed his briefcase and walked out.

Glancing at his watch distractedly he rounded the corner, only to bump right into a hard chest.

“Oh,” He frowned, stepping back into a door. “Jason.”

“Hey,” The blonde smiled, “What a coincidence?” He laughed.

“You’re staying here?” It was really starting to feel like the universe was trying to tell him something.

‘Yep,” He gave a shy smile, blue gaze bright. “Guess you’re going to see a lot more of me then you expected huh?”

“I think you may be at more of a disadvantage than me.”

Jason looked at him, eyes dragging from his face down his body and eventually dropping to his shoes. Percy gave an involuntary shiver as the blonde tracked the same slow pace back up. “I think this could be very advantageous.”

“If you don’t stop staring at me like that I’m going to be very late for my meeting.”

He laughed, the previous sultriness giving away to a sparkle and flashing white teeth, “See you around Jackson.” He started walking away.

“Wait!” Percy called, “Date? Tonight? We can explore the city together?”

Jason smiled as bright as diamonds, “Sounds fun. Meet you in the bar at?”

He realised their time depended on when his meeting finished and suddenly, he wanted to cancel the whole thing and start now. ‘Seven thirty?”

“See you there. And have a good meeting.”

The blonde walked away, and Percy felt this time like he was floating away while his body remained superglued to the floor. He wanted to live in this feeling. Because this did not feel like being torn apart. This felt like coming home.

The elevator dinged down the passage and he crashed back to reality. With a string of curse words he raced for it and jumped in just as the doors began to close.

The meeting and subsequent lab tour felt endless and he concentrated on little less than half of what was being said, his mind more interested on the things waiting for him at the hotel, the person. But eventually it was over and him and Luca were cruising towards the Casa de Vita.

“Anything else you need sir?” His driver looked at him from the rear-view mirror as they turned into the hotel road.

“Recommend any good places for a first date?”

“Already met a lady sir?” Luca’s dark eyebrows almost touched his hairline in surprise.

“A man actually.”

The Italian chuckled, nodding his head as if in on some invisible joke, “The Tesora. It is just down the path and near the ocean.”

“Thank you Luca, have a goodnight.”

“And you sir.” Luca winked before peeling out of the entrance and fading into the setting sun.

Percy strolled to his room with a smile on his face, lost in a world full of possibilities. It was unsurprising then that he didn’t see the extra bag against the wall, or the shoes neatly placed by the door that weren’t his.

He took off his watch and undid the few buttons on his shirt, head lost to the glimmer of the ocean. He let his shirt fall open as he slipped off his shoes and walked towards the windows. The view really was spectacular. No matter how much he travelled it always blew his mind the places that existed, that he had yet to learn of. It was irresistible. It was perfect. It didn’t fail to cross his mind that the ocean was the exact same colour as a certain pair of gorgeous blue eyes. He blinked the image away, turning around, and his gaze landed on that exact aquamarine gaze.

“Jason?” He gasped, clutching his chest in surprise. “What are you doing in my room?”

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Tags (if you want to be added/taken off the tag list just let me know. All my channels of communication are open):

@lesbian-peanuts

@leydiangelo

@queen-of-demons-and-hell

@msdrpreist

@sparkythunderstorm

@nishlicious-01

@lucyisblue

@pjo-hp-things

#empires on the horizon #part 14 #jercy #jason is a ceo #jason grace #percy jackson #baby fanfic #baby fanfic series #pjssg fanfic #pjssg series #pjjg fanfic #pjjg series #jason #grace #percy #jackson

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hopscotchandlemon · 4 years

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A Knight in Sneakers (Collide)

The silence of the car ride back to the Navy Yard was interrupted by the ringing of Jethro’s phone. He answered without checking the caller ID, expecting it to be McGee telling him he they had another lead.

‘Gibbs,’ he spoke as he held the phone to his ear.

‘Hi, are you able to talk?’

‘Mary? Yeah sure just give me a minute,’

He pulled into a parking lot. Not wanting to intrude, Jack leapt out the car and went for a walk. Jethro held the phone to his ear again.

‘Hey, I’m here.’

‘I need you. I’m at the school. Jenson has been suspended for punching another kid. He’s currently crying hysterically in the principal’s office. Eilidh has locked herself in a cupboard and is refusing to come out. I’m not getting anything out of either of them and the school are not being very helpful and threatening all sorts unless something is sorted out soon.’

‘Jenson*punched* someone?’ Jethro said in disbelief, signalling to Jack to get back in the car.

‘Apparently so. I can’t get any sense out of him. Honestly, you’d think he was the one who was punched. Something isn’t adding up.’

Jack leapt back in the car, trying to read Gibbs’ furrowed brow.

‘Me and Jack are about twenty minutes away. We’ll be with you soon.’

With the call ended, Jethro pulled out the parking lot and towards the school. As he did, he regaled Jack with the situation.

‘Well both kids going off on the same day is a bit suspicious don’t you think? And Jenson punching someone? Really?’

‘Yeah I know. It’s all a bit…’

‘Hinky!’ Jack retorted.

Gibbs smiled. Abby’s favourite word had made it into everyone’s lexicons. He drove quickly towards the school, not liking the idea of not being there. Usually if one of the kids was upset, the other would help calm them down. Mary was more than capable of coping with them both so for her to call and directly ask for help meant the situation was serious.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Jack asked as the car stopped.

‘Yeah, might need you,’

Both agents got out the car and headed into reception. Even from the desk, they could hear Jenson wailing. After confirming who they were there for, Jethro found Mary who was trying to coax Eilidh out of the cupboard. The school were threatening to take the door off with an electric drill. Jack took the principal to one side and warned her of the repercussions of using something loud near a child who had watch her parents die by gunfire.

The situation was chaotic, it was hard to know which child to try and tackle first. Amongst the three of them, they decided that Jethro was probably going to have more success with Jenson and Jack and Mary were going to stay with Eilidh and hopefully convince her to leave the cupboard. Jethro went to the office where an exhausted Jenson was sobbing in the corner of the room. It was hard not to feel a bit broken at the sight of the boy sat trembling on the floor with his face wet from the constant stream of tears. Crouching down next to him, Gibbs smiled at his adopted Grandson and the child threw himself into his arms. Standing up, Jethro carried the boy outside, cradling him close to him. Gradually the cries subsided which Jethro felt was more likely exhaustion. Walking round the playground, Jethro sat on a bench, placing Jenson on his lap and gently stroking his hair. He noted the red marks on the child’s left knuckles. He’d certainly hit something. Eventually, light snores could be heard indicating that Jenson had fallen asleep.

‘Is Jenson ok?’ a little voice asked.

Gibbs looked around so see a little girl who looked about the same age as his Grandson, stood beside him.

‘He will be, he just got himself a little upset.’

The girl nodded.

‘I wish I had a brother like Jenson. He was so brave looking after his sister,’

‘Yeah? What did he do?’

‘Cassandra, get here right now young lady!’ An annoyed teacher yelled from the otherside of the yard.

‘I gotta go,’ the girl whispered solemnly as she walked towards the teacher.

Something had definitely gone off here. Fumbling in his pocket, while trying to keep Jenson still, Gibbs pulled out his phone and called Abby.

‘Abby? I want you to check CCTV from Elmvale Elementary for Jenson and Eilidh in the last two hours.’

‘Sure thing Gibbs, are they ok?’

‘Well, Jenson’s cried himself to sleep on my shoulder and Eilidh has locked herself in a cupboard.’

‘Hmmm hinky. I’ll let you know what I find.’

Putting the phone back in his pocket, Gibbs rose from the bench and went back inside to see if Mary and Jack were having better luck extracting Eilidh from the cupboard. He found them both sat on the floor outside the door.

‘Eilidh, Grandpa is here and Jenson is fast asleep on his shoulder, like when we went to the zoo for your birthday, do you remember?’ Mary spoke quietly to the door.

‘Yeah,’ came a timid reply.

Both women’s eyes widened, it was the first response they’d had from the girl.

‘Aww I’ve not been to the zoo in ages!,’ Jack mused. ‘I love the meercats.’

‘They’re definitely Jenson’s favourite,’ Mary added.

‘What about you, Eilidh, what’s your favourite animal.

‘Giraffe,’ came the small reply.

Gibbs’ phone started to trill. He got it out of his pocket and held it to his ear.

‘Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs!’

‘Hey Abs. What ya got.’

‘Well I was right. Definite hinky stuff going on. Are you still holding Jenson?’

‘Yeah,’

‘Well, you need to hug him a bit tighter because he’s a little legend. I’m sending the video to Jack. And Gibbs?’

‘Yes Abby,’

‘He has a mean left hook.’

Jack’s phone pinged, both women stood up and they crowded around Jethro so they could see the clip from the CCTV. It showed Eilidh being picked on by a group of older boys. They grabbed her bag and threw it amongst themselves before emptying in on the ground. The ringleader walks up to the clearly terrified child and starts undoing her hair clips. Out of the corner of the screen, they saw Jenson come in to view. He tries to lead Eilidh away from the bullies, but these older boys have other ideas and try to goad Jenson into a fight. He continues to hold on to Eilidh, putting himself between her and them, an action that elicited a cooing sound from Jack. The ringleader stabbed his finger into the boy’s chest, getting in his face and attempting to get a reaction. Jenson did not budge so the older boy reframed his attention on to Eilidh and pulled at her hair. Jenson once again puts himself in between them. The bully leans in and tries to pull Eilidh away and in that moment, Jenson snaps, landing a punch squarely on the jaw of the older kid who falls backwards. Once he is on the floor, Jenson grabs Eilidh and the pair take off.

Without thinking about it, Jethro helds his young charge a little tighter. He looked to Mary, her face reflecting the pure anger she was feeling.

‘Can I borrow that please Jack?’ Mary held her hand out.

‘Sure,’ Jack handed the phone to Mary who immediately marched off towards the principal’s office.

Jack walked back up to the cupboard door, putting her mouth near to the wood

‘Eilidh, we know what happened. Jenson is not in any trouble and neither are you. Grandma has gone to sort it all out.’

Behind her, Jack was aware of movement. Looking around she see’s that Jenson was starting to stir. Gibbs gently stroked his hair, easing him back into consciousness.

Eilidh remained silent and Jack decided to leave her for a moment. She looked to Gibbs who is still holding on to the young boy.

‘I thought you were scary when you were angry. Remind me never to mess with Mary,’

With a wry smile on his lips, Gibbs looked at Jack.

‘Never cross her in Grandma-bear mode. She takes no prisoners.

‘Hey Grandpa,’ Jenson uttered, his voice full of sleep.

‘Hey Buddy, you ok?’

‘Yeah, I fell asleep. Where’s Eilidh?’

‘She’s in the cupboard. Do you want to talk to her?’

He nodded his head and his Grandpa let him down. He put his hands and the side of his face up against the door.

‘Are you Ok Eilidh? We’re ok now, Grandma and Grandad are here. We can go home.’

After a short pause, the door was unlocked, and out came a dishevelled looking Eilidh. Jenson took her hand and lead her out.

‘You two are just too cute you know?’ Jack sighed smiling at the sight of Jenson fussing over his friend.

They walked back towards reception where Mary was emerging from the principal’s office. The anger from before had dissipated (all over the Principal, Jethro reckoned) and she beamed a smile at seeing both children walking hand in hand.

‘Thanks for that,’ Mary handed the phone back to Jack.

‘Can we go home now Grandma?’ Jenson asked, his eyes still sleepy from the events of the day.

‘We can.’

‘Why don’t you go home too, Gibbs? Everything is ticking over at work. Think those kids deserve a treat after today.’ Jack suggested. To her surprise, he handed her the keys to the work car so she could get back home.

Both kids were relieved to get back home. Mary took one look at Eilidh’s knotted and dishevelled hair and suggested they get it washed and spend a bit of time making it look nice again. Jethro took Jenson to the basement, where they did some work on the jewellry boxes they were making for his Grandma and Eilidh.

‘So, I’m not in trouble for punching that boy?’ Jenson asked.

‘No. Not at all,’

‘He was being horrible to Eilidh and I didn’t like it.’

Jethro glanced at the boy who was sporting a serious look on his face. He clearly needed to talk about today’s events.

‘Has he been horrible to Eilidh before?’

Jenson nodded his head while slowly sanding the top of the box he was working on.

‘I didn’t know what to do. He’s horrible to me too but I just ignore him.’

Gibbs gently put his tools down and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

‘You did everything right Jenson. We saw the video from the CCTV. I think when I was your age, I’d have hit that boy long before you did. He kept trying to make you fight and you kept ignoring him. When you did hit him, you only did it to get Eilidh out of the way.’

‘He was making Eilidh sad. I don’t like it when Eilidh is sad,’ he replied quietly.

They spend an hour in the basement before returning to the ground floor. Mary was sat on the couch, plaiting Eilidh’s hair. As soon as she finished, Eilidh leapt up and ran off to play with Jenson. Jethro sat down next to Mary, putting his arm around her shoulder.

‘We need to find another school for the kids,’ she sighed, resting her head against his shoulder.

‘I guessed so. What did the Principal say?’

‘She tried to say I had the footage illegally which I told her was beside the point when it clearly showed she had wilfully punished the wrong child despite evidence that two children were being harassed. I asked if she thought the school board would agree with the decision she’d made after viewing the footage. She refused to answer.’

‘We’ll start looking next week. They deserve somewhere better. That Prinicpal should have been commending Jenson, not punishing him. I told him I’d have hit that boy long before he did when I was his age.’

‘All he wanted to do was protect Eilidh. His Mom would have been so proud of him. I’m proud of him too. Proud of them both.’

‘I guess they deserve to choose where we have dinner then?’ Jethro asked.

‘Sure, go ask them. But we both know it will be pizza.

Jethro got up and chuckled as we went to ask the kids. He knew it would be pizza again but after today, he didn’t give a damn.

#ncis #ncis fanfiction #Leroy Jethro Gibbs #oneshot #fluff #hurt comfort #jack sloane #Abby Sciuto

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anna-justice · 4 years

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Lost or Found - 5

Summary: As Jay, Hailey, Kim, Adam and Kevin start their junior year in the wake of a tragic summer, the past year of their lives comes back to haunt them. If you enjoyed Pretty Little Liars, this is for you! *UPSTEAD/BURZEK High School AU

...

5 - Wicked Game

...

The following days after the bonfire, the group didn’t really see much of each other. They were focused on watching out for the people they loved most. Hailey called both of her brothers everyday, Jay never let his mom out of his sight and Kevin spent every waking moment playing with his sister. Adam checked up on Kim multiple times a day, while she let her world revolve around her sister. The rest of summer went by fast in their state of panic, which is how they found themselves all huddled around Jay’s truck.

They all had a false sense of security, they hadn’t gotten any more texts since the last one. Hailey thought that Nadia knew that they knew it was her, so she was laying low, but Jay, he wasn’t entirely convinced. Nadia was the perfect person to throw off the scent. But, they had all decided to have a normal first day of school, for their sanity.

Kim spotted Nadia across the courtyard, seated on a bench surrounded by lots of people. Nadia gave her a small smile and waved, Kim returned the favor. She wasn’t sure how much she believed Hailey’s theory, she was always so nice, she wasn’t capable of kidnapping someone. Kim turned back to her friends, hoping no one noticed their encounter, she was a big fan of “innocent until proven guilty.”

The life was sucked out of them all when Jay pulled Erin’s phone out of his pocket, they had a text. So much for a normal first day of school.

Blocked ID: Round 1, golden boy, time for you to lose a few flakes...tell everyone what really happened before Nadia left, and I mean everyone.

“What do they mean, Jay?” Kim asked. “What happened?”

Jay took a deep breath, the last thing he wanted to do was ruin Nadia’s life, but it came down to her or his mom. His mom wins everytime. He sees her sitting on a bench near the school, unfortunately in the middle of a crowd. He takes a few steps away before Hailey calls him back. “Jay! You don’t have to do this!”

“I can’t risk it, it’s my mom.” He stalks across the pavement towards her. “Hey Nadia.”

“Hi Jay!” She says excitedly, “It’s been a while-”

He cuts her off, “You know Mr. Sampson doesn’t work here anymore, right?”

Nadia’s jaw drops, “I’m not sure why that matters…”

“Yeah you are.” Jay fights the lump in his throat and stands his ground. “He’s the teacher that got fired, for sleeping with you.” Everyone around them gasps, and Nadia looks like she’s been stabbed in the chest.

“What-”

“Erin told me everything. And now everyone else knows too.” He turned on his heel and booked it towards the truck. It went just how he hoped, quick and painful, there was no avoiding the betrayal. The next text was sent before her first tear hit the pavement.

Blocked ID: Bravo, your mommy is safe, for now.

His friends all had the same exact look on their faces, utter shock. Jay grabbed his backpack from the bed and raced towards the school. “Jay,” Hailey sighed. She gave an apologetic look to the 3 stunned people in front of her and then hurried after him.

Hailey knew that he couldn’t escape her, they had first block together. They were the first two people in the classroom , she slid into the seat next to him. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It wasn’t my business to tell.” He responds quietly, the guilt clearly eating him up. Hailey just nodded, knowing he definitely didn’t want to talk about it. She was dealing with her own inner emotions, she realized now that no one's secret was safe, especially her own.

…

Third block rolled around and Hailey strolled into phycology, she looked around for Kevin but instead she found a seating chart taped to the whiteboard. She internally groaned, she was sixteen years old. No one needed to tell her where to sit. Unfortunately, Atwater and Upton were nowhere close to each other in the alphabet, so Hailey found herself all the way across the classroom from her only friend.

She slid in her seat next to a boy with very bright blue eyes. “I’m Kelly,” He said, “Severide, call me Severide.”

She gave him a small smile before introducing herself, “Hailey.”

“Nice to meet you Hailey.” He said, his smile lingering a little too long. Hailey felt a slight blush reach her cheeks and turned to face the front of the room.

As soon as the bell rang a voice came over the intercom. “Jay Halstead, report to the principal’s office. Jay Halstead, report to the principal’s office.”

Hailey put her head in her hands and took a deep breath. That definitely wasn’t good.

…

Jay found himself sitting across from Mr. Kelton, their principal, not five minutes later. He had a very unpleasant look on his face and Jay was prepared for the lecture of the century, which he deserved. “Well, Mr. Halstead, I never thought we would be in this position.” Jay didn’t either, he was always a good kid, he didn’t belong there. “The allegations you made against Ms. Decotis were very serious, would you care to explain yourself?”

Jay took a deep breath, he couldn’t exactly tell him that he was forced to expose Nadia by a crazy stalker/possible murderer who kidnapped his girlfriend and, might possibly be Nadia. “Sir, I want to sincerely apologize for my actions this morning. It’s been a rough few months, with the Erin stuff, and seeing Nadia was really hard for some reason. She wasn’t here to bear the pain with the rest of us and I just got so mad that she showed up now.” Jay gave him a weak smile, and continued to talk out of his ass. “Erin told that Mr. Sampson and Nadia had an affair, I don’t even know if it’s true.”

Mr. Kelton nodded, “Son, I understand that the past few months have been difficult, but we do not tolerate harassment in this building. You need to formally apologize to Ms. Decotis and I expect to see you in detention the next three Thursdays.”

Jay let out a breath of relief, he was expecting much worse. “Of course and it won’t happen again.”

“I will hold you to that young man, get back to class.” Jay hurried out of the office. He was mortified and felt terrible. There was no way that Nadia was threatening them, he refused to believe it. The rumor he started could ruin everything for her, no one would risk that.

…

Hailey found herself seated at a lab table with Adam and Kim AP Chem, her last class of the day. The teacher was going on and on about lab safety and she was pretty sure that Adam was currently looking up the ingredients of a molotov cocktail instead of taking notes.

She still hadn’t talked to Jay about his visit to Kelton’s office and it was eating her up inside. He was definitely in trouble, there was only so much having an assumed dead girlfriend could get you out of.

Hailey looked up from doodling on her paper to see a red headed boy staring at her, she avoided his gaze by whispering to Kim about it. Kim chuckled under her breath. “That’s Kevin Hadley, he's harmless.”

Adam looked up like he missed something, but Kim shrugged him off. It was obvious that he wasn’t paying attention to anything other than his stupid secret prank plan.

The class dragged on for forever, and when the final bell rang, Hailey felt like crying. She bid goodbye to Adam and Kim and leaned against a set of lockers to text Jay, since he was her ride home. Suddenly a figure appeared in front of her. “I’m Kevin.” He said, leaning against the metal next to her.

“Hi.” She said briefly, returning her focus to her phone.

“Listen,” He said, taking a step toward her. “My buddy is throwing a party tonight, kind of a back to school bash if you will, you should come with me.”

Hailey’s head popped up, for someone so harmless, he was very forward. “Sorry, I have plans.” She said and made a move to walk past him, but he stepped in front of her.

“Come on, it’ll be fun.” Hailey stepped backward, feeling very uncomfortable with how close he was to her.

Before she could respond she heard a voice come from behind her. “I’m pretty sure she already said no.” She turned around to find Severide standing his ground behind her.

“Mind your own business man, we were just talking.” Kevin spit back, taking another step forward. Hailey quickly removed herself from in between the two boys and stood behind her new friend.

Severide stepped up to face him, “Walk away Hadley.” Hailey froze, she would recognize that low growl anywhere. He turned to look at her, “You good Hailey?” He asked and Hailey feigned confidence, pretending she wasn’t completely terrified. The person that strangled her was no longer a figure in the dark, it was Kelly Severide.

…

A/N: I’m thinking there will be some confusion about their school day, I’m trying to make this story as realistic to real high school as possible (since it hasn’t been that long since I was there myself), so that includes homework, not skipping school and definitely no free periods. That being said, I’ve structured their day the same way mine was. Four classes a day, every other day, eight in total. So sometimes they will have one class in the morning and in another chapter it could be a different one, it’s called an A-B Schedule. Anyway, just wanted to clear that up! Thanks for reading!

#jay halstead #hailey upton #upstead #upstead au #kim burgess #adam ruzek #burzek #burzek au #kevin atwater #erin lindsay #nadia decotis #kelly severide #chicago pd #chicago pd au #one chicago #chicago fire

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weartirondad · 6 years

Text

These Hands Could Hold The World (But It’ll Never Be Enough)

Prompt: Field Trip - i need a fic called "the 5 times tony went to peter's school and the one time peter went to tony's work/meeting/SI" by Anon

Warnings: Major Character Death (no description of actual death!), dissociation (not quite but just in case)

A/N: WE CAN FINALLY POST OUR FIRST PIECE FOR THE 1K CELEBRATION AND WE’RE SUPER EXCITED TO SHARE IT WITH YOU!

FF.net I ao3

The first time Tony sets foot into Midtown School of Science and Technology, he’s immediately overcome with everything he has always hated about high school.

There is the smell. Putting several hundred pubescent teenagers into small hallways and tiny classrooms tends to create a special kind of odor that makes him want to cover his mouth and nose with his hands as soon as the smell hits him. Of course he doesn’t do that, even though he’s about seventy five percent certain that either someone has died in there or the cafeteria has already started to prep for lunch. Maybe both.

He doesn’t dwell on it as he saunters through the empty hallways gracefully, taking in the lockers with all their dents of past fights and hissy fits and maybe one or two bad break ups. He remembers his year in high school vividly enough to remember what the insides of them look like. He hopes Peter hasn’t made similar experiences, he hopes his kid has been spared some of the torment that comes with being a genius in a world full of people whose thoughts are running so much more slowly and organized than your own.

Midtown is supposed to be better, though, with it being a STEM school it’s supposed to encourage thinking outside the box and nurture given talent. At least that’s what all the flyers are saying that May shoved into his chest the second he mentioned that Peter’s intellect might be better off in a private school.

Now, as per usual, May Parker has been absolutely right to keep her nephew with people of his age and not to tear the one friendship apart that has lasted a literal decade already despite their young ages. And while he hasn’t gotten another word in on the whole ‘which school is the right school’ debate, she has asked him to step up as one of Peter’s emergency contacts.

Which settles his anxious heart a little more than he would like to admit.

He tried to play it off with a wave of his hand and a “Sure, just put my number there. It’s fine.” but May didn’t buy it and simply smiled at him knowingly.

Tony isn’t sure what it is about Potts and Parker women that gives them the ability to just look through all his masks within seconds. Frankly, it’s scaring him a little to be that see-through but he’s been together with Pepper long enough to know that it’s usually for the best that they know what’s going on.

Apparently, though, the school didn’t believe it when one May Parker came up to them to put Tony Stark as her nephew’s emergency contact so, in mutual agreement of Pepper and May he is now making the way to Midtown himself. With an actual appointment. Like some normal parent wanting to talk about their normal child. As if anything about any part of their relationship was normal.

So here he is, pretending that this trip is a nuisance to a perfectly planned day full of very important appointments while secretly being relieved to get out of one of the countless board meetings. And, maybe he is looking forward to getting a glimpse at the reason for it all.

He’s already walked through most of the school and is about to turn left to follow the sign pointing him to the principal’s office when he hears a familiar high-pitched voice calling his name behind him. He grins.

“Mister Stark? What are you doing here?” Peter looks suspicious now that he’s recovered from his initial shock and maybe a little worried. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s great, buddy,” Tony finds himself reassuring the kid and, as soon as he’s within reach, he puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it gently, pulling the teenager into his side momentarily. It’s crazy how instinctual these moves have become. “I’m just here to talk to your principle and sign some papers.”

Peter squints up at him skeptically. The motion makes his nose scrunch up and wrinkles appear on his forehead. He looks positively endearing.

“You’re not gonna buy the school, are you?”

And, even as he starts venting about what kind of picture the kid has of him, he has to admit that he would absolutely buy the school if he thought it would get Peter an advantage somehow. Good thing it doesn’t. He doesn’t want to have that conversation any time soon.

“Nah,” he shrugs finally, “May wants to put another emergency contact for you should she be busy and somehow the school didn’t believe her when she gave them my name.”

The kid snorts but his shoulders slump a little. “Yeah, I mean why would anyone believe that you even knew me?”

“Mister Parker!” a loud voice hollers through the hall then, making both Tony and Peter jerk in surprise. (And maybe Tony’s hand is going to his gauntlet watch and maybe he’s positioned himself between Peter and the noise but no one has to know that, right?)

“What are you doing in the hallways during class?”

A person accompanies the voice. A very non- threatening person in the form of a middle-aged well-rounded blonde secretary who peeks out from behind the office’s doors. Tony relaxes at the sight and puts a casual arm around the kid’s shoulders and a charming smile on his face just in case the teenager is actually in the wrong here.

Peter just waves a bleached out hallway pass at her and mumbles something about coming from the bathroom.

Tony really doesn’t like how the kid shrinks in on himself under her watchful gaze, as if he’s minutes away from being punished for something and he doesn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s a fateful coincidence, though,” he breaks the awkward silence and tugs on Peter’s jacket to drag the kid along to the office, “As I am here for Peter.” His smile is so forced it starts to hurt his cheeks but he keeps it in check like he always does. “His aunt and I have come to the conclusion that it would be for the best if he had two emergency contacts and that the second emergency contact should be me. You know, in case he’s sick and needs adult supervision to leave.”

“I-Uh-I-“

She stutters for another two minutes and Tony’s sure he’s broken something inside her. But he feels Peter’s body shake with suppressed laughter, still tucked into his side, and decides that it’s one of the best feelings in the world.

“I can just write down my name and number real quick,” he offers finally and earns himself a frantic nod and a pen almost stabbed through his hand in the flurry she creates getting the paper ready.

It’s pretty anticlimactic, if Tony’s being honest, but by the time they leave the principal’s office he’s at least in some way officially responsible for this kid and said kid is beaming up at him, his eyes shining again.

“I’ll see you later?” It’s more of a fact that they meet up on Wednesdays after school but Peter still manages to phrase it like a question he expects to be denied.

“We will, kiddo,” Tony smiles and ruffles his hair, earning himself an annoyed grunt, “We’ll get ice cream on our way to the tower. Now get back to learning important stuff.”

He pushes him away gently and watches the boy until he disappears into one of the classrooms. There’s a skip in his step now and he’s walking more upright and if that’s all Tony’s presence in his school accomplishes than he would take another eternity of the obnoxious smell that is high school.

ii.

“Mister Stark?”

“Kid?” Tony frowns and checks the caller ID again. “Why are you whispering? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

A pause follows in which the billionaire can only pick up on hushed voices and a door slamming shut before Peter replies. “I am. I just- uh.”

He’s still whispering but his faint voice breaks halfway through the sentence and he sounds more nasal than usual. Tony’s on his feet immediately, ignoring the frantic whirring of Dum-E who only just catches the screwdriver before it can fall into the wiring of the newest version of Rhodey’s leg braces.

“Are you crying?”

“Uh- No, I mean,” and the way he lets out a very deliberate breath into the phone, tells Tony enough to get F.R.I.D.A.Y. to unlock his fastest car and open the garage.

It’s what Pepper calls his kid-in-distress mode and it’s worrying how often it has come into action in the last couple of months. He doesn’t dwell on the fact how instinctual worrying for Peter has become, how vital the kid’s wellbeing is to his own.

“C-can you come and get me?”

“Already on my way, buddy. What happened?”

Tony’s heart doesn’t stop racing until he’s in front of the locker room and Ned opens the door for him. Really, it doesn’t stop racing even when he meets Peter’s glazed eyes and drops to his knees next to where the teenager is curled into himself on the floor, it just settles enough for his hands to stop shaking and his voice to come out even. No need to agitate Peter any further.

“Hey there,” he greets him with a quick card through the sweaty curls, “how’s the ankle going?”

“Think i-it’s broken,” the kid stammers, eyes squeezing shut in pain when Tony’s hand settles on his shin ever so lightly. “I-I can’t walk. It hurts really badly. A-and May wouldn’t p-pick up a-and –“

He shushes him with a wave of his hand and reassures him before he can start apologizing again because really, he doesn’t look like he’ll manage to keep his cool for much longer. The kid’s a trooper but broken bones just fucking hurt. No matter how enhanced one is. Not that he knows but Steve once described it as being even worse because the pain is just much more easily perceptible.

“I’ve already called Bruce and he’s prepping the med bay for you so he can put you back together the second we get to the tower, alright?” He doesn’t wait for Peter’s nod and simply keeps talking, trying to distract the kid to the best of his abilities while he prepares to lift him. “You’ve always wanted to meet The Bruce Banner, right? He’s a pretty cool guy. Got a bit of an anger management issue but otherwise – ”

That gets a choked laugh out of him which is all Tony can hope for at this point.

As he’s squatting down beside Peter he’s grateful for how stretchy his workshop pants always are and that he’s regularly lifting a multiple of the lightweight that is this particular teenager. He moves slowly to let Peter know exactly what he’s going to do and when he adjusts his grip one last time, under his knees and ribcage, he waits for the kid’s final yes before lifting him up.

Even though he knew when it would happen, he still can’t keep a small whimper from escaping his lips and it pierces through Tony’s heart like a poisoned arrow. He waits for Peter to sling an arm around his neck and nestle into his chest more securely before he starts walking.

Every step seems to be agony and so, in an attempt to distract, he starts talking again.

“I thought your Spider Sense is supposed to warn you if there’s danger not get you into an accident.”

“It’s not that easy,” Peter mutters through gritted tears, “It basically goes up for everything and anything that might possibly be dangerous. It just took me by surprise is all.”

With Ned’s help Tony carefully maneuvers his precious cargo through the door and into the, thankfully, deserted hallway. “And it made you trip and break your ankle?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “It’s really not as glorious to get bitten by a radioactive spider as people make it out to be. Spidey sense sucks.”

“I don’t think anyone has ever made it out to be glorious, if I’m being honest, kid,” Tony quips. He’s breathing a little easier now that they’ve almost reached the front doors. “You just-“

Before he can finish the great joke he has lined up, another voice interrupts them.

“I’m sorry, sir. What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Now that he thinks about it, it does look a little like a kidnapping the way he’s carrying a visibly uncomfortable teenager through creepy school hallways.

“I can explain that,” he says as he turns around to face a teacher who has the good thinking of taking a step back once he sees who he’s talking to. “You see, the kid tripped and sprained his ankle and he can’t walk anymore so I’m taking him to a doctor. I admit I should’ve thought of signing him out with your secretary but I was kind of –“

- too worried to think straight because this kid has wormed his way deep into the dark abyss that is my soul. Promise I’ll call ahead next time.

“You can’t just take a child out of school!” The teacher glares, taking a step closer and looking like he is about to take Peter from him. Which does not bode well with Tony.

“Oh really?” He snaps, tightening his grip on Peter and pulling him closer to his chest protectively. “I would really like to see you try and stop me taking my kid out of school to see a f- freaking doctor for his ankle.”

He is about to venture a tirade about the school’s inability when Peter’s small voice cuts him off.

“It’s okay, Mister Daniel,” he says with a forced smile, “Mister Stark is my emergency contact and he’s totally allowed to take me out of school in, you know, emergencies. Can you please let the secretary know? My ankle is hurting really badly.”

Tony expected more of an argument but it seems not even actual functioning adults can deny this kid anything and so he’s allowed to carry Peter through the doors and into his car without much more fanfare.

“What do you say – we let Bruce set your bone and then get ice cream?”

Peter nods slowly as he sinks down into the leather seats of the car. “You really think of me as your kid?”

The billionaire meets his mentees eyes shortly before pulling out into traffic. “Of course I do. I couldn’t have asked for a better one.”

Somehow the media finds out about Tony calling Peter his kid and headlines of Tony Stark’s illegitimate son dominate the papers and social media for weeks. The teacher is fired immediately, and Tony and Peter?

Well, Tony figures that at some point the world would have to find out about the kid he intends to make the heir of his multi-million dollar company. And Peter doesn’t like the press but there are worse things than being called ‘my kid’ by one Tony Stark.

iii.

When May texts him that she has something important she wants to talk to him about, Tony’s mind draws up a list of one hundred and forty three reasons how he has fucked up in the matter of a few minutes.

The question whether he wants to join her for the upcoming parent teacher conference is not on that list. In fact, it’s not even in the realm of things that he thought would ever be on any list other than ‘Bad ideas. Do not do.’

However, in May’s eyes it is, apparently, the next logical step in their road to co-parenting their vigilante superhero genius kid and so he doesn’t question it and rather just nods along when she’s listing everything he has to remember, topics they have to address and teacher they want to talk to. He’s glad F.R.I.D.A.Y. is smart enough to record the phone talk because his mind shuts down after the opening question.

After May leaves him to his thoughts and the contents of their conversation slowly trickle into the conscious part of his brain, he’s excited.

He never thought it to be possible to be as excited as he is about something so incredibly ordinary. But he is giddy with joy. This is his kid and he gets to be part of his normal life, outside of the whole superhero mentoring business they have going on. It makes his chest feel almost painfully full with emotions he can’t quite wrap his head around.

Tony is nothing if not thorough and by the time the PTC rolls around, he has planned everything to a tee and there are fail saves for his fail saves in place because this has to be perfect. He won’t be satisfied with anything short of an excellent meeting and he doesn’t care about the jabs he’s fallen victim to from both women and Peter himself.

This is important.

And, much to everyone’s surprise, the evening actually goes along without a hitch.

May and Tony have reached a comfortable pace of silent conversations and friendly jokes on the other’s dime and they stand strong on anything that is for Peter’s best (though what exactly that is differs sometimes). So, more than a forced co-parenting meeting, it feels like he’s here with a friend and partner in crime and he doesn’t understand why any parent would ever miss out on it.

They’re in the middle of a conversation with Peter’s art teacher who’s swooning over their next field trip to the Museum of Modern Art, when Tony pauses and ends up interrupting her long monologue about all the skills and knowledge the students are supposed to be taking away from it.

“Are there any field trips planned to visit universities?” By May’s gaze that wanders over him and settles on the woman in front of them questioningly, he can tell that that was a good question.

The teacher stutters for a moment before telling them to talk to one of the science teachers about that which, of course, they do.

And that ends up being one hell of a long conversation that evolves mostly around money issues that Tony just stops with a wave of his hand and a patient tone that Pepper would be proud of.

“The school is only allowed a certain amount of field trips for each class,” the physics teacher tells him again, “We’re a state funded school and simply don’t have the expenses to do more, even if we want to give our seniors the possibility to look at their options. And the trip to the museum has been voted for by most of his class members. I’m really sorry, but there’s not much I can do about that, Mister Stark.” He sounds apologetic and it’s the only thing keeping Tony from making a show of rolling his eyes.

Instead he leans forward and tries out the calm approach he has perfected in his trial runs for this exact situation.

“Expenses aside,” he starts and May besides him shoots him a half grin because she knows exactly where he’s going with this and for once she’s not going to keep him from waving the billionaire card. “Would it be possible for the kids to make a trip to, let’s say, MIT? Normal field trip, just a day and for purely educational purposes, of course.”

Mister Bryant cocks his head to one side, seeming to go over the schedule for the year before he nods, “Hypothetically speaking we could probably replace one of our project days with a visit to a university but –“ he pauses and meets Tony’s gaze a little sheepishly, “Maybe it would be more manageable to go to a university that’s a little closer. Columbia maybe.”

“Ah,” Tony shakes his head with a small grin, “No, I really think Peter and his classmates should be able to look at the best possible option and that is not Columbia, trust me. I’ve been there.” He leans back then, legs crossed and hands resting calmly on top of his knees. “I really think that MIT would be the best choice. I’ve still got some pull on campus and the flight from New York to Massachusetts is only about an hour.”

“I-uh I –“ Mister Bryant falters for a moment and gulps when he looks between May and Tony, a united front that does not take no for an answer but he tries anyway, “I think that would go way beyond the scope of what we can afford even if you did donate to the school, there’s just no way we can pay for plane tickets and –“

Now it’s Tony’s turn to frown in confusion, “Who said anything about me donating to your school?” Which, to be fair is phrased in a way that can be misunderstood easily and he enjoys the look of pure terror on the teacher’s face for only a second before he presses on. “I mean, I will of course support the school wherever I can but I am going to pay for that trip. And we will be taking my private plan so there won’t be any need for tickets and long waiting times at icky airports.”

That’s when the man in front of them finally cracks and starts thanking them on hands and knees for their support and frankly it’s a little disgusting how often he pats Tony’s hand but the billionaire appreciates the sentiment. This guy is thankful he can offer his students more than a state-funded school usually can and that’s something he can get behind. He puts a mental reminder on his growing to-do list to donate to schools more often.

They say their goodbyes and Tony’s watching May converse easily with parents and teachers alike, projecting a calm and nonchalant attitude that Tony can tell is a farce. A farce she manages to obtain for almost twenty minutes before she drags him through the hallway and out of the building only to hug him fiercely.

“Thank you,” he hears her say over and over again and his hands find their way to her waist to pull her away gently. He’s about to response when a bright flash startles him and suddenly they’re surrounded by reporters with microphones and cameras.

He can only about get the gist of what they’re all shouting at them and he’s more annoyed at himself of not thinking about this. The media has been going nuts about Peter and him ever since finding out about the teenager and his role in Tony’s life and of course they would figure out that today is the parent teacher conference.

With a growl he pulls May behind him to hide her from the lights that burn in their eyes and the questioning stares she is already getting.

“Does Miss Potts know you’re cheating on her with your son’s mother?”

And –

What?

Tony almost cracks up right on the spot because the guy who’s shoving a microphone into his face looks scared shitless as he repeats back what the person on his inner ear headphone must’ve told him to say.

“Miss who?” he asks innocently and keeps a straight face despite the painful jab in the ribs he’s getting from behind.

The reporter’s eyes widen and there’s a mutter going through the masses but no one steps forward to save the man who can’t be older than twenty five and who is probably praying for the ground to eat him up right then. He soldiers on, though, and that takes a lot of courage so Tony doesn’t interrupt him.

“M-Miss Potts, sir?”

Sir. This guy was a child.

“Ah,” he nods with a big, shit eating grin, “My lovely fiancée. No, I don’t think she knows I’m cheating on her with my son’s mother but if you don’t mind, I’m begging you to publish that nice little candid you took and tell her all about it.”

God, he loves messing with the vultures. He loves how they have no clue.

He turns to all of them with his arms wide open and a little bow, “Please feel free to publish any and all of these pictures. I would love to see the article and even more I’m going to enjoy watching while my beautiful fiancée destroys all of you before she’s done with breakfast.”

May is still hiding behind him but she’s holding on to his jacket, as if she expected him to assault one of the guys, and he can practically feel her shaking with laughter. It makes his grin grow even wider even though it earns him another light punch in the back.

“You think there’ll be any articles about this tomorrow?” she asks when they’re finally alone again and strolling casually to his car. She’s adjusting her back on her shoulder and biting her lip, obviously a little worried about the whole thing but he gives her a reassuring pat on the back.

“If they’re smart there won’t be. And even if there is, they didn’t get your face and we’ll make sure it stays that way. Peter has gotten enough public attention through our acquaintanceship as it is. I’m not letting them make this any harder.” It’s a hard promise to keep but one he means from the bottom of his heart.

She smiles, “I know. You’re a good man, Tony. I’m happy Peter has you.”

Tony doesn’t know what to say to that without his voice giving away just how much her words affect him and so he simply nods, puts the car in drive and brings her home so they can get the pizza they promised their kid.

There are no articles about Tony’s newest love affair whatsoever but Pepper somehow manages to get her fingers on the picture of May hugging Tony and frames it. It joins all the other pictures of his family in his lab.

iv.

Peter’s already sitting on one of the bar stools, inhaling his third bowl of cereal when Tony comes trudging through the door. He only stops to ruffle the kid’s hair and let out something that he hopes sounds like a greeting before continuing his way to his literal life saver: the coffee maker that’s already brewing the very first steaming mug of his deliciously smelling elixir vitae.

He’s already dressed, of course, and he’s kept it a little more casual than his usual three piece suit. No, today he is wearing a navy dress jacket with red studs and a white dress shirt. He hasn’t forgone the tie, though. No, he’s sporting his favorite custom made tie – a red one with dark blue highlights and designed to look like the Spider-Man suit, the colors matching his jacket perfectly. Instead of his usual dress pants he’s in much more comfortable faded denim pants. All in all, he really does like his attire.

And the kid’s face when he notices even makes him crack the first smile of the morning.

“Close your mouth or you’ll spill the milk,” he grins over the rim of his cup as the teenager splutters and actually does spill some of the milk but from his bowl by putting down the spoon with too much force. Ah, he loves catching Peter off-guard. It doesn’t happen as often as it used to anymore.

“Where’d you even get that?” he asks once he’s gotten his mouth to form words and he points to the shirt as if Tony needs any hint on what he’s talking about. “Are you gonna wear that? Like, today to MIT?

The billionaire spares his outfit a fleeting glance and leisurely takes a sip from his drink. “I designed it and then ordered it. How do you get your clothes?” he asks, fondness coloring the ironic quip, “And what else would I be wearing? You have a tie with science puns you haven’t told me about?”

That actually snaps Peter out of his staring and he glares at his mentor. An attempt at looking intimidating that is completely cancelled out by his baby blue t-shirt on which sodium and neon are out joking each other. “Even if I had, I’d only share them with decent people.”

As if on cue Pepper walks in, hair in a messy bun and tucked into a soft dressing gown that only shows a peak of Peter’s favorite ion joke.

“I give up,” the older man sighs in mock exasperation and downs the last bit of coffee, gratefully taking the next cup his fiancée is handing him. “Why do I even bother with this menace, Pep?”

She drops a kiss to the top of both his and Peter’s head before curling up on one of the chairs. She rests her chin on her knee and grins lazily up at him as she quips, “To atone for your sins?”

Peter cracks up at that and he’s suddenly laughing so hard that Tony is worried he’ll slip and tumble to the floor like the weird chaotic energy filled bouncing ball that he is. He’s already halfway out of his chair when the teenager composes himself and just sticks the tongue out at him cheekily.

Before Tony can reply, Pepper is reminding them that they should probably get going to collect everyone before they start worrying he forgot. Really, not everyone is as used to him being late to important meetings all the time. Although, this time it’s an actually important meeting.

So he shoos the kid to go brush his teeth and get whatever kids need to go on a field trip nowadays before turning to get ready himself. And, lo and behold, they actually make it on time (well, six minutes and thirty seven seconds late, but really Peter is just overreacting).

He’s at the front of the class with the teacher when they give the excited horde of kids the rundown and it feels weird, if he’s being honest. He has spent enough time with Peter to have a feeling for how to handle teenage kids but standing there and having them look up at him with their big eyes, wanting to learn more?

It’s amazing but scary. Is this what teachers feel like all the time? To know they have the power to educate and thus shape the next generation, the future?

Tony finds himself pondering about the what-ifs and could’ve-been’s and would-I-even-be-any-good’s but eventually his gaze always lands back on Peter who is listening to what his teacher is saying with such an earnest expression and when their eyes meet, he beams at him. And he feels that, maybe, he is doing an alright job in shaping the future.

The trip ends up going a lot more smoothly than he has ever hoped it would. The kids love the private airplane and the games Tony has stocked it with just for this occasion. Most of them haven’t flown before and it’s actually endearing to watch Peter fawn over how pretty the sky is looking with all his nerdy friends.

It seems that campus life is one of the few things that still intimidates teenagers and during their tour no one so much as steps out of line. They’re all too distracted by how big the campus is, by how old and honorable the buildings seem with all their fancy names and Tony simply enjoys watching his kid geek out over the labs they’re being shown even though he’s got his very own work station in Tony’s personal lab but that’s just how Peter is.

He’s excited about all of it. He’s writing every little thing the tour guide and Tony are saying down and takes everything in.

Tony’s heart is hurting with the thought of how close college suddenly seems. Not even a year and Peter will be going someplace else to grow and get even smarter and eventually change the world. He’ll jump out of the nest and spread his wings and actually fly. And while he’s so proud of everything the kid is going to achieve, he has to swallow past a lump in his throat when he beams up at him.

They only get a moment to themselves on the flight back.

Most of the kids are passed out in their seats and it’s quiet enough for Peter to lean into his side almost as if they are alone.

“Thank you so much for this,” he whispers as he stifles a yawn into his mentor’s shoulder. “And thank you for tagging along.”

He smiles, a wave of fondness crushing over all the little things that might have annoyed him that day until all he feels is the familiar feeling of Peter’s soft curls tickling his neck. “Anything for you,” he replies with a smile and brushes a bang from his forehead.

The boy snuggles a bit closer and they enjoy the peace and quiet until they hear some other kids talking in the seats behind them.

“Do you think Peter can get Mister Stark to give us a tour through Stark Industries, too?” A girl wonders. To which some guy replies in a hurried whisper, “Stark Industries? I hope he takes us to the Avenger’s Compound! Can you imagine –“

Tony laughs quietly to himself but Peter is adamantly shaking his head, never lifting it from the warm shoulder. “Over my dead body,” he mumbles, tapping Tony’s wrist for good measure, “We’re not making a field trip there.”

“Oh, really? Don’t you mean over my dead body?” he quips, pulling the kid closer, “Who says I want some gangly teenagers roaming about my company?”

He knows, should Peter ask, he would give his class the world’s best tour through the company anyone has ever seen. He knows there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for this kid.

The first time Tony set foot in Midtown School of Science and Technology he noticed the nauseating smell. He dimly remembers having been nervous and excited at the same time. Proud. Over-whelmed. He remembers feeling good.

When he enters the school now, he doesn’t feel much of anything.

There’s guilt lurking at the door and the grief that has become a part of him, sure. But then, they’re not really there at all. The pain that has been with him with every heartbeat, every breath since – The pain’s not there, either.

There’s nothing.

He is nothing. Merely a shell of what used to be a person. His body is there but not much else. Not his mind, not his gut instinct and definitely not his heart. No, he left all of it on –

“Mister Stark.”

Right. He’s not alone.

The ki – No. Not the kid. Ned.

Ned is the one who tugs at his sleeve clumsily after not having gotten a reply. It’s Ned who leads his body down the never-ending hallways that taunt him with the empty echo of their lone footsteps. It’s Ned who goes to work on the lock, removing the shackle from the solid brass body with practiced ease while Tony watches on dumbly.

The padlock’s clicking sounds dull, Ned’s voice is drowned out once more by the blood rushing in his ears and he can’t breathe because his lungs won’t pull the air in. It’s so familiar he doesn’t feel the pain that shoots through his body when his heart clenches at not getting enough oxygen.

“-eter needs you to breathe. You have to breathe, Mister Stark.”

He’s not breathing?

Tony exhales tentatively. Oh. He wasn’t breathing. Now he is. That’s nice. His heart unclenches and his mind starts picking up on his surroundings again.

They’re in a school. Dirty hallways, dented lockers, dust everywhere. It’s eerily quiet. No school should ever be this quiet, not even in the middle of the night.

It’s not the middle of the night. It’s noon.

Noon? Why are they in a school at noon? Why isn’t he working? Where’s Pet – Oh.

He blinks when the world starts turning, to focus on the open locker and the k – teenager in front of it. There are text books, carelessly thrown in after a long day of school because why bother arranging the books when you would use them again the next day? Advanced trig is standing dangerously close to the edge and only the weight of some tome that looks to be English literature is keeping it from falling.

Funny. Tony can relate. Though, he’s already falling – has been for weeks – and nothing is holding him back. He’s waiting for the moment he finally hits the ground and breaks apart. That would be easier. He can fix himself back up, he’s done it before. And even if he fails, at least it’ll stop the suffering.

Ned looks back to the locker when Tony doesn’t move with a sad sigh. Tony thinks he has been talking all along but he just can’t be sure. He’s zapping in and out. On and off. Alive and de –

“-lways working on the new formulas in chemistry so they should be,” he rummages through the depths of the locker, somehow keeping advanced trig from falling until he stops on a notebook that has seen better days. The sides are full of spilled ink and dog ears. But he doesn’t see that.

His eyes have stopped on the familiar writing – a familiar name – on the upper left corner of the cover. P –

Tony clears his throat, hand shaking as he reaches out to take the pad and it gets worse when he starts flipping through the pages. It’s too much of him in these pages – little doodles and structural formulas and quickly scribbled equations that are too advanced for any high schooler.

Not this one.

He stops when he’s found what he’s come here for, ignoring the way his fingers are gripping the page so tightly he might tear it off. But there, in neat handwriting is the newest recipe for synthetic spider webs. Unprecedented, never tested, never even left the ground of the school they’re standing in.

“That’s it,” he says and his voice feels like it hasn’t been used in months when it’s only been days. Same difference, he supposes, considering that time’s not real anymore. Nothing is.

His eyes are still roaming the page and he lets himself get lost in the science of it. Science is something he can grasp. This is something he can make. This is something that won’t turn to ash in his arms and leave him reeling and fighting for air on an alien planet –

“I- I can make this,” he presses on, desperate to keep himself inside the science and away from the nightmare that is everywhere his k – he isn’t. “I’ll make it for him. He’ll have it the second he’s back.”

Because that is the plan.

It still surprises him that there even is a plan but they’ve gotten back up and that back up is a woman. Figures that she would be able to think of something. He has always known that women are stronger in every way that counts. He’s glad he can let her carry the weight of the universe for now because he can’t even lift the weight of his own guilt.

Everything is set in motion and right now all they can do is wait.

Tony has never been known for his patience. That’s why he’s here – to have something to do, to grasp at something meaningful and important that can keep P – him safe when he’s back.

“He’ll be so happy to have his webs back,” Ned rambles, “Maybe a little mad because we went through his stuff but mostly happy I think. God, I can’t wait to have him back.”

“You will get him back,” Tony replies, closing the notebook and turning on his heel. He has to get out of here. “Just a few more days and you’ll have him back.”

He can hear the frown in Ned’s voice when he follows him, “We both will have him back, Mister Stark.”

Tony’s face smiles. He feels nothing.

vi.

“Your permission slip, Mister Parker?”

He blinks dumbly at his teacher who’s towering above him with an outstretched hand, waiting for the paper that has been burning a hole into the back pocket of his jeans for the past couple of hours. It should be a relief to finally get rid of the thing that has been haunting him for weeks and he can’t wait to never see the damn thing ever again. But – handing it over to his teacher means signing what he’s sure is going to be his death warrant.

For a second he entertains the thought of getting up and walking out of class without a backward glance but even as his gaze settles on the door, his only way out, he knows he doesn’t have the energy to do any of that. Hell, he barely has the energy to get out of the bed in the morning. Most days May literally drags him out by his arms and manhandles him into clothes and force feeds him.

Peter drops his head and reaches into his pocket. The second his hands touch the offending piece of paper the world starts spinning and he almost recoils but doesn’t. He doesn’t do a lot of things he wants lately. He grabs the crumpled-up slip and hands it to his teacher without looking up. He’s hoping if he can’t see the big fat name on the thing, it won’t hurt as much.

Which is ridiculous. How could there possibly be a pain worse than this? (Anymore and it might actually kill him.)

The second his teacher has his slip, he marches back to the front of the class and starts talking about their field trip. And if Peter thought he was feeling like dying before? Well, it only gets worse from here.

He tries to focus on the bright green emergency exit sign above the door instead of on the words that travel through the air and hit him with a force that knocks the air out of his lungs. Every word is like a gunshot wound, like someone putting holes in his body over and over and over again.

Exit.

He has to get out. The little white stick man is waiting for him to follow after him. Where? He doesn’t know, doesn’t care.

He wonders what it would be like to get lost in a white square. To have light surround him instead of the darkness that has been clinging to him for months. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get that feeling again.

Which doesn’t mean there’s no light in his life, no. There’s May and Ned and even MJ who has stepped up as someone akin to a friend. There’s Mr. Delmar and his sandwiches and there’s his cat. There’s the people he’s saving every day. But there’s no –

“-loyees of Stark Industries have suffered enough and I trust you all to be –“

Emergency exit only.

What constitutes as an emergency, he ponders. Is it an emergency when his lungs feel like collapsing and his entire body feels like it’s disintegrating again? Is it an emergency when he feels like dying but knows he isn’t? Is this constant state of loss and sadness he’s carrying an emergency?

Emergencies are sudden, unexpected. His grief is six months in the making. At this point, it’s neither.

Even though he feels like dying, he knows it’s not an emergency because this has become his new normal. And he has long since realized that there is no immediate action to be taken against this. There’s nothing. Just him and his pain.

He doesn’t know, can’t understand, why May thought this would be a good idea.

Pepper, Rhodey and Happy have all tried to reach out to him. Hell, half of the Avengers have tried and failed to get him to even look at them because when he sees them, he thinks of him and he’s not strong enough to go there. He’s not strong enough to see his name, his genius, his legacy plastered everywhere.

There shouldn’t be a legacy. Peter shouldn’t have had to sign his name on a dotted line making him the heir once he is of age. There shouldn’t be a heritage because he shouldn’t be fucking dead.

He breathes out very deliberately and tries to ignore the worried glances Ned is throwing him. His best friend thinks he’s being subtle but he really is about as subtle as – What’s not subtle?

The only thing he can think of his how he was sitting in front of the TV in 2008 with his uncle and his aunt and they were watching the news and he was hoping to get another glimpse at the newest superhero. He remembers some press conference that he didn’t understand. He remembers what came after, remembers how it changed his life forever.

Well, that’s not subtle at all.

His uncle’s voice is in his head and then another one joins it, overlapping with it until their words are the only thing he hears. Together they make up a tragic melody of loss.

You can’t change the world with subtle. You have to be bold, Pete.

“Hey Parker, think you can get us into the forbidden areas with your intern status? Think that’ll still mean something now that –“

His nails cut into the heel of his hand. He hears his skin tearing and he smells the few droplets of blood that spill. He concentrates on it and clenches his teeth to keep from screaming.

“Don’t know,” he spits out, chest heaving heavily with how fast his heart is beating and he can barely contain the hot rage that is pooling in his stomach. “Haven’t been there in months.”

Six months seventeen days and about twelve hours. Ever since he met Helen Cho’s eyes that only held an apology and he bolted out of the med bay.

Thankfully Flash doesn’t pry further. Even he seems to realize that Peter is close to losing it with how pale he’s looking and how he hasn’t moved a muscle more than he absolutely had to ever since they boarded the bus. He hears them talking about it anyway.

They’re speculating about just what went down, what sacrifices had to be made to save the world this time.

It’s not just the world. And the sacrifice was too high.

You’re alright.

He isn’t. He’s dying and no one realizes because he’s walking, talking and breathing.

“We’re here, Peter,” his best friend tells him and Peter is glad that he’s gripping his shoulder as tightly as he is. He’s singlehandedly pulling him back from the abyss that is his mind and into the next hell which is his reality. He doesn’t know which one is worse.

They make it through the front doors without an incident and up until the front desk, Peter manages to avoid looking at the trademark logo but there’s one hanging right above the area and once his eyes have found it, he can’t bring himself to look away. Even when his vision his becoming blurry, he just keeps staring.

Are you trying to catch flies? It’s just a sign, kid. Through here, that’s where the magic happens.

“Looks like I’m missing one visitor pass,” the cheerful lady that seems to be their guide today notes and is about to turn to the woman at the registration desk when his teacher intersects.

“I was told that Mister Parker won’t need a badge when I called ahead,” he tells them and Peter wishes he would’ve just stayed in his own headspace. He really doesn’t feel like explaining that he hasn’t touched his badge in almost a year because he never actually needed it around here. He just –

“Ah, Mister Parker.”

Knowing eyes find his and the rage in his stomach is rearing its head even as he forces something that he hopes resembles a friendly smile on his lips. He blinks and the red anger settles with his next exhale.

“Do you have your badge with you?”

Don’t be a spoilsport, Happy. The kid doesn’t need to wear a badge.

He shakes his head because his throat is suddenly too dry to get any words out and he fears that even if he did, they would only cause more pain.

Another voice sounds them suddenly. “Mister Parker has full access to all Stark Industry buildings. Welcome back, Peter.”

Peter is on fire. His skin his burning, his insides are consumed by the hot flame that is the rage he can barely control.

It is nice to finally make your acquaintance, Mister Parker. Boss has talked very highly of you. I’m F.R.I.D.A.Y. I’m in charge of the tower.

He can hear his classmates talking over each other and even his teacher seems surprised but doesn’t delve further into why a lanky high schooler would need access to all company buildings. Ned shushes them and Peter can go back to concentrating on his breathing.

I’m not letting you sit this one out, Peter. You can’t run from this forever and if it takes a stupid field trip with your class to face your demons? Then so be it. You need to keep living, baby. I miss you.

He misses himself, too.

He misses how he used to laugh too loud and talk too much and how his mind was always moving too fast. He misses how he used to feel so many emotions, how he had the full kaleidoscope of colors when all he sees nowadays is red and black. Red is his anger, black the grief.

Objectively, the tour is nice.

Their guide is going out of her way to make this an interesting experience and she shows them a lot more than visitors are usually shown. Sometimes she stumbles on a more science-related question but before Peter feels the need to jump in, the helpful AI answers from the ceiling, earning surprised gasps and delighted chuckles whenever she chimes in.

Peter is proud how he stays upright the whole time and doesn’t let his anger get the better of him once. He’s in a peaceful state of oblivion. Floating somewhere between the things he’s seeing, hearing and feeling, and something else, something easier to handle. There are no strong emotions in this world, just a deep blue sea with occasional ripples. If he’s not careful he might drown. Maybe he’ll stop being careful for just one –

He’s snapped back into the reality, where the air in his lungs is acid and tries to kill him with every breath he takes, by his phone and a text message he chooses to ignore.

If he keeps ignoring everything about this, maybe he’ll survive the day. If he just stays in that other world, where he might drown in the sea, maybe he won’t die in this world. Because he doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to leave his aunt and Ned. He just doesn’t know how to not die anymore.

“If you don’t have any more questions regarding the labs, I will take you to the heart of any tour through our building – an exhibition about the history of Stark Industries,” the cheerful lady is leading them down the staircase again and into a wing of the building Peter has never been to before. His body follows the group mechanically.

“As you all probably know, Stark Industries was founded by Howard Stark in the early twentieth century as a –“

Flying cars, super soldiers and better weapons. That’s all my old man ever talked about.

“-age of twenty one, he assumed the role of CEO and the company flourished for almost two decades –“

Your moral compass has already surpassed mine by – I don’t know, F.R.I.D.A.Y., what’s a good comparison?

“-wanted a whole wing about Miss Virginia Potts and her accomplishments since taking over as CEO. Soon after, Stark Industry started investing more into renewable energies and, with Stark Tower, managed to –“

His phone buzzes again but he quickly presses decline and pushes it back into his backpack. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? Why do they have to make it worse?

Peter has almost made it back into the peaceful space of his mind when two things happen at once.

“- the late Tony Stark –“

“Peter!”

The cheerful ladies voice clashes with Pepper’s concerned one and suddenly the CEO and late Tony Stark’s fiancée is standing in front of them, searching the group until her eyes fall on Peter.

For a moment everything is dulled and then the sounds come back. They’re too much. Too loud, too bright, too full, too much.

He searches frantically for something to cling to and all he finds is a picture of his mentor. His late mentor.

I’m never late. Everyone else is simply early.

Something in him breaks when he sees the brown eyes that are guarded on the photograph. The smile is fake but it radiates exactly what he wants. He’s always been good at getting people to see what he wants them to see. He’s always been good at getting what he wants.

Wanted.

Late Tony Stark.

Suddenly the anger is back and he can do nothing but let it consume him. Every last pore is filled with hot blinding rage and he snaps when a hand is on his shoulder and someone is trying to calm him down.

He hasn’t realized he’s been screaming.

“You’re alright, Peter. It’s okay.”

“It’s fucking not!” he bursts out then. Everyone keeps telling him that it’s okay and that he’s alright but it isn’t and he isn’t. He’s lost and broken and he doesn’t know how to tell them that he can’t possibly move on from this.

“He’s fucking gone. He’s gone he’s –“

“He saved the world.” – “He’s a hero.” – “He’s –“

Peter doesn’t care because he might be a hero but he was also his mentor and his father figure and he’s gone. He’s vanished from his life as if he has never been there only then it wouldn’t hurt so fucking much.

Pepper meets his eyes and he’s not sure how she does it because he swears his eyes are shooting flames but Pepper has always been able to handle fire.

“You know why he had to do it.”

Listen, Pete. You’re probably going to hate me when you see this but this was the only way to get you back. I can’t – I can’t keep living like this. I have to get everyone back. I have to get you back.

“I never asked him to,” he screams, “I never would’ve agreed. How could you let him do this? Why didn’t you stop him? I – I thought you loved him, too. I thought –“

He breaks off when a sob forces its way past his dry lips and when he blinks the tears start running down his cheek and they’re doing nothing in cooling his anger and they’re doing nothing in curing his pain.

“I love him.” Pepper’s voice is calm, not accusatory. “Nothing I could’ve said would’ve stopped him.” She’s not taking the bait, she’s not fighting back. He hates it.

“I hate him,” he whispers and in that moment he means it. “If he had cared at all – if he had loved me at all he wouldn’t –“

I love you, Peter. I love you so much it kills me to be without you even one second longer. If you take one thing from this stupid video message, please let it be this. I love you and I will always love you. No matter what.

He’s breaking down.

His nose is running, the tears are flowing freely and he can’t control his body anymore. His hands are shaking and his knees scrape over the ground when he falls over but before his face hits the floor, someone catches him. Pepper is warm and soft and familiar and he buries his head in her neck and lets go of the anger for the first time in months.

It has become an integral part of him and now that it’s slowly seeping out of his pores, all that’s left is the overwhelming pain of losing the third father figure in his life and the feeling that he’s alone again.

Why does he keep losing people? Why did it have to be him for the rest of the universe? Why couldn’t someone else do the sacrifice? Why – Why does Peter have to suffer? Why does he always have to suffer?

It’s selfish but sometimes he wishes he would’ve stayed dead. He’s not strong enough to go through this again, not now that he’s back in the real world and he feels the pain again. He can’t.

You’re the strongest person I know, Peter. Between you and Pepper, there’s no one stronger.

I’m sorry it has to be you. I’m sorry.

Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry –

He must have lost consciousness at some point because when he wakes up, May is carding her fingers through his sweaty hair and he’s tucked into the softest blanket he’s ever felt. He surrounded by a feeling of home. He freezes when he realizes why.

The blanket, the scent and the calming sound of rain hitting the window at a volume he can enjoy. He is home. Sort of.

“Hey sweetie,” his aunt whispers, “Pepper called me. We’re staying over tonight, is that okay?”

Instead of answering he turns his face into the pillow more fully and inhales the scent that is so uniquely Tony. Now that he has it, he doesn’t know how he has made it six months without it. Here, in his bedroom, it’s like he’s just been here. As if he’s just stepped out to get a glass of water.

Tony is still alive in here.

He has tried so hard to bury every memory of the man and it has killed him. But now? Now he remembers.

He remembers how he made him breakfast in bed and helped him with his homework late one night. He remembers how Tony’s snoring woke him after they both fell asleep watching a movie. He remembers the small smiles and hair ruffles.

He remembers the I love you’s. The ones not on some video message but stored away safely in his heart.

Before he knows it, he’s crying again and his aunt pulls him closer and then Pepper is there, too. And he feels like Tony is there, too, as long as he remembers.

fic by @josywbu

art by @lieselfh

#irondad #irondad fic #tony stark #peter parker #1k followers celebration #liesel art #josis fic #field trip #but not your typical field trip fic #YOU ARE MORE THAN WELCOME TO SCREAM AT US VIA INBOX BTW #j&fcollab #major character death

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tilltheendwilliwrite · 6 years

Text

Teacher’s Pet

Chapter One

Pairing: Chris Evans x OFC | Word Count: 3638 Warnings: None.

Summary: Annie Erikson and her daughter Teddy have always been a family of two. When a job opportunity arises Annie just can’t pass up, she and Teddy leave their small town of Dillon, Texas to move to Boston, Massachusets. Maybe the hot kindergarten teacher at Teddy’s new school will make them a family of three.

“Baby girl, everything is gonna be okay. You're gonna love you're new school. I'm sure your teacher is gonna be just wonderful. There ain't nothing to worry about,” Annie assured her daughter for the third time.

The move from Texas had been rough, but Boston was where her job opportunity had arisen, so Boston was where they went. That didn't mean Teddy liked it, nor had she understood why suddenly they had to move away from their little yellow cottage in Dillon and into the stately brick house in Boston's North End.

Theodora “Teddy" Erikson clutched Annie’s hand like a lifeline as they walked down the hall of her new school toward her kindergarten class. Principal Dickson was supposed to accompany them but had been called away last minute by a phone call which couldn't wait.

In the end, Annie preferred it this way as Teddy was too nervous for Annie to contend with the man trying to flirt with her. As a single mom, Annie had to deal with flirty men more often than she liked. But she and Teddy had done alright on their own.

Her husband Jack had died in a car accident shortly after Annie had learned she was pregnant with Teddy. It had been devastating, but Jack had come through for them in the end. His life insurance had set them up handsomely, but there wasn't much call for an Art Restoration expert in a town like Dillon.

Jack had coached football there, and Annie had given up her career to teach art at the local high school. She'd only stayed as long as she had after his death because Jack’s family insisted.

But when Annie had started painting again, it had reminded her of her love of art. After five years of wallowing in Jack's memory and legacy, she needed a change.

The Museum of Fine Art in Boston had offered her a lucrative position she couldn't say no to, Jack's life insurance and her savings from before their marriage allowed her to buy the house of her dreams, and see Teddy got into one of the best-rated schools in Boston.

And all it took was ripping her child away from the only home and family she’d ever known. Fresh guilt soured her stomach.

“Do I have to go?” Teddy whined.

Annie squeezed her hand. “Yeah, baby. But you're gonna make tons of friends and have the best time,” she promised, praying to God she wasn't lying to her daughter.

The principal had given her directions to Mr. Evans’ class, and Annie prayed a second time the man wouldn't terrify her daughter.

At the door, she paused for it was covered in colourful cutouts of different breeds of dog. The noise coming from the slightly ajar door was loud but lively, and she pushed it tentatively inward.

Mr. Evans had his back to the door and hands on his hips as he looked down at the grinning boy before him. “Really, Chris?” Voice laced with amused exasperation, the man shook his head. “I highly doubt your turtle ate your toes.”

“It's true!” the boy giggled.

“And if I were to turn you upside down and tickle your foot, I'm pretty sure they would wiggle around in your sock. Go on now. Play nice with Julie.”

“Mr. Evans! Door!” cried another little girl sending Teddy scurrying behind Annie’s leg.

The teacher turned around, and Annie tried very hard not to whimper. It was wholly unfair for a man who looked like him to teach kindergarten.

Broad shoulders beneath a white button up. Trim waist and muscular thighs in fitted jeans. Fluffy blond hair neatly trimmed, and a light scruff of facial hair. It made Annie’s mouth bone dry.

“Hi,” he smiled kindly, making his way closer. “You must be Annie Erikson.”

He held out his hand you somehow managed to shake. “Yes. Sorry to just barge in, but Principal Dickson got held up.”

“Not a problem. I'm Chris Evans. Welcome to Eliot Elementary School.” His handshake lingered a moment too long before he crouched and smiled at Teddy, peeking past Annie’s skirt. “And you must be Theodora.”

Again he held out his hand, but Teddy only hid her face.

“I'm sorry. She's pretty shy with new people, and the move has been hard on her.”

“That's okay,” Chris smiled. “Robin?” he called into the classroom and had a girl with pigtails skipping over.

“Yes, Mr. Evans?” she said with a slight lisp.

“Robin, this is Theodora-"

“Teddy,” Teddy whispered.

“Teddy, my apologies,” the teacher smiled. “Robin, would you like to be Teddy's buddy and show her around our class? Help her find her cubby and hang up her coat.”

“Okay, Mr. Evans!” Robin grinned. “C’mon, Teddy.” She held out her hand.

Teddy looked up at Annie in fear. “It's okay, baby.” Annie crouched and hugged her tightly. I'm gonna stand here and talk with y’alls teacher for a few minutes before I have to go to work. You go on and get settled.”

Reluctantly, Teddy released her to hurry after Robin and take the child’s hand. “Bye, mama," she whispered, breaking Annie’s heart.

Chris pushed to his feet then held out his hand to help Annie up. “Don't worry. This happens all the time. She’ll be fine,” he said kindly.

“Will I?" Annie asked, wiping away a tear. “I feel like I'm abandoning my baby.”

“Your first?” he asked.

“My only,” she sighed. “And without her daddy around, it's all the harder.”

“Mr. Erikson works away?”

“Jack died before Teddy was born.” Annie’s phone beeped, and she dug it from her purse. “Shoot. I've really gotta go. It's my first day too.”

“Give me your phone,” Chris said. “I'll put my number in it and text you a couple of pictures to show you Teddy’s doing great.”

Annie handed it over even as she frowned. “Do you do this for all the parents?”

A bit of a cocky grin flashed. “Not at all. But you're new to Boston, Teddy's all you've got, and I know what anxiety can do to a person.” He sent himself a text and handed back your phone just as a T-Rex appeared to roar from his pocket. “Got it. Go. Good luck on your first day. Teddy’s going to do great.”

She sent a glance at Teddy, already playing with a group of girls and sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Evans.”

“Call me Chris,” he smiled, shutting the door as she walked away.

Annie made it to her car before murmuring, “Chris. Least he’ll be easy on the eyes this year.”

***

Thirty minutes later, Annie was finishing up with security, getting her ID badge and passwords for the lab and computers when her phone vibrated in her pocket. Excusing herself for a moment, she pulled it from her suit coat and turned it over to find it was from Teddy’s teacher.

He’d put his info into her phone as Chris Evans, but her immediate thought was hot teacher. Then she unlocked the message and giggled for Mr. Evans was wearing a fuschia feather boa and sparkly tiara, while Teddy had on a pair of aviator shades which could only belong to the man crouched and smiling at the camera with her. Arms crossed, Teddy was giving her best sassy face as she leaned into her teacher's shoulder.

“Damn that’s cute,” Annie whispered, smiling at the image.

Teddy had insisted she had to wear her favourite dress, a red one with white polka dots, and her cowboy boots. Annie had given in on the boots but only because Teddy had agreed to let her braid the strawberry blonde mass of unruly curls the girl had inherited from her father.

A second image came through as she was admiring the first. This one was the same, but instead of smiles both student and teacher were making faces.

Annie snickered and typed out a quick reply.

A: Thank you for those.

C: No problem. She’s a sweet kid.

A: Takes after her father.

C: Pretty sure there’s a bit of her mother in their too.

Annie felt a blush burn her cheeks.

A: I would certainly hope so. She added a laughing emoji and put her phone away when Mark St. Pierre, her new boss arrived.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

In his mid to late thirties, the man wore tweed with leather elbow patches, had receding dirty blonde hair, and was round of face and waistline. He leered a little, and Annie made a mental note to wear shirts with higher necklines to work from now on.

Not that what she had on was in any way inappropriate. The peach blouse was comfortable, easy to work in because of its short sleeves, but the v-neckline did show a little cleavage. Her pencil skirt was beige, her heels short and sensible. A dark green suit jacket rounded out the ensemble and complimented the sleek chignon she’d managed to use to tame her chestnut locks. But just because she looked professional and put together didn’t seem to matter to her boss when his eyes lingered on her breasts.

“Fine,” she clipped the word and let her disapproval show on her face when his gaze darted up.

He only smirked.

Great. She was working for a lecher. Fabulous.

“We’ve got her sorted, sir,” Stanley the older security officer said, giving Annie a sympathetic look.

Evidently, the museum’s curator was known for his roving eye. As long as he didn’t have roving hands, Annie could live with it. She was about to start her dream job. Nothing was going to take that away from her.

“Excellent! I’ll show Mrs. Erikson through to the lab and get her squared away with Anton.” Mark held out his arm for her, but Annie shrugged and held up papers, purse, and ID badge.

Mark frowned. “Here let me clip that on your jacket for you.”

“I’ve got it,” Annie said, pulling her hands away when he reached for the badge.

“It’s no trouble,” he insisted.

“Mr. St. Pierre,” she said sternly. “I am perfectly capable of pinning on my own badge, but I would appreciate directions to the lab.”

He looked taken aback before an angry flush filled his face. “Well, then. Right this way.” He turned on his heel and marched from the security office.

“Have a good day, Annie,” Stanley murmured.

“Thanks, hun,” she gave him a wink and a smile, having enjoyed her time with him. He’d been pleasant company and had grown up in a town not too far from Dillon. It really was a small world.

“Annie?” he called before she went out the door. “You be careful now, ya hear?” He shot a sharp look at the door.

“Ain’t nothing new, Stan,” she murmured, tilting her head in understanding.

***

Anton LaRoche, her direct supervisor, was beautiful, French, flamboyant, and very, very gay. Annie adored him.

He’d taken one look at her, shot a glare at Mark, and began to fawn, flutter, and touch the Museum’s curator in a way which clearly made the other man uncomfortable.

Mark muttered something about being needed elsewhere and hurried out of the sterile white lab.

“Annie, ma petit chou! You look très chic!” Anton complimented, taking her purse with one hand and raising her hand to his lips with the other. “Come, come. Anton will show you to your office, and then we will drink. Tea because these Americans frown when I drink wine at work,” he huffed indignantly. “Then, you can tell me all how you and your darling Teddy are settling into Boston. Oui?”

She laughed and let him lead her where he would. Anton had been the one to interview her, both via teleconference and then again in person. She’d liked him then, but after he’d rescued her from Mark, who had again tried to take her arm on their way to the lab, she was utterly in love with him now.

“Hun, if you weren’t happily involved and played for the right team, I would snatch you up for myself outta thanks for that timely rescue,” she giggled.

“Bah! That man is a chauvinistic pig!” he spat. “But he is good at what he does. Brilliant even. Still, if he gets out of line, you will tell Anton.” He pushed open the door to her new office.

Annie smiled in relief. While she loved the sterile white of the lab and its clean room, her office had been decorated in soft tans and dark woods. Walls of shelving were top-lit to highlight whatever art or items she chose to display. A large and sleek computer monitor sat on the wood and glass desk, and Annie made her way over to it.

Setting her papers down, she opened the monstrosity she called a purse and pulled out the picture of Teddy on her last birthday. An eight by ten of her with cake on her face and a smile the size of Texas, and a smaller five by seven of Jack standing on the fifty-yard line smiling at the boys he coached. Both were set with pride beside the monitor before she turned back to Anton.

“She’s a beautiful girl,” he said, his smile soft.

“She’s my angel,” Annie agreed, touching the frame.

“And she likes her new school?” Anton asked.

Annie tugged her phone from her pocket. “Seems too,” she chuckled, showing Anton the first photo Chris had sent her.

“Mmm, bella! Is that her teacher?” He fanned his face. “Do not tell my Travis, but rowr!”

He made a clawing motion, and Annie burst out laughing.

“I know that feeling, hun,” she chuckled. “He’s even prettier in person.”

Laughing together, they went to have tea in Anton’s office, while Annie made a mental note to bring a few of her as of yet unpacked boxes to the Museum.

“I still cannot believe our good fortune of snatching you up, Annie,” Anton smirked as he pushed open the door to his office and made his way to the sideboard.

“I still can’t believe I’m back working,” she sighed. “But… I couldn’t stay in Dillon any longer. And I miss it. The work.”

“You were the best. When I heard you’d left the Louvre seven years ago, I will admit I shed a tear at your loss.”

Annie shrugged and smiled sadly when he came to sit in the chair beside her. “I fell in love. And Jack was never gonna leave those kids. It didn’t matter that I made four times as much as he did. Dillon was home. Those kids were his life, and for a while, the school and teaching art was enough.”

He reached out and patted her hand. “Well, I am most excited you are here. Tell me, are you painting again?”

She shook her head. “Not like I used. Maybe now with the house and all, I can have my studio again, but…” she sighed. “It hurt too much after Jack… and setting up at the school used to irk the parents who thought their son or daughter had so much talent and my work would upset their delicate feelings.” Annie rolled her eyes. “It was a crock of shit because the kids used to love to watch me work.”

“Bah!” Anton huffed. “People are assholes! Is why we work behind the scenes in the lab, non?”

Annie chuckled and nodded. “Oui.”

***

Three hours later, Annie had discarded her jacket in her office and was bent over staring through a magnifying glass at a horribly yellowed varnish on a Greco canvas when her phone buzzed.

A quick glance had her heart jumping when she saw Chris’s name again. Was something wrong? Did Teddy need her?

She swiped the lock screen away and breathed a sigh of relief when the short video played. Teddy and a group of three other girls were playing hopscotch laughing and giggling away. Then the camera turned, and Chris was there, wearing the aviator shades from earlier. “I wanted you to know she’s made a few friends. See you soon, Annie.”

He smiled, and she felt it on a visceral level.

“Ma petit Annie. That man has a wee crush, I think,” Anton chuckled.

“After a five-minute conversation in which I blubbered a little?” She snorted. “I think you’re romantic side is slipping.”

“We shall see. When the hot teacher asks you out, and that is a when not if, you will owe me lunch,” he teased and wandered off to continue cleaning the statue he was working on.

***

Promptly at three, Annie was waiting outside the school for the bell to ring. It had been a bit of a hassle to get out of the building when Mark had, again, caught her in the corridor and asked her to dinner.

Annie had tried to be nice, let him down with a simple, “I’m sorry, but I really need to pick up my daughter,” but Mark had continued to follow and hound her and ask after different dates and times until Annie had come to a stop a few feet away from where Stanley and another security guard stood watching. At that point, she’d had enough. “Mr. St. Pierre. I am not now, nor at any time in the future will I ever be interested in dating you. Please do not ask me again, and I would thank you to keep your hands to yourself from now on. Good day, sir!”

She stalked off fuming and still had not calmed sufficiently to be dealing with her excited five-year-old. When her phone rang, and she glanced down to find Janice, Jack’s mama and Teddy’s grandmother calling, Annie sent her to voicemail.

That was the last thing she needed to deal with right this second. Janice could wait until after dinner, giving Annie time to gird her loins and Teddy time to calm down after the excitement of the day.

When her phone rang a second time, Annie sighed, shut off the ringer and rubbed her forehead before pulling her hair out of the sleek updo. Janice was going to be impossible to deal with after ignoring her twice, and her hair was giving her a headache.

The mass tumbled down to the middle of her back, and Annie breathed a sigh of relief.

When the bell rang, Annie pasted on a smile and walked closer with the other waiting moms, or in some cases, nannies she was sure, but then the doors burst outward, and all the troubles of her day vanished in the light of Teddy’s smile.

“Mama!” she cried, arms out as she raced toward Annie.

“Hey, darling! How was your day?” Annie asked, crouching down to hug Teddy so tight the girl giggled.

“It was great, mama! Mr. Evans is so nice!” She leaned closer and whispered in Annie's ear, “Don’t tell no one, but he let me wear his sunglasses.”

“Did he now?” Annie smiled and glanced up to see Mr. Evans making his way through the sea of children and adoring women.

They all touched him, a hand to his arm or shoulder, but he excused himself each time, stating he would have to speak with them later, avoiding everyone with skill.

“Teddy! Wait!” he called, a package of papers in his hand. “Annie,” he said with a slightly crooked smile.

“Mr. Evans,” she smirked.

“Chris, please,” he murmured, holding out the papers. “We need you to fill out these forms for Teddy’s school record. Health insurance, emergency contact, all that.”

“I'm pretty sure I already did that,” Annie said, cocking her head. Damn the man had the sexiest blue eyes.

“Really?” he asked, the surprise almost passing as genuine. “Must be some mistake at the office. Would you mind filling them out again?”

A dimple appeared with his cheeky grin which had Annie reaching for the paperwork. She’d always been a sucker for dimples.

He crossed his arms over his chest afterward, causing his shirt to stretch when his incredible pecs seemed about ready to tear straight through the cotton. “How was the first day?”

She licked her lips and lifted her gaze back to his, the boyish grin stating he knew exactly what she’d been admiring. “Had its ups and downs,” Annie said cryptically. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Evans.”

“Chris,” he said, his grin never wavering. “See you tomorrow, Teddy.” He held out his hand, and she gave him a high five.

“You betcha, Mr. Evans!” Teddy chirped and skipped toward the car.

“Annie.” Chris tilted his head, his smile softening.

She arched a brow as she turned away. “Mr. Evans.”

He only laughed and watched her walk away before wading back through the sea of women and kids on his way to the school.

As the door was open, Annie heard him say, “Now, Ms. Cooper. There's no need for a private chat when Duncan is doing just fine. And while I'm flattered by the offer of dinner, Ms. Jones, I'm afraid I'm going to be busy for the foreseeable future.” He smiled, but dismissed them both with a curt nod and headed inside.

Annie made sure Teddy was buckled in before pulling away from the curb, allowing her daughter's cheerful chatter to wash over her on the short drive home.

Annie. Chris hadn't called her by her last name, not once. He always called her Annie.

Next Chapter

#Teacher's Pet #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #kindergarten au

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nevertellyouno-blog · 8 years

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Fox and the Hound

Gabriel Sanguinetti wasn’t like other boys his age. He was taller, faster, stronger. More aggressive. They had him pinned as a troublemaker right from the beginning, and though his teachers and classmates seemed to think he was nothing but a bad seed, his mother never lost faith in him. She saw something in him that no one else could. She saw passed the detentions and suspensions, the calls home from the principal and other parents declaring that her boy was a nuisance who was more fit to a zoo than a school.

“God made you like this for a reason,” she’d tell Gabriel. “You have a big heart, and a lot of good in you, and He put that there too. I can see it because I’m your Mother. Others can’t see it, not like I can, so you need to show them. Show them how Good you can be.”

Personally, Gabe could never understand why his mother believed so wholeheartedly in some old dude living space deciding who lives and who dies and who wins the lottery. But he loved her, and believed her when she said there was Good in him. What sort of Good, he didn’t know, and wouldn’t find out until many years later when he foiled his first robbery.

He’d been standing at the counter of a convenience store with a six pack between him and the cashier, trying to keep a straight face as the old Indian man who owned the joint decided whether Gabriel’s ID was fake or not. A man with a gun came in and began shouting for all the money in the register, and while a part of Gabriel saw this as an opportunity to just grab his beer and run, a much larger part of him realized that he could do something better than just stand there while an innocent man was robbed.

Gabe watched for a moment while the Indian man struggled to wrench the money from the drawer with shaking hands, all the while the robber in a black ski mask yelled to “Hurry the fuck up or I’ll shoot!” But then the robber was looking at him, asking him what the fuck he was looking at, and Gabriel acted without thinking. He smacked the gun out of the robber’s hand and took advantage of the man’s staggering shock by planting a solid fist in his face. The man in the mask fell back against a rack of candy bars, sending a shower of Hershey bars onto the floor, and Gabe pounced, dragging the robber by the lapels of his jacket to the floor. He punched once, twice, and the man stopped moving, the wool of his ski mask darkened by the splatter of hot blood.

It had all happened so fast. Gabe let go of the robber’s jacket, and as his limp body thudded onto a bed of candy bars, Gabriel looked nervously up at the Indian man behind the register. He was looking at Gabe with a mixture of shock and surprise, his eyes still watering from the tears he’d shed at having a gun waved in his face. Gabe apologized, seeing the mess he’d made with the rack of candy and the spatter of blood on the dirty tile floor, and ran out.

The encounter had scared him more than anything. He’d felt a surge of energy throughout his body, he’d felt lighter than air and stronger than diamond. He’d heard ringing in his ears, tasted copper in his mouth. Gabe was no stranger to fights, had the calloused knuckles to prove his frequent participation in them, but this had been different. It had awoken something in him that would carry him far into adulthood, onto the front page of newspapers and into the colorful pages of comics. He’d tasted what it was like to be a hero that day in the convenience store, and everything his mother had told him as a child came back to him. There was Good in him, and he finally knew how to use it.

The Hound was not the first hero to spring up in New York, and wouldn’t be the last, but Gabriel was satisfied to know that he’d played a large part in making the hero movement as widely celebrated as it is now. Though most of the newspapers called him an anti-hero, there was no one that could deny that The Hound was, at heart, a “Good Guy”. He and a slew of other heroes kept the streets cleaner in the 80s than the cops could, as vigilantes were not expected so much to uphold the law as dance on the sidelines of it, doing whatever it took to bust the drug labs and human trafficking rings that the darker parts of New York harbored.

There was good money in it, for awhile. Sponsors would pay heroes to wear their brands while fighting crime, and some heroes were even featured in commercials supporting local businesses. It was bizarre, too much like being a cop, Gabe thought, as fighting crime was supposed to be for the greater good, not a paycheck. But at the same time, it was hard to hold a day job when your night job was so time consuming. It didn’t help when you came in with fresh bruises and stitches every other day. So Gabe got himself a manager and sewed a few patches on his jacket, letting people know what TV channels he liked and what brand of toothpaste he preferred. It kept him in a cozy studio apartment eating a steady diet of pizza and take-out, so he couldn’t complain.

Of course, the lavish life of a superstar always comes to an end when you’re no longer relevant, and it’s hard to stay relevant when your “powers” start fading and a punch leaves you more winded than it did a decade before. Gabriel was getting old, had almost no sponsors left to pay his bills, and seemed to be falling out of touch with the modern world. Heroes were a dime a dozen now, most of them young and hip and with cooler powers than just having a really good left hook. Gabe still busted the occasional robbery or drug deal, but nowadays the younger heroes stole all the spotlights while the old men like Gabriel were either dead, or married with children and no time for crime-fighting. Gabe was somewhere in the middle. Forgotten but not dead, and after a lifetime of sleeping with women but never falling in love with one, he was very much alone.

It was hard to ignore just how alone he was when all the storefronts advertised Valentine’s sales and couple’s specials, windows decorated in pinks and reds with enough hearts and teddy bears to gag on. One such store caught Gabriel’s eye-- a jewelry store on the corner he drove by every afternoon had it’s ever-on OPEN sign shut off, and a man stood in front looking like a goon out of a comic book. Gabriel had seen his type before. Had put enough of them in casts to know something was going on, and he needed to stick his nose in it.

He parked his bike up the street and kept his helmet on, the visor in place to keep his face hidden. Doubling back to the jewelry store, Gabriel tried to ignore the goon out front and go in.

“Sorry, we’re closed. Come back later.”

Gabe’s hands came up in confusion. “Whaaat? Come on buddy, it’s almost Valentine’s Day and I ain’t got a gift for my girl. What d’you mean, closed?”

“I said, we’re closed. Fuck off, asshole.”

With a put-upon sigh, Gabriel shrugged his shoulders and stuck one hand in his jacket pocket, his fingers slipping through a pair of brass knuckles. “Well now you’re just being rude.”

His hand came out of his pocket in a fist and in one swift move he drove it into the man’s abdomen, sending the stranger doubling over to his knees. Gabe brought his elbow down hard at the back of the man’s neck, knocking him out, and then swept up the stairs to steal inside. Two women with duct tape on their mouths were sitting in the corner, their hands tied beneath their knees and ankles tied together while a third woman was sweeping out all the contents of the cases into a black velvet bag. Four men in black, two of which were holding guns, stood watching at the bathroom and back room exits. They each looked at Gabriel as he came in.

“Who the fuck are you? And where’s Frank?”

Through the sound amplifiers on his helmet, Gabriel heard both guns being cocked and raised. His bike jacket was kevlar, his helmet bulletproof. Even if he’d slowed down over the years, he still had it in him to kick these guys’ asses seven ways til Sunday. With his brass knuckles still on his right hand, he pulled a baton from his belt with his left. Nothing like a little afternoon scuffle to spice up the day.

“Frank’s taking a nap. And the four of you are about to join him.”

#rp: fox and the hound

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[RO] Rare

I live in the Swiss alps, its a beautiful place to live, each and every night I get to look down my mountain and see these orange lights keeping the snow illuminated. The stars only seem to shine on the best of nights, and even then the sight of a clear star filled sky, was rare.

Someones always having a party, wether its the old people down the street kicking everyone out at 10, or the new married couple who enjoy margaritas and adult sleepovers. Im for whatever events happen in the neighborhood but nothing really gravitated me like the new girls party, we all have a group chat for parties and functions so we can plan accordingly, and one day our community leader Krista adds a new number..

She says to the group chat this is my friend Laila, she just moved into the carters new place and she will be joining us at Jordans house for games I read the text then tossed the phone to my side not thinking much of it, and then I thought for a moment, im the only person in the neighborhood named Jordan, I never have functions at my house, she didn't specify a date either. My phone began dinging over and over as everyone greeted Laila and welcomed her, and then there was a knock at my door. I put my phone In my pocket and walked over to see Krista, her husband, and a small framed woman in a red coat with platinum blonde hair and a nose stud standing behind them.

Krista handed me a bottle of wine and walked through my door, her husband right behind her patted my shoulder and headed for my kitchen presumably to find the beer I would buy in case he came over as I don't drink. I turned around for a moment to asses the situation as Krista began shuffling my papers and moving my various books and such to my upstairs loft, and then I noticed Laila had not walked in yet, I turned back towards her. may I come in? I smiled at her and stepped out of the way, gesturing for her to enter my home of course you may, make yourself at home and thank you for asking. I thought it was peculiar she asked but quite refreshing, I ran to the kitchen to open the wine and fiddled through my silverware drawer as Kristas husband Craig began talking about the IPA I had bought this is a real solid choice Jordan, you must really be getting good at the beer knowledge, are you going to have one tonight? I looked up from my project at hand as I finally found the cork screw probably not Craig but Isla and her husband will be here later im sure and I know you love drinking with them. I turned the screw into the cork at the top and began pulling it out, it came out with a satisfying POP! and I began pouring the wine into two glasses I had set on the counter.

Craig stopped me before I could get to the second glass Laila doesn't drink I nodded and stowed the second glass, I grabbed the wine to bring it out to Krista but Craig stopped me before I could you know I think you'll really like Laila, she seems your type. I stopped trying to walk forward and hung back a moment, peering Around the corner to see Laila sitting still close to the front door having a conversation with Krista as she cleaned. what do you mean Craig, how is she my type? he laughed and smacked my back she's weird buddy I was taken aback for a moment until I began flipping through my memories with my neighborhood friends. Over the years id lived here they had seen me creating makeshift model rockets and shooting them down the mountain, putting chairs on skis and seeing if id survive the plummet, sledding with a table, building igloos to write inside of, covering my house in white paint for a winter to see if they'd have trouble finding me. Craig was right, I was weird how weird is she Craig?

He laughed at me and then gripped my shoulder as he began telling me the tale of Laila In the red coat. Laila comes from America just like you, she's fluent in over 7 languages, we helped her move boxes today and she had at least 6 large 2x2x2 cardboard boxes filled with books, some of which im sure are as old as your own judging by the glass cases she keeps them in. We came to get her on our way here and she was dancing with a chemistry skeleton like for a high school, she was pretty good too. His accent annunciated the Two O's in too and Made me snicker as he finished the sentence, she sounded like a lovely girl but how do you start a conversation with someone like that? I nudged Craig how do you start a conversation with someone like that? he shrugs how do I start a conversation with you? I scratched my head Craig you don't really start conversations with me you just grab a beer, mention a fact and then go from there. He laughed at what I said then went digging in my fridge, he handed me 2 cans of Cola same principal just with less hops.

I shook my head at him as I walked out of the kitchen with the wine and the cokes, I handed Krista the glass as I passed her and she thanked me before returning to browsing my board game collection in the closet. I walked over to Laila and handed her the cola Craig tells me you don't drink and im right there with you, is that alright or would you like some water? she smiled at me and took the cola this is wonderful, I love the soda you guys have over here as she spoke I couldn't help but stare at her shiny nose stud, as she spoke and caught my glance she covered it and began to take it out sorry I wasn't sure if this looked good or not. I gently outstretched my hand to indicate different no no, its quite lovely, it accentuates your nose well. she moved her hand back to her side and took a sip from her soda as she smiled. I laughed to myself and carried on the conversation, More and more people came and my house filled with guests, Krista ended up having us play charades and put me and Laila on a team.

We went for many rounds, talking amongst ourselves or with the group and as the night got older and more and more people departed, it came down to just me, Craig, Krista and Laila. The score was 23 to 24 giving you a pretty good idea of how long it lasted. I had started a fire in my chimney earlier on in the night so the logs were crackling as the snow gently fell down our quiet mountain. Craig was in the middle of hopping on one leg and swinging his arm as if it held a long sword while I sat with Laila, she had since moved from one side of the couch to the other and was right next to me.

As Craig finished up his turn we all laughed and Laila once again moved closer, their turn had ended without them scoring a point declaring me and Laila the winners. We all laughed as Craig told us a joke about Blackbeard and how they we were being elitist against his pirate ways, I was looking at Lailas eyes while we all laughed and noticed a peculiar spot on her left iris, a small white dot surrounded by emerald green. She turned to me as I was looking at her and laughed as we turned back towards the two, Craig stood up and looked at his watch well Jordan I guess well have to leave you be for the night, but thank you for having us, Krista are you ready to go? Krista nodded through a smile and stood up oh Jordan ive had a lot tonight and so has Craig here so we called a car, its a bit of a straight shot though, would you mind bringing Laila back? it was an odd request especially since the party was held at my house but it only took a few moments for it to dawn on me as Craig nodded his head with a smile. Laila began to protest I don't want to be a burden you had us over and fed us I can just walk its no big deal. I smiled at her it would be my pleasure to bring you home, the drive over that way is beautiful anyway.

We all departed my house as Craig and Krista gave us hugs and kissed Laila on the cheek, I locked my door and followed Laila down the steps towards my car as Craig and Krista got into their Taxi laughing like maniacs. I turned the car on with my remote and walked to the other side to get her door she smiled at me as she stepped into the car what a gentleman. I had to bite my lips to hide my smirk as I went around the other side and opened my door, a gust of wind came down the mountain and hit me hard forcing my eyes shut, when I opened them I noticed that the sky was crystal clear showing me millions of beautiful stars amongst the pitch black sky.

I stepped into the drivers seat and pulled out of the driveway, Laila turned towards me as we got out of the gravel and onto the pavement thank you, im sorry Krista dumped me with you I laughed for a moment don't apologize for a second, im quite happy to get an extra moment or two with you. she looked off but I saw in the reflection she was smiling im pretty happy to get an extra moment too.

I pulled up to her house and got out, rushing around the side so I could open the door for her, almost missing the handle with my leather gloved hands and nearly falling on my face, as I got the door open and recovered from my stumble she stepped out and I closed the door behind her. thank you for driving me home, I had a really nice night I smiled and nodded I did as well, thank you for coming. she stood there for a moment as if she wanted me to hold her hand or hug her, I put my hand up and walked back to my drivers said goodnight. She smiled weakly and mumbled goodnight. I thought for a moment why id done what I just did and decided to try to reverse it, I stepped back around my car and before she could turn around I wrapped my arms around her, thank you for coming tonight, would you like to get dinner with me tomorrow. she wrapped her arms around my torso and pressed her cheek against my chest yes please, can you pick me up at 7? I nodded, grazing her head with my chin absolutely. I let go of her and she unwrapped her arms, turning to walk up towards her door your eyes are beautiful I said, getting the last word in for the night, she smiled and spoke softly thank you before walking into her house, I turned towards my car to enter but I felt compelled to turn back around before I did.

her lights went on and she walked into the living room, I could see her silhouette begin To do a little dance, I smiled and stepped into my car to drive home. I rounded the corner towards my house and parked the car, turning it off and stepping out, before I went inside I stared up at the sky, it had gotten cloudy and dim, with only a few stars showing.

I wasn't surprised the sky wasn't clear anymore, I knew that only on the best of nights, was the sky fully clear, and that those nights...were rare.

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#Blogger #Story

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kidsviral-blog · 6 years

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Should Two Children Be Imprisoned For Plotting To Kill Their Classmates?

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/should-two-children-be-imprisoned-for-plotting-to-kill-their-classmates/

Should Two Children Be Imprisoned For Plotting To Kill Their Classmates?

In Washington state, a 10- and 11-year-old were sentenced to years in a detention facility after being caught with weapons and claiming they were going to murder other kids at their school. Where is the line between a childish game and a real threat?

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Illustration by Adam Setala for BuzzFeed

Colville is in Stevens County, far eastern Washington state. A town of 4,600 people, it is a roughly 12-block center where a scattered rural population can come for necessities before returning to farms and homesteads. There is a hospital, a post office, a courthouse, and a border patrol station, as the town is only 50 miles south of Canada. The proximity to the border, and its relative isolation, mean that visitors without clear business are likely to be regarded with some skepticism. Checking into the Selkirk Motel, out-of-town guests are asked their age, town of origin, and purpose of visit with open suspicion, and have their ID checked multiple times. The local drug trade suggests that this is not so extreme a precaution. In residential areas of Colville, the houses are uniformly one level, prefabricated, often in pastel shades of green, blue, and yellow. It is not unusual to see a deer wandering through the streets.

In this far-flung, sparsely populated, wintry town, Fort Colville Elementary is a hub of activity and color. In the entrance hall are bulletin boards with headings such as “Spotlight on Character,” “Principal’s Award,” and “Be a Buddy, Not a Bully.” A poster with a rainbow of columns declares the “Six Pillars of Character” to be trustworthiness, respect, responsibility, fairness, caring, and citizenship. The library is decorated with children’s drawings of their favorite books — Holes and A Pizza the Size of the Sun. Giant versions of origami cranes hang from the library ceiling. At reception is a rack of winter clothes under the “Coats for Kids” program, secondhand donations for children from poorer families.

Downstairs, near the fifth-grade classrooms, is the office of the school counselor, Debbie Rogers, and a paraprofessional in charge of discipline, Richard Payette, whom the children call Mr. Richard. (Many students also know him from Sunday school.) The room doubles as an indoor games area for children who might prefer not to be out on the playground, with Lego, Jenga, and board games, or for when it’s too cold to play outside. Rogers describes her role as “one part social worker, one part mom, one part counselor, and one part discipline.”

Guns are a fact of life in Colville. They are used in hunting season for deer, elk, and bears, as well as for fending off coyotes or cougars and protecting livestock. Even more normal for a child than packing a gun is carrying a pocketknife. Rogers says it’s not uncommon for a knife to be brought to school accidentally; they’re often used for farm work. The parents are informed, the weapon confiscated, and one such incidence of forgetfulness is tolerated.

Around 7:30 a.m. on Feb. 7, 2013, Payette went as usual into the lunchroom to supervise, greeted by the din of children eating breakfast and filing in from school buses. A fourth-grader approached him and said a fifth-grade boy, David, had had a knife on the bus, which he’d brought into school.

Payette searched David, his sweatshirt and pants pockets, but found nothing. The boy protested innocence: “Knife? I don’t know anything about a knife. You’re talking about a butter knife?’”

He then led the boy to the hall and opened his backpack, again finding nothing. He went into the classroom, and asked his teacher, Mr. Jones, if he could look through the student’s desk. Mr. Jones replied that David hadn’t been in yet but a boy named Adam — both boys have been given pseudonyms here — had, and the two had been spending a lot of time together lately. Payette took Adam’s backpack off the hook and opened it. Inside he found a knife with a 3-inch blade, a .45-caliber semi-automatic handgun, and a magazine containing seven rounds. That day, David was 11 and three months; Adam was 10½.

The police and the boys’ legal guardians were called. Officer Scott Arms of the Colville Police Department interviewed both boys, each in separate rooms, Adam with his father, David with his grandfather. Arms first asked David if he understood why he’d come.

David nodded and replied, “Because I was planning to kill a girl in my class.” He explained that the girl had been picking on him and his friends. The plan was for Adam to be the “shooter” and for David to be the “knifer.” Adam answered similarly, saying the girl had been rude to him and his friends. The officer felt both boys seemed without remorse or emotion. He pressed Adam, making sure he understood the implications of this, and Adam said, “Yes, I just want her dead.” (The boys’ confessions to Scott Arms were later ruled inadmissible at trial, as Arms did not explain to the guardian of either boy that it was they, rather than Adam or David, who were responsible for waiving Miranda rights.)

Adam also spoke with Debbie Rogers about the plot, expanding on the planned scale of the violence. “No, you don’t understand, there’s more to this,” he said. “There’s other kids, we were going to hurt other kids.” He told her some names, and then picked out more from a class list, six in all. Adam’s revelation about the horrific scope of the plan might have been a child’s honesty, but it might also plausibly have been empty, if unsettling, bravado. David chattered freely about his plan, as well as the physical threat he posed, on the day of his arrest (he tapped on the glass of the in-school suspension room to motion a detective closer, before informing him, “I just want to let you know,” as he raised his fists, “that I’m in tae kwon do and can really use my hands, and when you take me out of school you better put the handcuffs behind my back”), yet, unlike Adam, he mentioned only one intended victim in all of his interviews.

The district sent out an auto-call to parents. Teachers’ phones began ringing, emails piling in, parents arriving, some furious, some just wanting to speak to their child before afternoon classes, others to check them out for the day or for good.

When David’s grandparents and guardians Tamera and Gary were called to the school, Tamera presumed David had been injured on the playground, or that his bus had been in an accident. The scene that greeted them when they saw David detained was stark. “There was no chair, no desk, nothing in there,” says Gary. “It was a just a white room, with plastic walls and a door with a window in it. He’s sitting in there all huddled up in the corner.”

Tamera did what she could for David as she waited for her grandson to be taken to processing. “He had said he was hungry,” she recalls, “so I asked them, ‘Can I have his backpack? He has some snack food in his backpack.’ They said, ‘Sure, we checked the backpack, there’s nothing in there.’ I got the food out, gave it to him, gave him the book to read, said, ‘Go ahead and eat your snack, let’s read a book.’” She took the backpack home with her. Adam and David were then driven to juvenile processing and would be charged the next day with conspiracy to commit first-degree murder.

A few days later, she remembered the backpack, and went to clean it out: “That’s when I found the notes,” she says.

“Dear David

I’ll show you the steps and I ma have changed plans. So Just Read my steps and tell if Im right or rong.

how I got this

Step 1 we ride the bus.

Step 2 stay in class until I say.

Step 3 during frist recess we go to the bathroom and get are masks on.

Step 4 we boit out side and run tord her nad you, me kill her and get are Freedom.

Step 5 we run up to the upper field and run tord my house.

Step 6 if the cops catch us put your hands up and get ready for pan.[pain]

Step 7 Be ready to go to Jail.

Plese write back

P.S. we shoud do it on tomaro.”

When children plan out a murder step by wicked step — when they bring a gun and a knife and an ammunition clip to school and speak openly and plainly about their intentions — their judgment, rather than being an academic, psychological question, must be decided absolutely in a courtroom. Knowing or unknowing, scheming or confused. How do their upbringings, however good or bad, exculpate or implicate them? The state has to determine beyond doubt a 10- or 11-year-old’s capacity to fully understand their actions; an infinitely complex problem becomes a yes or no question. When a guilty sentence is handed down, as it was for both defendants in the Colville case, it is unclear whether it serves to rehabilitate, or merely punish.

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Whether — and how — juveniles can be determined to be criminally responsible has a complicated history. One of the first modern lawyers to write about the legal status of children was the English politician and writer William Blackstone. In his Commentaries on the Laws of England, published in the 1760s, he argued that “the capacity of doing ill, or contracting guilt, is not so much measured by years and days, as by the strength of the delinquent’s understanding and judgment. For one lad of 11 years old may have as much cunning as another of 14; and in these cases our maxim is, that ‘malitia supplet aetatem’ [wickedness determines age].” Criminal court was the only suitable forum for such a child, even for a precocious 9-year-old, and penalties could be applied with the same readiness. Ten is still the age of criminal responsibility in England.

However, the United States’ first juvenile court, in Cook County, Ill., in 1899, was progressive and welfare-focused. The basis for the court was the doctrine of parens patriae, or parent of the country: Something had clearly gone amiss with the raising of a child if they were now on trial, and it was the duty of the court to remedy this with the attention and care of a benevolent guardian. In 1923, the Children’s Bureau published Juvenile Court Standards, expounding on these high-minded principles regarding the legal treatment of children. In each case there should be a “scientific understanding of each child,” that “treatment should be adapted to individual needs,” and “there should be a presumption in favor of keeping the child in his own home and his own community, except when adequate investigation shows this is not in the best interests of the child.” It was republished without alteration each year until 1954. By the 1930s, in most states, children could not be prosecuted in adult court until they turned 18, and in Arkansas, California, Colorado, Iowa, and Wyoming, it was 21. Parens patriae had triumphed.

In the 1980s, the national mood began to turn against treating all children as vulnerable, in response to a rapid increase in juvenile arrests and concerns over “superpredators” — hyper-violent children, beyond the reach of rehabilitation. In 1978, New York passed the Juvenile Offender Act, which allowed adolescents from 13 to be prosecuted for murder, and have the same sentence as an adult. The law is now similar for juvenile murder in Oklahoma, Illinois, and Georgia, with a lower limit of 10 in Kansas and Ohio. In the 1960s, the Supreme Court also made changes to ensure a more robust due process for juveniles, but this was still part of the shift toward making the juvenile system more like a criminal court. In nine states during the 1980s and 1990s (Arkansas, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, Iowa, Louisiana, Michigan, Missouri, and Rhode Island), legislatures gave juvenile courts a tougher mandate — to punish, to hold accountable, and at a younger age. Even when suspects are still tried as juveniles, the consensus became that it should be to mete out penalties that were proportional to suffering caused, rather than putting child development above all.

Under Washington law, children aged 8 to 12 are presumed to be incapable of committing a crime, and the burden is on the state to prove otherwise. Factors that must be considered in order to prove capacity include the nature of the crime, the child’s age and maturity, whether the child showed a desire for secrecy, whether the child admonished victims not to tell, and acknowledgment by the child that the behavior was wrong.

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The Chewelah Casino is a low, hangar-like building in the midst of farmland, decorated with a pattern of glowing suns, and one of the few meeting places off U.S. Route 395 between Colville and Spokane. David’s grandmother and guardian Tamera is intelligent and engaging, but her voice radiates stress.

Gary sits beside her, a solidly built man with a thick gray mustache. He occasionally interjects to back up a point in a gruff, kind voice, less voluble than Tamera but no less shaken by David’s situation. Tamera speaks of David as a boy who doesn’t lie, who had no violent tendencies. He was a dreamer who loved fantasy games and make-believe, who still left baby teeth out for a dollar from the tooth fairy, who pet shelter kittens, who carried moths outside.

Gary and Tamera wryly describe their family setup as The Brady Bunch (Gary adds, “We just didn’t get the housekeeper”). Each had brought three children from their first marriages when they married in 1990. They’d nearly been empty nesters when Tamera’s daughter, who had a shaky grip on sobriety and lived with a meth-smoking partner, had been unable to care for her son. After four months, Tamera claimed custody. Grandparents becoming guardians is not uncommon in Stevens County, as parents in the intervening generation are lost to drugs and attendant problems.

Tamera and Gary had a knack for changing diapers and mixing formula, and a cheerful competence with raising babies, but took a refresher course in parenting trends they might have missed. They and David learned baby sign language, so that he could signal his needs, curtailing tantrums as he became a toddler. A psychiatrist at the trial later spoke of Gary and Tamera as “sensitive and motivated” in their caring for David and how the mix of experience and time had uniquely prepared them for this “re-parenting.”

David started school at Loon Lake Elementary, then moved to Valley School after third grade, for its better academics, and finally moved to Fort Colville Elementary, as Tamera worked at the Colville courthouse. David’s family lived just a few blocks from Colville’s Main Street, on a road lined with cedars. American flags were dotted on front porches and a tire swing hung above the lawn opposite. David began to be bullied, or at least excluded, by other children for the first time at Valley, and Tamera got a call from a parent of a friend of David, who had told her “he was so unhappy, he wished he would die.”

Tamera links some of David’s difficulty with his peers to having been raised “around adults.” “Things that children do — push each other, call each other names — he found that very hurtful,” she says. But at Fort Colville Elementary, he seemed happier, inviting 10 classmates for his birthday party at a bowling alley only three months before Feb. 7.

Adam’s situation was different. His family lived out of town, on an isolated road called Old Dominion. He had been homeschooled from first to third grade, but then entered Colville under difficult circumstances. A grandfather who lived with the family had recently died from kidney failure, and his father was frantically busy caring for a wife with progressive dementia, working as a driller, and keeping track of eight children, of which Adam was the youngest.

All of Adam’s brothers were known to law enforcement. Adam idolized his eldest brother, Eric, who had recently been sentenced to 25 years in prison for the murder of a 63-year-old in a botched robbery attempt. The brother closest in age to Adam, Andrew, seemed to regard Adam particularly as something of an apprentice. He would drive Adam around town, teaching him to case houses, look for bicycles to steal, find out if the family owned a guard dog. Earlier that school year, items had begun to go missing from Adam’s classroom. Some were hardly noticed: a library book, a textbook, a composition notebook. Then came iPods, backpacks, a flute, and a $695 clarinet. Debbie Rogers had Adam in her office for bringing a pint bottle of rum, one-third full, to school around the same time. She pressed him on the stealing, and he admitted it, saying the items were hidden under his bed. Andrew was selling them for him on eBay and had told him to take the instruments back to school, because they were too valuable.

Debbie Rogers was extremely concerned by Adam’s desire to emulate his siblings’ path, even before Feb. 7. “Adam kept saying over and over, ‘How do I go to jail, how do I go to jail, what do I have to do to go to jail?’” On July 25, 2012, having turned 10 a few weeks earlier, Adam was found in the parking lot of the Colville Walmart, in the driver’s seat of his family’s pickup truck. He admitted he had taken the car without his parents’ knowledge.

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A week after the incident, a packed public forum was held in the Colville High School auditorium. The school board invited parents to share their reaction to the event, as well as suggest changes to school policy. Teachers stood on stage, fielding praise, blame, and general lingering anxiety. Several parents asked if teachers could carry concealed weapons into the classroom. The superintendent, Michael Cashion, replied that he would “entertain it as an option,” but also added that teachers might not be ready to undergo the training required to allow them to “level a weapon at a fifth-grader and shoot them.”

For weeks afterward, students were constantly coming to the counselor’s office, talking about the boys, or, more often, a memory it had prompted of violence at home. One third-grader at recess shortly afterward noticed a car parked near the playground with a few people sitting in it, and became terrified that they were waiting in the parking lot to kill him.

At a Feb. 27 school board meeting, Debbie Rogers, Richard Payette, and Justin Sanders, the fourth-grader who had told Richard Payette about David’s knife, were honored with a Colville School District Commendation Award. The gold-starred certificate praised his “acting quickly” and preventing “tragedy.” He was given a standing ovation and a golden apple.

“I was really proud of myself, and it was also kind of sad,” Justin commented in a bashful monotone as he was filmed by local news, rushing his words together as he repeated his story.

“The whole town is proud of this boy,” Principal Allen said. “Without his first step, we don’t know what would have been next.”

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After spending two months in detention in Martin Hall, a facility for juveniles awaiting court appearances 20 miles southwest of Spokane, the boys appeared in court for a capacity hearing. They wore beige prison jumpsuits with handcuffs, a chain around the waist, and leg irons, which jangled as they took their seats. Adam was much taller than David, and very heavy-set, with the frame of an adolescent, but far less confident in conversation than his friend. A mop of lank blond hair fell forward into his eyes. David was brown-haired, skinny, and long-limbed.

The state, led by prosecutors Lech Radzimski and Tim Rasmussen, laid out an aggressive case for the capacity of the two boys at the time of the conspiracy. Their contention was that the “taking of another human being’s life is intuitively wrong” and a boy “of any thinking age” knows its seriousness. (The incriminating statements the boys made to Officer Arms were allowed in at the capacity hearing, potential Miranda violation notwithstanding.) As for secrecy, a third student, Chase Lee (also a pseudonym), had been aware of the boys’ plan, and had been promised $80 not to tell anyone.

Both boys’ family histories and discipline records were pored over in the courthouse — they included missing homework, swearing at recess, lateness to class, pushing two girls into a snowbank, and an incident in October 2012 when Adam, David, and two other boys had put a jump rope round a girl’s waist and pulled her across the playground, “scaring her to the point of tears.”

The idea that David’s discipline records somehow related to her grandson’s ability to stand trial for a murder conspiracy incenses Tamera: “I mean, he had late homework in the fourth grade — most fourth-graders have late homework.”

Two experts who interviewed the boys also testified. Many anticipated their perspectives would exonerate them; this was not the case.

Psychologist Dr. Clark Ashworth stated that both boys were aware of what they had been planning to do, and what its implications were. Adam understood his actions were wrong, Ashworth said as an example, because of his acceptance of the possibility of jail time. He had said: “We’ll probably go to juvy like a year or two or something. I wouldn’t go for a death sentence because nobody got hurt.”

The boys also talked to Ashworth about a sexual component of the plan. He had asked about the seriousness of what landed his brother in prison and Adam responded that murder is “the baddest crime that I know of.” Adam then said that a worse crime would be to “kill a girl and then rape ‘em.” David confirmed this, and when asked to define rape, said, “It’s forced sex. It’s not about sex, it’s about strength … It’s illegal.”

Psychiatrist Dr. Alan Unis, with more qualifiers, broadly agreed with Ashworth’s opinions. He felt that Adam’s abilities, which were average at best, had been impeded by being educated in a home while his mother was neurologically deteriorating. Adam’s writing was particularly telling, he said: “One of the things that helps us think in a sophisticated way, analytically, critically, is when we write things down … This boy’s written language is appalling.”

Unis questioned Adam’s ability to comprehend his own plans or consider their consequences. Adam had also voiced the strongest expression of remorse to be heard from either boy to Unis, saying, “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about what I did, and I play it over and over in my head and I wish I could have the opportunity to tell those people how sorry I am.” Unis granted the possibility that Adam was “prompted” but averred, “It came out very, very spontaneously, and it sounded sincere to me.”

David was hyperactive and verbose in his interviews. He swore, spoke at a rapid clip. His opener to Ashworth was, “Well, I can kick back and laugh. What do you want me to talk about? If you need me to talk about the events that happened a few days ago, I’m all ears and mouth.” When asked if he had told his grandparents about the plan, David said he hadn’t, “‘cause they would tell me not to kill, but I don’t want to listen to all that student speech about killing is wrong, you’ll be arrested. I don’t give a crap.”

Ashworth said he seemed to be manic. When showed police photographs of the school and weapons, David expressed disappointment at there not being a photograph of the knife, as that had been his — blue-black with a spider design on the grip. When Ashworth asked David whether it was a good enough reason to kill the girl because she was annoying, he replied, “Well, the way the other boy and I see it, but you don’t, no.” He said the plan was “actually good to me, and bad, but mostly bad for the real world cause I had a feeling that I’d get arrested.”

Dr. Unis also spoke of David’s mania, saying, “He had a lot of the symptoms we see in kids with bipolar mania … an inappropriately bright, happy mood, incessant motor activity, expansiveness, grandiosity. And then the rapid speech, and of course the problems with sleep.” Unis underlined that one of the factors most in David’s favor was Gary and Tamera’s devotion, but added that in the four months before his grandparents took custody of David, there could have been circumstances beyond their control.

David’s mother is on a battery of prescribed psychiatric drugs, including Abilify, Lexapro, Trazodone, and oxycodone. Tamera recalls there were no such pharmaceutical safeguards in place when her daughter dropped David off with her in 2001: “She was untreated bipolar at the time. She just couldn’t handle raising a baby because babies, they cry and they make noise and they’re messy and they require you to give up sleep and they require you to — you know, at that point in her life, she could not. And she was in a bad relationship, there was some domestic violence. And she called me and said, ‘Can you come get him?’ She had some serious health issues going on. It was a lot of things with her all at once.”

David’s paternal grandmother, Meri, also submitted a letter to the court about her son, Gordon, David’s father, and his extensive mental health history. Gordon had been in and out of psychiatric facilities and threatened suicide even before adolescence; by 28 he was dead of what Dr. Unis euphemistically called “the consequences of untreated bipolar illness.” Unis stressed the increased likelihood of David having a bipolar disorder. He said one parent with the illness increased the chance of a diagnosis for the child tenfold, and two equaled “a grave risk.”

Judge Nielsen summed up the capacity hearing by stressing its uniqueness in Washington state law. Boys this young, with unbroken voices, a crime this serious, with a planning phase for weeks ahead of time, was horribly exceptional. But the evidence was weighted to suggest their understanding of the crime, and of the finality of death. There had been no intimation by either boy that there would have been a last-minute course reversal, and that, if Payette hadn’t found the knife and pistol, the plan would have gone ahead, clumsy, short-lived, but nonetheless lethal. Capacity had been found, and the boys were fit to stand trial.

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Adam’s case was settled in just over a week with a guilty plea — his lawyer, Helen Dee Hokom, did not visit Adam in detention prior to making this decision, did not attempt to raise a mental health defense or to suppress any evidence. The sentencing hearing came a month later.

Dr. Kevin Heid, a pediatric psychologist called by the defense, spoke out in favor of leniency. Adam was impressionable, damaged, and desperately sought out a sense of belonging, with a dearth of reliable adult figures in his life. Juvenile detention would introduce him to experienced criminals, antisocial personalities, and generally lost adolescents. “Adam did not have the cognitive ability to problem-solve his way out of the plan. That would be a concern, but that is different, I believe, than a morality issue, or an empathy issue, or an antisocial issue. It is a cognitive issue,” Heid testified. The reality was that the psychiatric hospital setting Heid wished for his patient was simply not a funded option within the Washington system. Treatment would have to be at a juvenile detention facility, not in a clinic or the community.

The prosecution invited Tracie Case, the mother of the intended victim mentioned in the note, to speak. Her husband stood behind her with an arm on her shoulder. She addressed herself to Adam, who was sitting a few feet away with his lawyer, handcuffed.

“She loves horses and the color pink,” Tracie said of her daughter, her hands clasped and her voice tremulous. She maintained steady eye contact with Adam. “She wants to get married and have kids of her own, and to be a famous pastry chef when she grows up. And if you two boys had had your way, she would have never grown up. She would never have had the chance to make her dreams come true.”

“You were willing to take that away from her, take her away from me,” she continued. “Life is all about choices. We make good or bad. There are consequences, and you have to pay those consequences.” She was nearly overwhelmed with tears by the time she folded her statement and stepped down.

The standard range for a conspiracy to murder charge for a juvenile is two years, but prosecutor Rasmussen was pushing for a sentence between five and six years, meaning until Adam is 16. His rationale was that by then there would be no question that Adam could be prosecuted for other crimes as an adult.

“Adam is dangerous because he doesn’t feel toward other people the way most boys do,” he argued. “There is something missing in him.” He spoke of the “evil” in Adam’s heart that day, and commented derisively on the parade of experts the court had seen: “All of these people concentrate on what Adam needs and what can be done for him to help him understand what he did was wrong. He already understands that it’s wrong to kill a person, he was just going to do it anyway.”

Finally it was Adam’s turn to speak for the first time. He was already crying as he stood: “Like my dad said, I’m sorry, and I’m also sorry because I know this is a bad thing that I’ve done,” he sobbed as his voice trailed off. “And, that this…is not a usual thing for a person my age to do…”

The judge, in a quieter voice, thanked Adam, saying he appreciated the difficulty of speaking up. In his sentencing, Nielsen acknowledged the many, many stressors on Adam’s life, and his extreme youth. But whatever the childish, nonsensical, unworkable aspects of the conspiracy, a substantial step had been taken toward the plan when Adam zipped his gun into his backpack, and hid David’s knife alongside. Nielsen issued a ruling of a minimum of 168 weeks, or three years, up to a maximum of 260 weeks, or five years, keeping Adam in detention potentially until the end of his junior year of high school.

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Tamera was determined to take David’s case to trial. In the meantime he was held at Martin Hall, where he was placed often in solitary confinement. After four isolated months, Tamera says, “he started showing psychoses, he started seeing things that weren’t there, he would hear voices.” On June 18 she decided to post his $100,000 bail — a figure she found outrageous. “We have an 11-year-old child who has no money, he has no car, he has no bicycle, he has a skateboard, that’s his only method of transportation other than me, and they won’t lower his bail.”

She homeschooled David as they awaited the trial. In September, she and Gary moved to Chewelah, midway between Colville and Spokane. The move was partly so the court might be more likely to allow David to go on trips outside the home.

Throughout our conversations, Tamera has remained tough, but her composure breaks as she talks about David’s bail conditions: “I had asked them if I could take him on. I said, if this is all the time I have with him now, for three or four years, I want to do some things with him. Take him fishing, go to Silverwood, which is an amusement park just over the border in Idaho, and they said no, that he was a flight risk.”

The trial might result in more unpleasant facts on the record but it would also mean a full hearing for David on a mental health and immaturity defense, without being lumped together with Adam. It meant another psychologist would have time to evaluate David, and Tamera bailing him could ensure his care, as well as show the court that David being out of custody for months at a time was no threat.

Both his grandparents and his lawyer wished to show that David was a sensitive boy given to daydreaming and alter egos, detached from reality, not to be held accountable for when games spun beyond his control. This tendency to imagine and invent was only compounded by the bipolar diagnosis that had emerged from his scattered energy, and rapid-fire responses, in the earlier psychiatric interviews.

“He’s not a normal 11-year-old boy,” Tamera says to me, carefully. “He doesn’t live in the real world, he has his own little world that he’s in, and he connects with our world but he’s not in it.”

The prosecution did, of course, present more damning testimony at the trial that October, like from Chase, the boy David and Adam had intended to bribe. Chase shuffled closer to the microphone than other witnesses, speaking softly. He proceeded to tell the court everyday details of fifth-grade friendship (“I never hanged out at their houses”), mixed in with unnerving detail of the plan all narrated in the same wrenchingly matter-of-fact, childish voice. For some weeks Chase had known of the boys’ plan to get revenge: “I’m pretty sure he mentioned handcuffs and raping … He just told me that he was going to use handcuffs the day before. He explained rape was getting somebody naked purposely.”

On the morning of Feb. 7, Chase came in from the bus with David and Adam, who passed a knife back and forth, which Adam then slipped into his sweatshirt pocket. Chase earnestly testified that as he walked to class with Adam and an ebullient David, he had apparently told David to “come clean and stop doing what he was going to be doing.” He claimed David shrugged him off, saying, “No, I want to go through with this.”

Melody Youker, a case manager at Martin Hall, also testified. She spoke with amused affection of David’s hyperactive persona, and said that when he first arrived, he “kind of bounced around, rattling on the doors. Seemed pretty upbeat.” She also revealed that, on the day he spoke to Martin Hall at his intake assessment, David had reeled off, unbidden, incriminating throwaway lines. He asserted that if he found out who “snitched” on him, he would kill them, and that he was having “a day,” because he was here and the girl was still alive. He also boasted that he had been “the brains of the operation.”

However, when cross-examined by Donald Richter, David’s attorney, Youker showed she could be an asset to the argument that David was a dreamer, in the grip of a manic episode, utterly incapable of distinguishing between fantasy and reality. She described David as having great difficulty focusing, and generally summed him up as an unusually hyperactive, intelligent bookworm. David also liked playing characters, in a way that most children his age had grown out of; particularly he wanted to play any character “with a sword.”

Youker testified that in May, David had told her he had a secret, and that if he told her, she couldn’t tell anybody: “And so he told me that when he goes to sleep at night, he leaves his body and goes into his wolf body. And he was concerned — he wanted help with this, because the wolf body was getting out of control. And he wanted to be able to control this wolf body.” As Melody explained this to the court, David began to drum his fingers on the desk, continuing throughout the rest of her questioning, and stared hard at the witness box. David had also told Youker that when he speaks to someone new, he sees words and numbers hovering around them, telling him what they’re about and how far he can trust them. Youker’s number was high, around 698.

Youker’s testimony also touched on how isolated David had to be kept in Martin Hall, due to his small stature, outsized estimation of his own strength, and how ill-disposed other inmates were to an upstart, precocious kid, lost in his own world.

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Jerrie Newport, a juvenile probation counselor for Stevens County, drew up a report that was intended as a balanced look at the perspectives of all adults in the case, and to guide the court in its sentencing. Newport revisited Unis and Ashworth, who reiterated David’s likely bipolar disorder, and the need for lifetime mental health treatment. The most damaging assessment of David in the report came, in fact, from Newport herself, perhaps all the more damning because it was a lay opinion, in persuasive prose, that amounted to a woman who had been thoroughly unsettled by a boy she regarded as dangerous.

Newport had been charged with seeing David once a week while he was on bail, accompanied by his grandmother. Most weeks were uneventful, but on Sept. 19, Newport noted an incident that unsettled listeners. Tamera spoke to Newport about plans they had when David got home, at which point David slammed his palm to his forehead and said loudly, “What the…!”

Tamera calmly asked David what he intended to do, and in a low, warning voice, David replied, “Going back to sleep.” He followed it with, “When I get home I am going to break something.” When Tamera asked what, he replied, “Something I can break. Like a box.” She offered that she had a box he could vent his frustration on if that’s what he wanted. With his head lowered, David looked up at Tamera through his eyebrows and said — in court, as Newport related the story, she adopted a flat, affectless, Village of the Damned tone — “Well, excuse me, but could I borrow a knife?”

Judge Nielsen stated that he accepted David’s bragging assertion at Martin Hall, of being “the brains.” That he was “a leader, charismatic.” He returned to the doctors’ suggestions, that detention, if coupled with treatment, would mean not only community safety and “possibly punishment,” but an improved prognosis, rehabilitation. He spoke warmly of David’s grandparents, singling out Tamera as a “thoughtful person, highly skilled,” but that he feared she could not always be there to curb David’s more worrying instincts. Though he admonished, “I don’t, in saying all this, mean that David is an evil person, I don’t believe that for a minute.” He understood David’s grandparents wanted to continue to raise him, “but I have to weigh things here as a judge in the middle of a community.” Nielsen finally handed down a sentence of three to six years, meaning David would also possibly be held until his junior year.

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In February 2014, though, Adam was re-sentenced. The court agreed with an appeal filed that his first lawyer had been incompetent, violating his due process rights, that Adam had not properly understood the consequences of his plea bargain, and that his capacity was far more in question than had been previously argued. The sentencing focused heavily on Adam’s exemplary behavior while at the detention center for convicted juveniles, Echo Glen, and brought out fully what had been expressed to me by everyone I interviewed: that Adam was a follower, that he would never have been inclined to violence on his own. His counselor testified that everyone at Echo Glen loved him there and recognized his smile. Debbie Rogers and Richard Payette spoke in Adam’s favor, as did Superintendent Michael Cashion, who said, “Colville schools are ready to serve Adam, whether it be tomorrow, or a year from now,” the “tomorrow” part of which somewhat surprised the courtroom. Adam’s sentence was altered from a maximum of 260 weeks to 129 weeks with 36 months mandatory probation, meaning he could be released by 2015.

It’s yet to be seen whether Colville, and the boys, will be best served by the earlier release of Adam, and the potential six-year detention of David. Adam appears to be thriving at Echo Glen. As he told the judge, he has moved on to the “seventh- and eighth-grade math books.” When he’s released, he will be returning to a house in which a brother who trained him in thieving still lives, and where for six years he was cared for and then homeschooled by a mentally declining mother. However, Adam’s father, who leaned over the bench at his latest sentencing to say, “It’s up to you now,” loves his son, and wants him home.

There is another unanswered question, which underlies the entire case against Adam. It was never clear why the Stevens County welfare and education system was satisfied keeping Adam off the books and being “taught” at home, why at a time crucial for his development he was out of public school for three years, left with an unwell parent. If an attitude of parens patriae had been adopted far earlier, Adam might have been saved three lost years before Fort Colville.

But is it best, then, for a boy like David, who, the court now seems certain, devised the plan, to spend time in a facility with other, older children with multiple offenses? Should he in fact be kept at home in Chewelah, with Tamera and Gary, who would adhere to suggested therapy, a behavioral or medical regime? But then there would be no proportionate punishment, no consequences. As prosecutor Rasmussen put it, “I don’t have much faith that he will be successfully treated … We will see him again when he gets out.”

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Echo Glen is a dot in the eastern Washington wilderness, the nearest landmark a body of water called Icy Creek. It is a one-hour walk to the nearest town, three hours to the highway. Tamera tells me David was supposed to be housed with smaller, younger inmates, but in fact only one dormitory matched this description, and Adam was there, so to keep the boys apart David had to bunk with offenders who were 15, 16, and 17, whom she describes as being “as large as full-grown men.” There had been violent fights in the dorm, though none yet that had targeted David. Tamera’s voice rises in exasperation: “I figure in this country if we’re going to start arresting 10- and 11-year-old babies then we either need to build separate facilities for them, to not put them in with the bigger kids, or we need to not arrest 10- and 11-year-old babies.”

A counseling program that had been promised began five months after David’s arrival, and would last only 10 weeks, due to lack of funding. Tamera and Gary see him every other weekend, for a total of four and a half hours. Recently a staff member, in response to David’s resolute attachment to his fantasy world of wolves, swords, and quests, and his perceived distance from the other inmates, had made the decision to take away his books, Legos, a 500-piece wolf puzzle, and a Star Wars poster. When Tamera asked whether this was a disciplinary move, she was told no, that David simply spent “too much time” in his imagined world, and that he “wouldn’t come out and play with the other boys” — no mention was made of the four- to six-year age gap between him and his roommates, or the willingness of other inmates to engage with David. Tamera says, shakily: “It’s really hard to know someone is mistreating your child, and you are completely powerless to do anything about it.”

While bailed out, Tamera tells me, David played with neighbors’ kids, saw his old baseball coach, and studied. Tamera also saw the whole case against her grandson, the beginning of criminal proceedings in the first place, as deeply flawed, mistaking a child’s hare-brained imaginings for a sinister plot.

“It’s not really a credible threat,” she says. She later adds, “You’ve got two boys going, ‘I’m the tough guy, I’m the boss.’ Of course, they’re 10 and 11 years old — they’re both going to say that. I don’t think either one of them felt they could back down, ‘cause they didn’t want to wuss out in front of the other. So nobody said, ‘This is dumb, we’re really not going to do this, we’re just pretending.’”

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#colville #conspiracy to commit murder #fort colville elementary #juvenile delinquents #washington state

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jeannette-marshall-optioneerjm · 7 years

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Nagging moms raise more successful girls!

I love going to Google to look for an image, usually mid-way through, while writing a blog. Ironically, the more productive I feel in real life, the better the writing seems to become. If looking at the stats on meanderingABOUT and YUPPYdom are a strong indication. Finding the perfect image to compliment the point I want to emphasis, often buried in all the other stuff I write. I might start out with a strong title and then start writing. However, once the image has been chosen, there is a strong likelihood that the title will change along with it. I could spend hours looking at Pinterest art and photographic splendor: there is a LOT of talent out there in the universe. Thankfulness I may be slightly off the mark in my thankfulness blog to commemorate our Canadian Thanksgiving this year earlier in October [ usually, it fall around the third week of October, or so I thought ]. I’m sure my brother is thankful every October. That is when he married his love of his life, his wife. He was kinda private about relationships from what I remember growing up. He is affectionately stereotyped as the Baby Boomer Older Sibling or BBOS (yes, somewhat bossy, but typically laid back unless you touched one of his record albums and left a speck of dust, he’d punch you in the arm). Not anywhere else. Just the arm. Thankfully, it never happened very often. In fact, once was quite enough.

Ironically, growing up in the 1960s was not all about being groovy and surrounded by peace and love. From what I recall, corporal punishment was outlawed just before me. Happy to note, such an adventure to the principal’s office for the strap is not among the repertoire of experiences I have had. Yes, the innocent aura of my tribe of 1961 friends and classmates. Yes, the worst year in history according to demographic specialists who authored “Boom Bust or Echo”. Light reading for a 25 year old to be sure. That would have been in 1986. A self-confessed YUPPY of a bygone era, overshadowed by Millennial entitlement, a product of our generous and forgiving parenting style where we tried to reason, take away “privileges” the worst punishment these hipsters had to endure. That, and our endless nagging or demanding Mom. That REMINDS ME!! One of my daughters texted me with a link to the following: “Study: Girls with nagging moms grow up to be more successful”

READ: Nagging moms …. LINK

YES, this is the same one who gave me the PINK SLIP a couple of weeks ago. One minute I’m driving her crazy and the next, I’m her hero. The best story of nagging happened when she was at the enlightened age of 13. As a January baby, beginning school at 3 because I recognized that she had a very inquisitive mind and knowledge student. I was trying to think of a gift for my son, who would have been 16 at Christmas. That’s when you start to realize that gifts are not masses of stuff but one perfectly thought out gift that connects with the age appropriateness of a boy starting the difficult journey of becoming a man. Not something too boyish, it was getting to be a real bore buying a video game or a video console every year. It was also expensive and not quite memorable. In steps my daughter, where we’re about to embark in the biggest mother-daughter battle of our respective generations. Setting the tone for the next 15 to 20 years. She suggests that I get him two tickets to this concert in February just in and around his birthday. Brilliant! Now I had not even thought of that! Probably because it was not uncommon for me to take them and pals to the Glenbow Museum in Calgary [when I did have to pay for entrance, having years ago been their advertising representative, attending free openings, general meetings, shareholder meetings, artist presentations, launching shows]. They all had been to live performances with me from The Nutcracker to Phantom of the Opera to The Wiz on Broadway in New York, NY. So I did buy those two tickets as my lovely offspring suggested. Son was just “meh” over the present. He didn’t even appear interested with his sister’s first pay-as-you-go cell phone [ one of the reasons she turned into a math whiz I’m sure, from learning to subtract backwards on declining minutes of coolness ]. Well, as it happens. The daughter had actually wanted to go to said concert. She was 9/10 convinced that her brother would reward her thoughtfulness for coming up with the idea, that he would ask her to go with him. As the date of the concert started to draw closer, her hints were replaced by out-and-out-demands that he take her to the concert. As the most perfect brother would, he just didn’t respond. The more she squawked, the less he noticed.

It was time to go to war. It was time to get everyone on her side of the army to help convince her brother that she was the most logical and OBVIOUS partner. He didn’t agree. I respected his decision, reinforcing that choice every time she peeped up. The day of the concert also happened to be when I was going to compete in a Toastmasters’ International Contest by giving a speech. I was nervous already, about to step off the cliff of my comfort zone and compete. Dressed to the nines to work I went that day. Thinking back as one of the most disastrous days as a mother. Like any army general, I had the battalion organized with the support and help of the Master Sgt, my mother, and her side kick, my father. I would pick up the one daughter at home with my son, then drop her off at my parents, who would pick up the youngest daughter from her soccer game, which I had arranged carpooling with another soccer mom. My parents would feed the girls and my son would eat garbage at the concert and be content after I drove him there with his buddy. Like any well-intentioned-mother, I had clearance from work to leave at four o’clock to “prepare for my contest” that evening. I was already trying to think of ways I could bow out gracefully without showing the stage fright I was hit with! Happily practicing and rehearsing out loud as I joined the commute home: not appearing as though I were singing like all the other gals in the various lanes, nope. I was looking like I was talking to myself!

SOURCE: Getty Images

Being a single mother of three, perfection was my decree: the better a job I do at being a parent than their dad, the happier they would be. No, no yelling. While a locked jaw clenching my teeth was usually the best sign for the troops to run for cover: it never looked good and appeared more foreboding than any disciplinary measures handed out. When I arrived home, not one girl was missing but both! Huh? Oh, look a note from the articulate writer who confessed to having swiped her brother’s concert tickets and gone to it with her best friend, Stephanie. {Ironic how both girls best friends when they were 13 were both named Stephanie – I ignored any red flags with the 2nd daughter that I shouldn’t have!} Now that I think of it, I wonder if I ever did save that note. With butterflies, sunshine and flowers surrounding the words, she begged for forgiveness and understanding on how much SHE wanted to go to the concert. How mean her brother WAS for not agreeing to take her, she couldn’t stop herself and her best friend from going. Fear not, she knows what she is doing and will text when she is safely settled into the seats so I won’t worry about her! I aptly stepped into the role of psycho [which a daughter has accused her mother of on more than one occasion]. OMGosh, the competition. Everything was choreographed and timed to perfection like carefully laid out dominoes [which I never mastered for real]. Now I had to call my mom to tell her that I wouldn’t be dropping off the one daughter, but that didn’t mean that all other plans were in play: they still needed to pick up the younger daughter at her soccer game at precisely 7:30 p.m. Of course, I had to wait for her to come to the entrance of her seniors building after riding the elevator down.

SOURCE: Allan Sanders

That was fine because like any fierce general faced with combat, I was barking on the phone to the Stephanie mother, who was proudly informing me that she had done her part of the carpooling to the concert since her daughter was so graciously invited to share with mine, apparently, picking them up when it was over after my competition! My competition! Less than an hour and a half. Fat chance for rehearsal before the stage. Hey, I couldn’t make it! I had to retrieve my daughter from the concert. I was going to teach her a lesson.

Don’t mess with the mom Everyone knows this. Wisdom about staying away from Grizzly bear mothers with her cubs is common knowledge! Unfortunately for daughter, she wasn’t aware of doing anything wrong. She had left me a note, made carpooling arrangements, all without interfering with the original plan. She had a phone! Imagine me texting from the pulled over spot I was at [setting the appropriate example, important at all times, as though children and grandparents have CCTV capabilities that weren’t even installed, or not yet, or were they? Ensuring mannerly conduct complimenting the polished, professional suit I was in that said: “I mean business!” Back in that early dawn of the new Millennium of the early 2000s, it likely was a Blackberry, the clear badge of honor most YUPPIES grasped and carried, or hooked on our waists with the blazer casually tucked aside, like a police firearm, the Blackberry. No professional parent of an honorable upbringing child would NOT have a Blackberry! Also, we didn’t have SMART PHONES where we could thumb or swipe maps and itineraries with merely a flick! We were thumb champions, children of the 60s, Yuppies of the 80s! I did my best to appear “calm” in my text to said daughter to ask her where she was, trying to appear casual, avoiding betraying at all costs, the combination of rage and panic: my baby is at a concert without parental attendance! Surely, they would ask for ID or notice that the name on the ticket was in her brother’s name? You ask? Well, back then, they were not email confirmations with all the pertinent information like NAME of purchaser, concert seat, which could have easily have been printed out again under any circumstances! Imagine the parking at the Calgary Saddle Dome. Darn, I couldn’t just pull up as a drop off, I had to pay for parking, look for parking, park, then hoof it to the entrance. Heaven and mercy. At least the son has a remarkable memory! He recalled an approximate location of the seats, which he observed where pretty amazing, now that he thought of not having them anymore. The rebellious daughter had not responded to my text. The nerve!

I likely gained attention while driving and parking waving my arms and raising eyes to the heavens when telling my buddy, Maddy, what I was in the midst of: a crisis of massive proportions! She graciously offered to let the folks know that I would not be able to compete due to an unforeseen family emergency! [ How many hear that and think: “she chickened out”? ] Well I was thinking about it, but now I had no choice! I marched up to the security guard at the entrance attracting some attention for wearing a beautiful navy pant suit, perfectly coiffed hair, aesthetically polished nails and tasteful complimenting accessories and matching shoes with purse! After explaining my situation: that my daughter had taken her brother’s present and come to the concert without my permission or knowledge and I needed to lock in parenting strategy 101: grab daughter and eject from the concert. A motley crew we must have appeared: my five feet zero executive pace, clicking pumps with a purpose in mind. Accompanied by the security guard who was a big foot Chibawka with less hair, appearing more like a bodyguard. By then, I was pretty accustomed to flipping eyeballs and raised brows.

Let’s call him George. While escorting me to the office at the opposite of the building, he asked me for a description of said daughter in case we miraculously crossed paths with the offender. Only kids born in the 90s remember “EMO” which was the opposite of whatever their parents may have happened to look like: lots of very dark circles around eyes, fashionable hardly ever! Black clothes: black jean jacket, black jeans, black t-shirt, with died pitch black hair. Maybe carrying her pay-as-you-go flip phone for peers to notice, they were more than happening by being at said concert. George didn’t slow his pace after ingesting the description any decent mother would recall what her child looked like for Pete’s sake [ nobody says: “Pete’s sake” anymore, you notice?]. He empathetically observed and commented that she would fit right in since she looked like every other concert goer we were speeding past.

Just as we were approaching the will-call booth to begin closing in on the culprit, I did get a text back [she probably remembered the number one rule she was nagged about when she got her pay-as-you-go-phone: “always answer the mother, no matter what you are doing, even if on the toilet and asking her to hang on so she could wash her hands”). My daughter’s text calmly advised that I should not worry as she is in her seats, safe. The concert was about to begin. She’ll let me know when it is close to ending so I can swing by and pick them up out front. They were so advanced technologically at the time: all I had to do was provide the attendants with my DEBIT CARD [note: single mother as stated previously. CREDIT CARDs go better being part of a couple]. My ID was used to verify that I should be a very irate parent. They were able to verify that the seats were claimed with the tickets. The speed in response was amazing! The other security guards were starting to form a circle around me as I waited for the seat details and escort to pick up my daughter. Trying not to be rude [texting while conversing was unheard of “back then”], I texted to inform daughter that I was in the building, she was going to be surrounded by security guards and her name was going to be said out loud by the act’s lead singer, telling her that she should meet her mother at the concourse! Never humiliate a child unless you want revenge She gasped and said that she was on the floor, no longer in her seats, so I wouldn’t be able to find her. By now, I was furiously texting to demand that she give herself up and come out, it wasn’t going to end well for her if she didn’t. Smarty pants response was that the concert was just starting and she’d be coming out when it was done. My response was less composed when I told her to watch for all the guards’ flashlights going up and down the aisle. We knew where the seats were. She could meet me or we could come and get her. When caught in an argument with an adolescent child, name calling, threats don’t work. The show down was set at the replacement for the Corral in Calgary, the Saddle Dome. The stadium was blacked out with the exception of George and I carefully avoiding taking a tumble, with a flashlight guiding him and his hulk blinding me. She wasn’t there! We went back to the concourse as my thumbs were warmed up and I reminded her she should be hearing her name any second before the band started. Embarrassment is revenge a parent should enforce. At 13, being singled out among peers at such a big coolness event with the mention of having a mother, was a disaster worth considering. She gave herself up. There was only so much she was prepared to do. She walked up to me with Stephanie so casually, as if it was a well thought out planned meeting. “You’re coming with me” George boomed as he grabbed their arms as he started to firmly walk them to someplace he had in mind. There was no rehearsal on what we would do when they finally gave themselves up. I was curious somewhat on where we were going, but too puffed up with pride for accosting the culprits: I was victorious. I had won. I had found the stubborn so and so. Every stadium has a jail for wayward tweens and teens, originally intended for drunks and obnoxious folks waiting for a trip to downtown. George took them into the jail I caught a glimpse of a grey room, more like an arena dressing room without any bars. George politely asked me to wait outside I’m sure my look of astonishment wasn’t lost on the girls, who may have decided at that precise moment that the fun was done. They were catching heat of the shocking kind! After what seemed like a very long time, remembering that everything had been a blur since sailing out of work to glide into my wonderfully planned organizational masterpiece of pulling off being in three places at once. George came out and whispered to me: ” I really think ‘we’ got them. What would you like me to do? Scare them?” Masterfully calm parenting was out the window. I exclaimed: “YES! Make her pay. She deserves to do the time!” After promising to come out in a few moments, George hailed another enforcer, motioning another Big Foot Chibawka to join me and wait for a few, he needed help escorting a couple of young girls out of the building. True to character, the young darling was miffed and annoyed by the time she reappeared. Declaring to all within hearing (a wide area) directed to George and complaining to me that a big deal was being made out of nothing. “Nothing?” boomed George, supported by a scowl from his associate. “Were you not in possession of stolen tickets?” he asked. “Stolen!?!” she responded. They were her brother’s tickets and they were NOT stolen she declared, indignantly. “Young lady, did you pay for those tickets?” She immediately glared at me to provide support. I was quite intimidated by the turn of events and remained quiet. [Not my strongest suit.] George then turned, all 6 or 7 foot of over 200 lbs, quite easily two of me or my daughter and I combined and asked me: “Ma’am would you like me to take this young lady down to the police station for them to do an inquiry on stolen property?” I gulped and blushed as concert stragglers were being entertained by this scene, suggesting that perhaps that wasn’t necessary if she was prepared to come home with me then and at the same time drop her friend off home on the way. The longest mile You’ve seen in the movies where the police escort or bailiff escorts the criminal to jail or to court. In our case, it was two imposing figures flanking all three of us as they walked with us to the nearest exit. George asked if we needed assistance to our vehicle and I assured him it wasn’t far and we were good to go. As I turned to lead the girls to the car, George winked at me. Oh the shame, embarrassment was the rant the whole drive home, while her friend was frozen in fear to what she may expect when she got home where her mother was waiting. She had ignored her mother’s frantic calls and text messages as well. After allowing my wayward daughter to exhaust herself from crying and bemoaning how she was going to be the laughing stock when “everyone” heard that her mother had come down to the stadium and hauled her out, narrowly avoiding jail time. Things were pretty quiet by the time we got home. Her younger sister perched and ready with her grandmother waiting to hear how her heroine, older sister, rebelled and got caught. Per normal, the brother had escaped to his corner of the house, where he often went to when he wanted to avoid “the drama” of the girls. The daughter dutifully brushed her teeth and went to bed without a peep. Fresh the next day, off to school she went to face the music from her peers. Respectful, polite and chipper as though what had unfolded the night before was a dream or conjured imagination of events. Of course, by the time I got home that evening, I had no steam left. Yet my daughter wasn’t apologetic or acting like anything had happened. After dinner, wash up and after less fuss than usual for what time it was to go to bed [not having the “wait till your father hears this” refrain available as a single mother]. When all was quiet, kids settled and snug in their beds, my daughter crept downstairs to check in and see whether I was gritting my teeth still. She approached me quietly and then said that she understood what had happened and how things happened the way they did. She said that I became a hero to all parents who had heard that I hadn’t done what they would have done: wait at home until they got home before going on the offensive. I was a hero because I went out of my way to prove that she was wrong. She then chipper-like confessed that she hadn’t been embarrassed at all. In fact, she was a hero for being so rebellious by going to the concert alone. Sigh. That was one of the first struggle over power between my daughter and me. The never ending saga of being the nagging mother, trying to teach right from wrong, good manners and bad. Like the happy moral of the story that she optimistically revealed of two champions: a mother and a daughter, each forging their way toward circumstances that required a stand off. Apparently, both equally glorious. After a pink slip and the silent treatment, I did reach out and we had a Facetime conversation last weekend. Lovingly mother and daughter as though it was all par for the course. She then texted me a note about an artist that I had unveiled a recognized woman who became famous in the 80s when she passed away, sending her pieces to appreciate in value. Validating that such was the case. Then the text and article about how nagging moms raise more successful girls: from a daughter skyrocketing in her own right as an emerging artist, scholarships, grants and the Dean’s list earned solely on her own.

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ronaldmrashid · 8 years

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Confessions From An Angry Retail Banker

Every time I’m waiting in line to deposit a check at a bank, I wonder what the hell is taking so long. Who are these people with huge envelopes full of cash? Why does the elderly lady always have to argue with the teller about why her ATM card isn’t working? What are tellers thinking when they see massive bank accounts from punk kids? I’ve invited a blogging buddy to share his insights. Enjoy!

RAARGH!!!! I’m ARB, the Angry Retail Banker!

Over at my blog, I offer “An Insider’s Take On Retail Banking.” But today, I’m going to talk about people instead.

People. The general public. The customers who bring us the moolah. When you work with them and their money, you get to know them a bit.

I’ve been in banking for ten years. I’ve seen and dealt with people from all races, religions, and socioeconomic classes. And when you work in retail banking, you start to get insights into how people work.

Money is the most powerful force in the universe, right up there with gravity, compounding, and bacon. It finances wars and it finances dreams. Having it can buy you freedom and your life; the lack of it can make you a slave to strangers. People’s relationship with their money is very complex, and nowhere does a person interact with their money more than at a bank.

Because of this, you can learn a lot more about people when working in retail banking than most other places, because a few numbers on the screen can tell one hell of a story if you take the time to read it.

We Financially Neglect Ourselves

Sam recently asked if Americans are so financially unprepared that they couldn’t even meet a $400 emergency expense. It’s true; we are financially unprepared. But it goes beyond simply not having an emergency savings account.

We treat opening up a bank account like ordering food at McDonald’s: “I just want a checking account and a debit card. Just give me whatever account has the lowest minimum. How long is this going to take? Because I’m meeting a friend for lunch at McDonald’s in fifteen minutes where I’m going to put way more thought into what I want for lunch than anything I get from here.”

Because we’re not taught in schools the importance of managing and moving our money properly, we don’t treat its movement and management with any sort of care. No talking with a loan officer about protective lines of credit or an investment advisor about socking money away for retirement. No talking about how to protect your money from bank fees or how to safely use your debit card without the risk of it being compromised. People don’t even consider putting beneficiaries on their high balance accounts!

No wonder global card fraud damages are estimated to reach nearly $28 billion this year and upwards of $32 billion by 2019 according to The Nilson Report. We don’t even take a look at our bank statements unless they come in the mail! To say nothing of quickly checking an ATM for a skimming device. How do people know if their money was stolen?

Between the lack of financial education and the lack of financial caring, the typical retail banking client digs themselves into a financial hole.

We Are All Living In The Past

When it comes to our financial habits, we are stuck in the past.

Look at retirement savings. People still think that the way to retire is to throw their money in a savings account, despite a decade of historically low rates. They think their pensions will take care of them and 10% CDs are right around the corner!

“When are rates going back up?” is a coming question I get. Never. Sorry.

This is why traditional retirement might be a thing of the past. Check out this heartbreaking story about retirees now living in poverty after the Teamsters Local 707 pension fund dried up. The scariest part about this story is that more pensions are going to follow suit—including state funded pensions—leaving millions without retirement funds despite decades of work.

I guarantee you not one of these people ever saved for retirement because they they thought they’d have their pensions and Social Security to live off of forever. It’s why I deal with 50+ year olds with $18,000 IRAs earning 0.1%.

Well, the current generation isn’t too far off. So many Millennials don’t even invest in their 401k’s and are expecting massive inheritances to bail them out when the retirement age comes. Sure, their parents are the wealthiest generation ever, but what if they decide to leave the money to someone more deserving?

We live in the past; we see that the government and the retirement plans just “took care” of our parents and grandparents when they retired and figure everything will just turn out alright. We don’t realize that we live in a different reality where you must save diligently, invest intelligently, and work on your side hustles or else we will work for an employer until the day we die.

And you wouldn’t believe how many people have never started saving for retirement. I know because I get people in their fifties coming in looking for advice so they can start saving for retirement.

Comply, Please?

It’s not just in these manners that we are stuck in the past. People also don’t seem to realize that the heavy financial regulations that they demanded be put on the banks actually exist.

Customers refuse to comply with our AML (Anti-Money Laundering) regulations, claiming that as a customer they have every right to exchange thousands of dollars in cash without a paper trail (they don’t).

Business customers get testy during the opening process when we need more documentation or information about their businesses, claiming that it’s none of our business (it is). We’ve got to follow KYC (Know Your Customer) laws.

Decades ago, you could open a bank account with an out-of-state ID. Now? We need valid ID with a local address, a utility bill, and business formation documents with a full explanation of how you do business and proof of business (if your account is a business account).

People don’t seem to realize the golden age of the pre-9/11 world and the pre-Great Recession era is gone forever. We asked for regulations; we got them.

Combine that with people clinging to their paper statements, paper checks, and bank tellers, and is it any wonder why some people take forever?

Related: How Much Should I Have Saved By Age?

People Have More Than You Think

When you think of rich people, you think of fancy suits and Maseratis, right?

What you don’t realize is that many people are practicing Stealth Wealth, quietly saving and investing their money while keeping the appearance of an Average Joe or a Plain Jane.

Or they’re some bats***t crazy psychos who fell into money because “the Lord works in mysterious ways” (translation: “God hates you”).

If there was a person who I would never have believed had a six figure bank account, it’s the nutter in this story. Short version: A chronic alcoholic threatens to physically beat up my supervisor, forcing me to call the police. The guy had been a regular customer up until that point. He looked, sounded, smelled, acted, and really smelled like an alcoholic, but had over $100,000 in his bank account at all times. What the hell!?

While this was the only rich alcoholic that I ever had to deal with, he wasn’t the only person woefully unqualified and undeserving of the amount of money they had. It’s amazing to deal with a person with over a quarter of a million dollars in a savings account who can barely understand simple sentences.

Or when someone with over $400,000 in an account thinks that it’s okay to pee on a teller’s car “because I’m a premier customer.” That actually happened, by the way.

Fortunately, real Stealth Wealth is also practiced by seemingly ordinary people. It’s refreshing to meet someone who’s normal, friendly, and down-to-earth, who drove to the bank in a “regular” car or came by public transportation, and then open their customer profile to see a million bucks sitting in a number of different savings accounts.

I’ve spoken to a number of these people, and there seem to be a few themes common among all the customers with tons of money in the bank.

1) They tend to be very financially savvy and experienced. They are far from investment professionals, but tend to know about the stock market, municipal bonds, and various financial instruments. They like to have interest and growth calculations done before investing their money into any financial solution. They know all the pros and cons of different types of investments.

2) They tend to not just own their primary residence, but to have either bought it entirely in cash or made accelerated principal payments to the point where the property is paid off ridiculously early. More than once, I’ve spoken to couples who have only been in their homes a couple years and yet own them free and clear.

3) They tend to own their own businesses. Multiple businesses. This is the big one. Rarely do my high income customers make tons of money from a W2 salary. Very often, these are investment properties held in LLCs, but they can be anything. Consultancies, management companies, wholesalers, you name it. Anything that often requires them to yell at somebody over their cell phone mid-conversation. Then there’s blogging as the best business in the world.

When it comes right down to it, working in retail banking has taught me that you can never judge a person’s financial worth by the clothes they wear, the car they drive, or even their bank account balance. Or, as it sometimes seems, by their mental state.

People Think They’re Smarter Than The Professionals

Just recently, a woman came in to pay her $32 charge off so that she could open a new account. I noticed that she had two Social Security numbers on our system. The one she gave me had an account sent to collections in which she owed that $32; the other one had an account under it in which she owed $986.

She was “shocked” and said she didn’t know about this and would come in the next day to speak to the manager. I never saw her again, just as I predicted. I also took the time to note everything on her account so that she doesn’t get one over on the bank, opening up a new account when she still owes us money.

People in this country don’t have respect for the time or wisdom of a professional. They speak to a financial advisor and decide that the advisor doesn’t know what he/she is talking about because they can’t offer a double digit guaranteed interest rate in this low rate environment.

At best, they hold the expectations of professionals to be Law And Order caliber experts who can deliver fantasies. At worst, a professional in their minds is some MIT/Harvard suit with no knowledge of how the real world works.

This isn’t native to banking, but here, it leads to people trying to scam the bank because they think we don’t know things or share information.

It’s why people fight to deposit other people’s checks, or convince us their fee is a “bank error,” or get us to open accounts for fake businesses.

Why is that people think their doctor never knows what he’s talking about, or why all lawyers are shady and immoral, and why they think they can trick the bank.

They think they are. They aren’t. See: Dunning-Kruger Disease

Tips For Being A Happy Retail Banking Customer

What sort of Angry Retail Banker would I be if we parted ways without giving you some tips on how to be a happy retail banking customer? Your happiness erases my Anger (capital “A” is intentional).

1) Minimize Fees

First off, fees. Very easy to avoid. Says who? Says you, according to a survey by the American Bankers Association in which 55% of you say you pay zero bank fees.

Pat yourselves on the back, everybody!

So for the 45% of you who are still inexplicably handing your bank your hard earned cash, here’s my advice. First, stop using non-bank ATMs. Don’t even use a competitors’ ATM. Use only your own. Chase will charge you a fee if you use a Citibank ATM, but not if you use a Chase ATM. Brilliant, right? Right.

Next, overdraft protection. Have it. Overdraft protection is not the thing that allows your debit card to put your account negative when you have no money. Overdraft protection is the thing where if you spend more money in your account than you have, money sweeps into your account automatically to cover the shortfall. There will likely be a transfer fee involved, but it’s better than the $35 fee per item.

Next, higher level accounts. These are great things to have, if you can afford them. Because you know what’s cooler than a low monthly minimum? Having an account where you still stay above that minimum, but pay nothing for checkbooks, bank checks, stop payments, and wire transfers. Listen to us when we recommend you put your money into the right account, not just the cheapest.

And last, take care of yourselves financially by checking your statements periodically and reporting unauthorized charges to the bank. We’ve learned today that people don’t do that, and by being the exception to that rule, you can avoid the fees that come from someone else using your money.

2) Know How Much Of Your Funds Are Available

Second, we’re going to talk about funds availability, or not spending money you don’t have.

You see, your bank may make that check available next day, but the money isn’t really there. The check isn’t clear yet. It can still bounce.

That’s why your teller won’t give you the money. We can’t authorize debits on funds that we know can still bounce.

My advice? Give your checks at least three business days to clear before you spend any money. And understand that the bank has every right to put an extended hold on checks if they have any reason to suspect that the check might not be paid. Because in the end, a check is just a fancy IOU with no guarantees behind it. And nothing more. Just a piece of paper with stuff that could easily be put on a Post It note.

3) Omni-Channel Banking

Believe it or not, all banks have multiple channels available for you to use for your daily banking needs. Branches, telephone, ATM, online, and mobile.

Use them!

Sometimes one isn’t available. The ATM’s down, you forgot your online banking password, the branch is short staffed.

It’s channel diversification.

Too many people don’t know how much money they have because their paper statements haven’t arrived in the mail yet. It’s 2017; this is unacceptable.

Too many people come into the branch and wait for me to finish dealing with a long line of customers and a giant stack of time-sensitive paperwork, instead of just calling the 800 number. Call.

Making use of all banking channels available to you will make your banking experience that much easier.

Gain Control Of Your Financial Life

Having a job in retail banking has given me a lot of insights about people, for better and for worse. Many people are spoiled or clueless because they’ve never worked a minimum wage job or a job that forces them to deal with people. I’m glad I have ten years experience in retail banking because it’s given me valuable insights into other people.

And learning about other people is how you make yourself a better person. If you have any questions about retail banking, feel free to ask!

– The Angry Retail Banker

from http://www.financialsamurai.com/confessions-from-an-angry-retail-banker/

#Financial Samurai

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