#and sometimes its a near miss that leads to a comedy routine

[the-bau-quinjet]

Tolerate It

Summary: Reader struggles with feeling like Hotch is growing distant.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x gn!Reader

Category: fluff/angst

Warnings: the reader has thoughts/feelings of inadequacy

Word Count: 3200+

Notes: This is my entry for @railmereid‘s 2k writing challenge! It was inspired by Taylor Swift’s song tolerate it! I think there’s only one direct quote (I’m begging for footnotes in the story of your life). 

You met Aaron on accident. It could be said that a lot of people are met on accident, and that’s just how people meet other people. But with Aaron it felt different. It felt as though every little thing that went wrong that day lead you to the accident that would introduce Aaron Hotchner into your life.

After the shit show that was today, all you want to do is get home and sleep. Maybe also eat dinner, but honestly even food is on the backburner of your mind right now. 

Your drive home from work was the first uneventful thing to happen all day, a necessary moment of peace. You made it into your apartment without any trouble, swiftly moving to change into your fluffiest pajamas and sleep.

The second your head hit your pillow, the fire alarm sounded. The blaring alarm screeched in your ears as you groaned. You forced yourself out of bed to comply with the alarm. Without thinking, you put on your slippers, grabbed your keys, and walked out the front door. 

Once you made it to the street, you turned to see the building really was on fire. It looked contained to one patio, but it was big enough for you to give up your plans of sleep. Instead, you chose to turn on your heel and walk down the street to escape the crowd. 

You didn’t have a plan as to where you were going. You just wanted it to be quiet. Before long, you found yourself in a park. Looking around, you spotted an empty bench. Perfect. You can just sit, enjoy the quiet of the park for however long it takes to fix the fire issue. 

You start trekking toward the bench, now walking with a purpose, when you notice a man chasing his child. The child laughs loudly, joy so clear on his face. The man smiles at him, still running behind him. 

His smile is so infectious, it has its own magnetic force pulling you towards him.  Switching directions from the bench, you are now walking toward the grassy area they are playing in, not looking at your surroundings. You’re so captivated by the happiness on display in front of you, you don’t notice the change in terrain. 

You end up tripping on a rock, falling and tumbling down the slight decline to land in a heap at the feet of the very man whose smile distracted you.

To make matters worse, he was not stationary. No, that would have been to simple. He was, in fact, still chasing the child. So, rather than rolling to a stop and looking up at him, you rolled right into him, causing him to lose his balance and fall over you. 

The two of you were a tangled mess of limbs piled on top of each other. Slowly, carefully the two of you separated, gingerly moving arms and legs to avoid further injury. Helping each other rise from the ground, you were both speechless, equal parts amused and horrified at what just happened. 

“Are you okay?” 

You jumped at the sudden intrusion that brought you back to reality. Spinning around, you realized it was the child. 

It took you an embarrassing amount of time to form a response. “Oh, um... yes I’m okay. Thank you.” Turning back to the man, you finally realized what just happened. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

He chuckled, a small smirk appearing on his face before he replied, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Oh, good.” Your relief was short lived as you realized what you were wearing and how you were dressed. “Please tell me you didn’t see me roll all the way down the hill?” You cringed at the thought. 

“I could say it, but it wouldn’t be very honest.”  Again, a small laugh left his lips. 

“Do you think we could pretend?” You took a deep breath as he quirked his eyebrow. “Ya know, that I didn’t just make a complete fool of myself?”

“But that’s not true! Daddy said when something’s not true it’s a lie and lies are bad.” The boy chimed in again, earning a chuckle from both adults. You bent down to talk to him. 

“You are absolutely right, lying is bad.” You nodded along with him, matching his serious expression. 

He took in your expression, as if judging the sincerity of your statement. Slowly, a smile began to form as if he was glad you agreed with him. “Do you want to play tag with us?”

Looking from him to his father, you took the slight smile and nod of his head as an invitation to accept his offer. “I would love to.”

That series of accidents led you to where you are now, though. A year and a half later you are sitting in your shared home, watching Aaron Hotchner do paperwork for what feels like the millionth night in a row. More realistically, it is the ninth night in a row, but you’re feeling lonely and dramatic. Those nine nights have been spread out over the past month, interrupted by nights he spends away from home.

You yearn to be closer to him. All it would take is for you to cross the room, but it feels as though the distance from the couch you are lounging on to the desk he is working at is too far, like there is some impassible divide preventing you from interrupting him. 

So you just keep watching. It has been 36 minutes since you started your observing. If he sticks to his pattern, he’ll pause in nine minutes to stretch, giving him the opportunity to notice your eyes on him.  You’re hopeful that this time he’ll smile when he sees you. 

So you wait. You watch him read. You notice the way his head dips just a bit lower as he tries to focus tired eyes on the smudged handwriting of a fellow agent. You notice how his hand squeezes the pen tighter than before, turning the once smooth glide of ink across the page into rushed, jagged strokes of letters. You notice the barely there wince as he flips the page, the result of the familiar feeling of a paper cut he’s grown all too used to. You notice everything he does. Which is why you’re not surprised when he speaks. 

“You’re staring.” 

Glancing at your phone, you note the time. Nine minutes later. Right on schedule. The smile you hoped for is noticeably missing, replaced by a curious tilt of his head.

“I’m basking in your presence.” 

If he wanted to, he could figure out how lonely and dramatic you are feeling. But with the majority of his energy still directed towards the many reports on his desk, he only notices the surface level. Tired, slightly miffed, but enjoying that he is home.

There was once a time when he would have noticed it all though. A time when he noticed everything about you, sometimes before you had even noticed it about yourself. You’ve learned how to hide it though, to save him the energy that would be expended to profile you. 

“You should consider a new career path. Comedy could really be for you.”

His deadpan joke doesn’t surprise you, but him rising from his desk chair does. For a minute, you expect him to come to you. To attempt to cross the impassible divide you’ve built in your head. Instead, he turns into the kitchen. He pauses at the island, drinking from the glass he never brings to his desk to prevent anything from ruining his files. 

When he returns to his desk, squandering any lingering hope that he may have been done for the night, you rise. Unwilling to do what you had hoped of him, you turn away from his desk and move toward the stairs. Just before you lose sight of him, you turn back. 

“Don’t forget to sleep tonight.” 

Your tone is soft, emphasizing your concern to cover up the lingering loneliness. 

“I’ll be up soon.”

You respond with a slight nod of your head, another thing unnoticed by Aaron as his eyes never left the files. 

You flitter through the second level as you complete your routine to prepare yourself to sleep for the night. 

You can’t help but notice the cold sheets on the empty side of the bed as you wait for Aaron, knowing you’ll likely be asleep before he comes to bed. 

--

You’re surprised to wake up the next morning with Aaron still in bed next to you. You watch his chest rise and fall with the steady in and out of his breath. His face is fully relaxed, a sight you so rarely get to see. 

You’re not sure how long you watch him sleep, but you notice when his rhythmic breathing changes pattern indicating he’s waking up. His eyes flutter open slowly, allowing you to see the exact moment he notices you. 

“You’re staring again.” 

The smile you are still hoping for is again absent from his face, too used to the frown that has taken over his features near permanently for the past month.  

“I’m still basking in your presence.”

You notice the beginnings of a grin forming on his face. The twinkle in his eyes. The slight twitch of his lips. It’s nearly there when the moment is interrupted by the distinct, shrill ringtone indicating a call from the bureau. 

You watch as he sits up to answer the phone with his typical “Hotchner”. If you hadn’t spent the last year noticing everything you could about the man, you would doubt that he had been asleep less than three minutes ago. 

His brows furrow, his body leaning forward to sit a little straighter as he takes in the information from whoever is on the other end of the phone. His eyes trace the pattern of your comforter, up until he throws the blanket off of himself to rise to his feet. He’s changing into his suit before hanging up. Without even hearing his responses, you can tell where this is headed. 

After he hangs up, you speak before he has the chance. 

“I take it you won’t be here for dinner with my parents tonight? I’ll try to reschedule it.” 

The question should express your loneliness, but you do well to hide the full truth. It’s easy to sound understanding because you are. You do understand, which is why you never plan to tell him how you feel. 

The grim expression is enough for you to know you’re right, you don’t need the verbal confirmation. You nod your head, a smile on your face that doesn’t meet your eyes as he walks out of your bedroom. 

--

While Aaron was away, you did everything you could to keep yourself busy outside of your typical 9 to 5 workday. Aside from the typical reading, cleaning, and TV watching you normally do you; you successfully navigated another conversation with your parents about why it was necessary to reschedule dinner a second time and played action figures with Jack, always in agreement about how his daddy is a hero. 

Every night you found yourself staring at the door, hoping it would swing open and reveal him on the other side. Every night you grew less hopeful and more discouraged than the one previous. 

--

Five days after he left, Aaron returned to your shared home. Despite the late hour, you waited for him on the couch. Knowing he probably hadn’t eaten dinner, you kept some food warm for him. 

When the door swung open, you were in front of it in seconds. You pulled him into a hug, one he was too exhausted to reciprocate, and kissed his cheek. 

Moving farther into the house, he dropped his files on his desk swiftly turning to head upstairs. 

“I kept dinner warm for you.”

Your words stalled him at the bottom of the stairs. He turned around slowly, barely looking at you.

“I actually ate with the team tonight.”

His words hit you like a bus, but you turned to hide it. He didn’t eat with the team often, so you never blamed him when he stayed with them a bit longer than usual. 

“Oh, okay. I’ll just put it in a container for tomorrow then. Did you want to talk about the case?”

You’ve always been willing to help him carry the weight of his job, but you’ve been trying harder to get him to open up this past month. Typically he brushes you off, tells you he’s fine, and then buries himself in paperwork. 

He surprised you this time. Maybe he could tell you were upset, or maybe he was just too far in his head. Either way, rather than continuing on his path up the stairs, he moved to sit in the kitchen while you put the food away. 

You listened as he ranted about the local officers withholding information about the case. You listened as he complained about the poor weather. You listened to every word, slowly washing and drying the dishes until they were sparkling. You listened until you were practically asleep, leaning against the sink. You didn’t dare to interrupt in fear he would shut down again. Or maybe it was you shutting down, but that’s a thought for another time. 

When he finished talking, he rose from his chair, too worked up to sleep now, he sat down at his desk. 

You watched, noticing everything you could. 

--

Your weeks repeated much the same for the next few months. Your loneliness morphed into something new with each night you spent watching Aaron work. 

It’s one such night when everything changes. You were trying to watch him work, but your thoughts drifted away from his actions as you lost yourself in your memories. 

The first case Aaron went on after you moved in with him and Jack was the hardest for you. After a straight week of seeing him so often around the house, it felt like a slap in the face to come home and not have him there. Somehow you made it through, and you were clingier than usual when he came home. 

He noticed how it affected you. That was before you started hiding your feelings from him. He told you he thought about you in every spare moment. That he wanted to solve the case even more than usual just so he could come home to see you even just a few minutes sooner.

He calmed all of your fears, protecting you from your own intrusive thoughts about holding him back when he was working. 

You couldn’t help but think about every time he recognized how you were feeling and did what he could to help. How he would reassure you that he wanted to be with you, bringing you little key chains or stuffed animals from the cities he travelled to. How he would smile when he saw you. Where was that man now? 

You thought back to the first day you met Aaron. It was like he saved you from a terrible day, bringing a smile to your face after hours upon hours of crap. 

“Do you think we could pretend?” You laugh lightly to yourself at the memory of Jack telling you not to lie.  Not realizing you spoke the words out loud, you’re surprised to hear Aaron from across the room.

“Pretend what?” The confusion is clear in his voice and the furrow of his brows. 

“Hmm? Oh, um. I was just thinking about the first day we met.” Tears begin to brim your eyes as you think about how much everything has seemed to change. “And how you became my whole world and now I feel like I’m begging for footnotes in the story of your life.” The tears are now freely falling down your face. 

Aaron looks even more confused now. “What?” He’s frozen at his desk, pen in hand, reports on the surface in front of him. 

“I’m so sorry. I just feel like I’m taking up so much of your time and you have such important things to do! God, I’m so selfish. I’ve tried so hard to hide it though, so you can focus on people who actually need your help.” The panic in your voice grows as you speak, along with the tears falling from your eyes. 

“Y/N...” Suddenly, Aaron is on his feet, easily crossing the imaginary divide you’ve built in between the couch and his desk. He slows down, moving gently as he pulls you into him on the couch, moving your legs across his lap so he could pull you into his chest. “Sweetheart, you could never take up too much of my time.” He speaks slowly, so as not to start another round of sobbing. 

“What?” Your confusion is clearly communicated with the one word question, but you’re on a roll with your feelings so why stop now. “Are you saying it’s all in my head? Bu-, but, but you’ve been so busy every time you’ve been home! I’ve barely seen you, and I’ve tried so hard to not let it bother me because I know how important what you do is! I do, I understand it all so much. I could never be mad at you for working so hard. I just feel like you’re tolerating me being here when you have so many more important things to do.” 

Now breathless, your rant ends with more tears forming in your eyes. Aaron is quick to wipe them away as they fall. “You’re right. I have been busy.” His voice is full of concern and regret as he thinks about the past few months. “But please don’t ever doubt for a second that you are the most important thing in the world to me.” He pauses for a second before continuing. “Well, other than Jack.” This earns him a slight chuckle from you before you reply. 

“Jack is the most important to me too.” Your clear your throat, hesitant to voice your next question. “You’re not mad at me?”

Aaron looks so taken aback, you would laugh if you weren’t so nervous. “I could never be mad at you. Especially not for having completely valid feelings. I’m so sorry I haven’t been as present as I should’ve been. I love you so much, Y/N. More than I could ever put into words, and I will be doing a better job of showing you just how much you mean to me from now on.” There’s a slight edge to his voice, as though he’s annoyed with himself for you feeling this way. “Please, don’t ever hide your feelings from me. I never want to lose you.” His own voice is cracking, slight tears in his eyes at the idea of you not being in his life. 

“I promise.” You lean up to kiss him, trying to convey just how much you’ve missed him. 

“Let’s go to bed.” He lifts you up from the couch, carrying you toward the stairs. 

You shriek, clinging to him even more. “It’s only 9:15!” You laugh at his antics. “What about your reports?”

“I have more important things to do right now.” He smirks at you, quickly moving into the bedroom to show you just how much he cares about you. 

permanent tag list:

@mac99martin @goldeng1rl8 @measure-in-pain

[theradioghost]

Do you have any podcast recs that are super easy for those of us with audio processing problems? For me specifically that means one voice (or maybe two if they’re very distinct) and minimal complexity in the soundscaping, though if you have recs that don’t fit those that you think might apply to other people w/ different audio processing issues you can talk about those too! :)

I can certainly try! I feel as though I should put it out there that I often have a difficult time gauging where a podcast sits re: audio processing/HOH listeners; the literal entirety of my day job is being good at telling what people are saying in audio, and my own audio processing problems mostly just result in my near-inability to keep up with actual plays, so if any of these are misjudgements on those terms I apologize in advance.

* means that I know there are also transcripts available for the podcast in question!

SAYER: scifi dark comedy/horror. In a morally questionable tech corporation’s moonbase facilities, advanced artificial intelligence SAYER directs employees about their daily routines; this then turns over time into possibly the best story about AI I’ve ever heard. Especially in the first three seasons, virtually all speaking is done by one voice. (Caveat that a few other characters come in later, and they’re actually all voiced by one guy with different filters, but the filters are pretty distinct and characters tend to identify themselves by default at the beginning of every conversation.)

*The Cryptonaturalist: comforting supernatural folksiness. The titular expert on all things strange and wonderful reads poetry, admires nature, and talks about wonderful creatures like foxes that live within library shelves, stick insects that camouflage themselves as whole trees, salamanders that swim in parking lot asphalt, and Owls.

*The Hidden Almanac: comforting supernatural weirdness. Hagiographer, avid gardener, and Mysterious Dude In Plague Doctor Getup known as Reverend Mord gives tidbits of the history of his strange and fantastical world, along with gardening advice. Sometimes his tequila-swigging accidental necromancer best friend coworker Pastor Drom shows up. Written by fantasy author Ursula Vernon and mostly voiced by her husband Kevin. Extremely relaxing to listen to; the show ended last year but they put out five-minute episodes three times a week for eight years so there’s plenty of it. The first year or so actually doesn’t appear on most podcatchers so maybe check out the website.

Everything Is Alive: poignant, heartfelt interviews with inanimate objects. While there’s a different object featured each episode, it’s mostly just them and the interviewer, plus occasional phone calls with an expert on some subject brought up during the interview. Hits so much harder than you could possibly imagine given the summary. You WILL be upset about a can of off-brand cola.

*Quid Pro Euro: bizarre comedy mockumentary. A satire of the European Union in the style of a set of instructional tapes for EU employees made in the ‘90s, predicting what the EU would look like in the 21st century. Their predictions are somewhat off. Only one voice and delightfully it is Felix Trench. I don’t know anything about the EU but I still think it’s hilarious.

*Glasgow Ghost Stories: spooky supernatural. A resident of Glasgow is unexpectedly able to see the many ghosts that reside in the city -- but the ghosts have started to notice her too, and not all of them are friendly. A beautiful and atmospheric single-voice show; plus the feed also contains the very good miniseries Tracks.

*Palimpsest: poetic and haunting. An anthology series about young women experiencing supernatural happenings, each 10-episode season tells a different story in monologue (I think there are literally two episodes with other voices in them). Poignant, gorgeous, and sometimes heartbreakingly sad in the best way. In season one Anneliese wonders about the strange neighbors at her new apartment. In season two, Ellen takes a new job as companion to a supposed fairy princess imprisoned in a strange showroom in turn of the century America. In season three, former codebreaker Josie begins to see the spirits of the dead on the streets of London during the Blitz.

*Within the Wires: alternate history scifi found footage. From a world where a calamitous global war resulted in the installation of a new Society where nations and family ties are banned, an anthology of voices telling their stories. Each season is a single voice. Season one, a set of relaxation tapes deliver unexpected instructions to a government prisoner in a strange medical facility. In sSeason two, a series of museum exhibit guides spin out the mystery of two artists and their work. In season three, a government employee dictates notes to his secretary and begins to suspect a plot. In season four, the traveling leader of a secretive cultlike commune leaves sermons for her followers, and instructions for her daughter.

*Alice Isn’t Dead: lesbian americana roadtrip weird horror. Keisha’s wife Alice was missing, presumed dead. Now Keisha is a trucker, traveling the vast American emptiness to seek her out; but she’s about to become embroiled in the same vast secret war that may have drawn away her wife, and she’s not alone on the roads. Starts with one voice, adds a new one each season for a total of three. Also is finished.

*Station Blue: psychological horror. Matthew takes a job as the lone caretaker of an Antarctic research station for several months. This goes about as well as you’d predict. Very much a slow burn, strange, brooding horror of isolation. Heavy themes of mental illness based on the creator’s experiences of bipolar disorder. 

*Mabel: dark, poetic faerietale horror. Live-in caretaker Anna attempts to contact the absent granddaughter of her elderly employer, the lone resident of a strange and ancient house in Ireland. A love story, a haunted house story, a fairy tale with teeth. This one might be hit or miss; it sometimes tends to the abstract a bit, and there’s more soundscaping and some other occasional voices besides the main two protagonists. Definitely worth trying out, though, this is absolutely an underappreciated gem.

*Janus Descending: tragic scifi horror. Two researchers, Peter and Chell, travel alone to a distant planet to survey the ruins of its extinct civilization. Unfortunately, they discover exactly how that civilization died out. Excellent if you like movies like Alien, and also being extremely sad. Only two voices. Really unique story structure: it’s told via the two protagonists’ logs of the events, but you hear Chell’s logs in order, and Peter’s logs in reverse, with their perspectives alternating. The result is a tragedy where technically you know the ending from the start, but it’s told so cleverly that just what happened and how remains a tantalizing, tense, heartbreaking mystery right until the end.

*I Am In Eskew: poetic, surreal horror. Only two voices and few sound effects. David is a man trapped in the twisting, malevolent city of Eskew, where the rain always falls, streets seem to lead the same way twice, and nothing can be trusted. Riyo is an investigator, making her way through rumors and questions in search of a man long missing and a place that seems not to exist. Maybe my favorite horror media ever? Deeply disturbing and yet even the most awful things are somehow beautiful. Like if Lynch, Escher and Mieville had a terrible, wonderful baby.

*Tides: contemplative hard scifi. When biologist Dr. Eurus is wrecked alone on a distant alien world shaped by deadly tidal forces, her struggle to survive also becomes a meditative exploration of the ecosystem around her, and a recognition that here, she is the alien. Mostly it’s Dr. Eurus; sometimes you hear from her coworkers. It’s got Julia Schifini, what’s not to love?

*Midnight Radio: ghost story/romance. A 1950s radio host who broadcasts a late-night show to her small hometown begins to receive letters from a listener and respond to them on air. I wrote this! It has a total of three voice actors and virtually no soundscaping. I promise it’s good.

[lundiivith]

paperback dreams in their deep doze

this is a comedy. it’s also on ao3!

Miraak closed his eyes.

He sat inside a nest of papers, scrolls, and odd ends he’d organized into a circle. Runes were loose all around, traces of magic overwriting recipes and journals. The lack of major currents of wind was an advantage, kept everything still and eternal. Just like Apocrypha’s lord wanted things to be.

Miraak's breathing was stable. He’d only managed to create this spell through years of failure after failure, and the passive version still left... afterimages. It was messy, but it would have to do. He kept as still as he could — until he felt it, the warm weight on his entire person that spoke plenty for the spell’s success. He was being watched.

Perfect.

A single paper crinkled, but it didn’t matter. He had brought them to him once more — his lead cultist.

They saw him and bent a knee. “My lord Miraak,” they said, reverential. “I bring great news.”

Miraak resisted the temptation to open his eyes and see them. The spell required lack of sight on his part, an oversight he hoped to not have to fix.

“Tell me.”

“A few days ago, we heard a thunderous sound from the mainland. Words. We couldn’t quite make out what they said, but they sounded like dragon language. And then, the gossip came — the dragons had returned.”

Miraak tilted his head. “So it is time for the prophecy. Was the sound, perhaps, something like ‘Dovahkiin’? I did feel a dragon soul pull, a few days ago.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then Alduin is already as good as defeated, if this Dragonborn doesn’t die first.” He smiled under his mask. “It would not be wise,” he continued — but something was... off. He started again. “It would not be wise to confront this Dragonborn,” but there still was something wrong with the spell. He could feel the projection stuttering. He furrowed his brow, tried again to say, “You should not confront them. They’re the biggest danger to our goal right now — antagonizing them could bring our whole plot down.”

“A—are you sure, my lord?” the cultist questioned, nervous.

“Of course I’m sure.” There it was back again.

“But antagonizing the Dragonborn would be…”

“A bad idea.” And there went the spell again. Had a new book landed on his precious circle? He couldn’t afford to see it. “Is this all?”

“Yes, my lord. The rebuilding process continues as always.”

“Then I thank you, my cultist. Sleep now.”

Miraak opened his eyes. The spell’s weight lifted off him, and he was on his feet in less than a second, inspecting the circle. There was nothing wrong with it. What had happened?

He huffed and walked away, stalking on long legs towards a desk. He consulted with the papers he kept open there. Miraak reread everything, angrily flipping through loose bits and disheveled tomes. He opened the biggest one. The Black Book he would need to power his spell still didn’t work for him. Its pages were clammy to the touch. The text made his head swim, sure, and the bindings twitched with unreleased power... but he was — and here it came — dizzied enough by them to see glimpses of the room where he’d left it, millennia ago.

...Before being spat back out onto pure greenness, that is.

Miraak was tired of the dizzying, sickly tint. Soon, he thought, trying to soothe his bristled spirits; soon he would see red again, and golden. He was weary. It felt as if these years had all been a single ancient day with no sunset to mark its end.

Miraak closed the Black Book and picked up his notes. Then, he glanced back towards the circle. As he did so, a tentacle lashed out of the sea of ink and brought back with it one piece of the circle. He sighed; he’d have to rewrite it. Miraak walked back to the platform and knelt. He started carefully plucking the loose sheafs of paper, then slid them in a pocket between the folds of his robes, near his chest. Then, he began moving again, research in hand, scurrying out of his little meeting-room.

He knew the route by heart, now. A turn here, and a scrye there. Miraak’s footsteps echoed through a shifty bridge and then, suddenly, came to a stop.

A lurker, skulking through the hallway in front of him. One of Mora’s. Miraak crouched, hidden from view, and raised two fingers; an ice spike formed an inch or so away from them. His left hand’s palm crackled with electricity. The lurker barely had time to react. Before it knew it, there was an ice spike through its head, and its dead body was twitching with electricity. Miraak continued his way, careful that his footsteps weren’t too loud.

After a few minutes, he reached it. His corner of Apocrypha.

Hidden under a pair of hollow staircases, protected by a veritable wall of books, was his tiny cave. Miraak walked in, bending his neck to get under the entrance. He summoned some magelight, then looked around. He glanced the entirety of his worldly belongings: a few dozens of books he’d managed to salvage, a miscellany of scribbles, and his little nest. It'd been built out of crinkling notes and loose leaves of paper. The nest had then been covered in clothes taken from dead adventurers, fashioned into bizarre patchworks of comfort. Ancient enchantments were carved and scribbled all over it. They glittered brokenly, faltering from age.

Miraak flopped onto it and slid his mask off his face. Oblivion knew when Hermaeus Mora would next challenge him. To, say, find a specific book as his champion and feed it to the sea. Or maybe find a specific mortal who’d stumbled in, and duel them to the death. He sighed and flicked open a book. Today’s new findings included: a Nord’s scribblings insisting Alduin and Akatosh weren’t the same creature, some horribly-misspelled letter that stunk of romance to high heaven, and a manual on how to defend oneself from some creature Miraak had heard about when he was a boy.

He closed the manual shut and decided to start with the love note. At least it had characters you could get invested in.

He scanned its contents, then flipped it. Each misspelled word was carefully printed, yet still clumsy, delineating some kind of awful guilt-ridden loyalty. He'd found love letters weren’t as sweet and charming as they were said to be. When previous to fulfillment, the longing was usually quite well hidden behind the deadpan of pen and paper. When posterior, they were disgustingly lovey-dovey. But they were entertaining, and that was what mattered; what he’d learnt would help him not be driven to utter, raving lunacy. He’d tiptoed into those territories once or twice, as a particular skull he still kept mostly out of nostalgia could attest to. Keeping busy was the ideal, and routine kept one busy, as much as he disliked it.

Miraak finished the love letter and considered it for a moment.

He got up and walked over to a different part of the little cavern, then picked up a sliver of coal. He sat back down, then took his dismantled circle from its improvised pocked. Miraak flicked through it briefly, flick flick flick flick, rhythmic, and consulted briefly his notes. So that one was missing, then. He grabbed the love letter, turned it around, and cleanly traced a few lines onto the paper. It glowed blue. Miraak flipped through the papers and put it in place. There — now to hope it wouldn’t be too bad.

“Have you news, my follower?”

It’d been a week since he’d been informed of the prophecy’s beginning. He sat, as still as possible, the weight of the spell on his arms. The letter had worked without need of modification, which was excellent. Sometimes, the magic was randomly fickle, and those were the worst days; the ones where he had to rewrite a single rune a thousand times until it worked.

“I’m afraid so, my lord Miraak. The men we sent after the Dragonborn, as you ordered us to do, were killed.”

“What?!” Miraak nearly jumped to his feet in surprise. He opened one eye. “I dictated the opposite of that order,” he thundered — and then felt the spell’s weight lifting off him. Oh, was this it? “Follower of mine, I believe our communications have been compromised. Give me but a moment.”

“Re— really, my lord?”

“Yes. Now give me a moment.” The spell dissipated. Miraak stood up in the blink of an eye, then began pacing around his circle. Nothing was wrong. He made a strangled, frustrated noise and grumbled on his way to the desk.

He flicked through the Black Book’s pages. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Nothing was wrong. Miraak walked over to the edge of the platform and knelt, then dipped his finger in the greasy ink that surrounded the infinite library. A tentacle or two swirled around his finger, but he paid them no mind. He got up, walked over to the desk and ripped a page from one of the regular books around, then drew some protective sigils onto it with the ink.

He shook off the thick, ugly liquid, but it was already eating through his glove — he’d need new ones, and soon. He went back to the circle, protective sigils in hand, and placed the paper somewhere. Anywhere would do — in theory.

Anti-daedric sigils, he’d found, worked far better this way.

Miraak sat down once again. He let the projection sink into him, and soon felt the reassuring weight of its magic. A single footstep before him betrayed his cultist’s presence.

“Rest easy, my follower,” Miraak intoned, no doubt interrupting them before they could even start their worried little sentences. “The Library’s master will annoy us no more.”

“Oh, I… My lord. I apologize, I— if there was anything I could’ve done, to endanger this communication, I beg of you to forgive me.”

“Worry not, for it was simply… an easy-to-make oversight. You've done no wrong."

“My lord, what was it that was lost in communication?”

Miraak sighed — more than sighed, groaned. “I did not order for the Last Dragonborn to be contacted.”

“Oh, my Lord…” They were so annoying. My lord this, my lord that — hadn’t they felt anything wrong with the dream? Miraak had half a mind to throttle them.

“It’s no matter. We will have to deal with this issue as it comes. Hopefully, they will be understanding of our situation — or even better, weak enough that it won’t matter. It is of no consequence.” It had to be.

“T—thank you, my Lord!” Miraak could almost see them bending a knee. Of course, of course. Ugh.

“In other news, how is the construction of my Temple going?”

“Fine as rain, my lord. The pillars are as strong as can be. They will last for a thousand years!”

“Has the roof been placed yet?”

“...No, my lord, not completely. But the stairs! Oh, the stairs!”

“I am… glad to know the stairs are good.” Miraak liked architecture well enough, but he wasn’t about to rain praise on stairs. There was something about fighting tooth and nail for your own freedom, something that made the parts that weren’t terrifying... oddly mundane. Boring, even. “If there is no more news, then… I bid you goodbye, my follower.”

“And so do I, my lord.”

“Any news from the Last Dragonborn?”

It had been a month.

“No, my lord.”

“...Perhaps they didn’t notice the note.”

Six months.

“...And as always, there is no news from the Last Dragonborn.”

At the Windhelm docks, there was a stranger.

A young woman wearing a furry cloak walked backwards. She was waving goodbye to a few argonians she’d been talking to. They went back to their work, chattering a little between each other. She turned around and kept walking forward towards some door that led out of the docks. Before she was able to, she walked right into a nordic man, currently pacing around the docks.

“Oh! Excuse me,” she said. The man turned around to look at her and found all-black eyes, unblinking. He looked elsewhere, pushed her aside. Continued pacing.

“I said excuse me,” the woman repeated. The man didn’t reply. “Hello?”

“...speaking of some madness, someone named Miraak…” the man muttered.

The woman caught up to him in a couple short strides and firmly grabbed his shoulder, before pulling him towards her. “Hellooooo? Are you alright?”

“...if you’re looking for passage to Solstheim,” the man replied, automatic, “too bad. I'm not going back there anymore.”

“Solstheim?” The woman frowned, a bit confused. “Why wouldn’t you go back?”

The man rambled on, about losing entire days to people with masks. A light turned on her eyes, like a lightbulb flashing off.

“Well, I guess you’re going to Solstheim again,” the woman said.

“Have you been listening to me? I'm not—”

“Yes you are. I’m coming with you, and I’m fixing this.” There was a gleam in her eyes, like a little fire. “It’s as you said: it’s not right, losing whole days like that, no?” At his skepticism, she huffed. “I’ll give you twice the usual rate, you big baby.”

The man sighed. “Well,” he said. “ ...a man's got to make a living, after all. Fine. We'll cast off—”

“Tomorrow,” the woman said. “I need to pick some things up.”

“Tomorrow,” the man nodded, dumbfounded, and he went back to his ship.

Satisfied, the Last Dragonborn of legend left the docks, onwards to go back to her home.

Miraak knelt, picking through the woman’s possessions. Adventurers were rare; he’d gone decades without seeing new ones. Or, without them being singled out to him by the prince that dared to call itself his master, in a bizarre parody of a death sentence — which had been the case of this last one.

Hermaeus Mora liked to pretend he made use of his Champion in these ways, complaining of people misusing or dirtying his library. Tricking him. As if someone as simple as these people could, were Miraak’s thoughts on the subject. If it were up to him, Miraak would’ve left them alone; it was every man for himself in this place, and really, it wasn’t worth it. But it was dangerous to outright deny a Prince, much less you knew was the only reason you hadn’t already turned into a Seeker.

In any case, Miraak was uneasy at the task. This woman had been the first person he’d been directed towards since the little Dragonborn-related stumble. Knowing Mora, it was certainly no coincidence.

He shook his head and continued to rummage through the woman’s bag. Some potions, food… a sketchbook. Nothing out of the ordinary. Miraak hadn’t been hungry in millennia, but potions were always useful. He hesitated, then opened the sketchbook.

On the first page, drawings of a small child, sitting under what looked like a tree. A few faces in the margins. An old-looking orc, grumbling. He flicked through a few more papers and suddenly stopped: a dragon. The sketch was scribbly, fast; unreadable scrawls noted things around. Unlikely to be up close. Then, one the next page, a detailed draconic skull, the rest of the skeleton off-page.

Miraak closed the book. ...He’d keep it.

He got up, ready to leave; before he did so, he looked at the horizon. The sleeping dragons near Apocrypha’s summit stayed where they were, waiting out their sentences, curled tail to tail in an inhuman parody of intimacy. His so-called fellows, the only who had recognized him. The only who had recognized his soul, millennia ago.

He left.

“My lord,” was the cultist’s greeting, as always. “There is urgent news.”

“Tell me.”

“The Dragonborn has been sighted in Solstheim.”

Miraak stood still, frozen.

Then, he straightened his back fully. The spell crackled on his shoulders, then settled; the cultist yelped at the intermission.

“What?”

“I— My lord, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I must’ve been weak, in some way, or—”

“Of course you’re weak. You’re all weak. This was not your fault, however.” Oh, no, it wasn't. “We will deal with the Dragonborn. They—”

“She, my lord.”

“—She decided to come here, and for that, she will pay dearly.” A woman, then. Fine. “What has she done so far?”

“Not much, my lord. She has appeared in the town of Raven Rock, on Solstheim’s south, alongside a companion. They arrived today, at sunset; one of my own, young Tensyne saw them arrive, and then saw one of them walk into the town’s inn. We are… still not sure which one is which, but!” they added, possibly sensing his disdain, “We will soon learn!”

“Do you know of their names?”

“I’m… afraid not. The lad, he’s the youngest recruit, he says he talked with the innkeeper and learnt the name of the taller one.”

“...And if you don't know which is which,” Miraak asked them, every syllable dripping with ugh, “how can you possibly tell that one of them is the Dragonborn?”

“W—well…” The cultist shrunk shamefully. “...To be truthful, our cultists were… A bit rough. With the captain of the regular supplies boat from the mainland. So no one new has come since then. And the shorter one did have…” They shrunk further. “...armor that looked like dragons’ scales.”

“So the shorter one is the Dragonborn, then.”

“It may be a gift?”

“And we’re back to square one.” Miraak sighed. “We will talk tomorrow, though. You should have told me earlier about no one coming to the island, though.”

“I— I apologize, my lord, I didn’t think it was important!”

“Everything is important. It is fine, I will work around it. Goodnight, my follower.”

“G...goodnight, my lord.”

Miraak dismissed his cultist with a wave of his hand and dispelled the incantation. He opened his eyes and let out the world’s longest, most tired groan.

His cultists. They worshipped the ground he trod on, and yet, they were unable to do the simplest of tasks without his immediate guidance. It was useless trying to talk sense into them, Miraak knew; they stumbled around like children.

In any case: a pesky problem had resurfaced. While Miraak was willing — and able — to fix it, it was ridiculous that he even had to deal with it in the first place. Which led to the likely cause of this all… Hermaeus Mora.

Of course. Of course he’d do this. Mora was bizarre, unknowable. Miraak’s time dealing with him had yielded little information, and it was — frustrating; he would go as far as to describe the entity as jealous, childish (which was, really, truly hypocritical on his part; what is a dragon, but a spoiled brat?).

In any case, of course Hermaeus Mora would refuse him leave of this ink-infested domain, then wreck any plans he may develop to abandon it. Of course he’d be territorial about someone he employed in the manner of a trophy librarian. Of course.

It made his blood boil.

He sighed and watched today’s anti-daedric sigil burn to ash. One use only, they were. He’d started to run out of old pieces of armor, and would hate to start giving away his beddings to the cause. When you’ve been living in Oblivion for millennia, it was painful to let go of any comforts.

Miraak paused for a moment, then went back to work. Curses of unsleep did not cast themselves.

A few days earlier, it was late at night, in the stranger’s home.

She laid in bed, curled up, about to sleep. Surrounding her, in an inhuman parody of an embrace, were all her worldly possessions. By her bed, a chest filled with various wonderful things she’d picked up during her travels; between the bed and the floorboards, large sacks filled with septims. A dragon, sleeping on her hoard. She shook her head, as if to focus on the question of the evening.

“Mɪʀᴀᴀᴋ,” she whispered. “Where have I heard it before…?”

She fell asleep before connecting it to the first cultists’ war cry.

[taendrils]

cloud delivery! — preview

― ❝sometimes other fairies really can’t tell what goes through your head or if anything at all does, but your kind’s wonder reaches its peak as they spot you interacting with min yoongi: the closed-off garden fairy. you choose not to mention how you deliver things to him on the daily and how you may or may not stop at nothing until you get to see him smile.❞

• genre: fluff, comedy, romance, idiots to lovers, disney fairies au • warnings: swearing, mentions of anxiety and perfectionism issues • pairing: garden fairy!yoongi x fast-flying fairy!reader • preview wordcount: 2.8k words

An old knowledge with ties back when humanity couldn't trace says that when a child laughs for the first time, a new fairy is born. Back when the first humans came to be, once their hearts bloomed with genuine joy, fairies followed their path and helped their surroundings grow along with their smiles. Water fairies purified their rivers and those of light have sown the sun into rays falling from the sky to give humans guidance and brighten their circles. Gentle braids of blossom that they called flowers started rising from fertile soil and frost dusted the tops of the mountains where fairies flew to give colour to this world.

As much as humans depended on fairies, the same could be said from the other perspective: with fairies learning new ways to care for the world and building routines often broken by events impossible to imagine for those who kept an axis of seasons and light. Many curiosities have arisen in young minds but humans meeting their helpers was rarer than the eclipses or red auroras that were painted for them. Despite that, sprinkles of magic still caressed heads on pillows and brought consciences along the path of pleasant dreams.

Eras have passed and happiness took different forms, yet no matter the timeline, they all kept the same core belief. Fairies were shaped by the experience of euphoria, and laughter trailed after them in their early stages with the same purity and open heart they were created from.

Yoongi doesn't know what kind of laughter lightning must have struck the child who made you appear, but he's sure that wherever they are, that baby must have had some future sight and is having a field day with watching him interact with the bane of his existence. That's what must have caused the laughter, unforeseen circumstances that no fairy kingdom ruler or human scientist could have explained, because you were too out of this world for him to explain otherwise.

Well, you or your head, that is.

If his house branch sharer Namjoon, fawn fairy extraordinaire also held residence in Yoongi’s head where dramatic monologues were played more ardently than those on a slow roll of a film, he might’ve reprimanded Yoongi, stomped on his dreams and overall existence by telling him you were not so bad. Or worse, tell him that he’s exaggerating and that this grudge he’s holding over you has no place on moral grounds like those where fairies existed in.

Ok, fine. Maybe he was being a little dramatic. Blame it on his nature, on the talent he was born under, or just pin it under the mentorship of Rosetta, head garden fairy and symbol of house behaviour. It is her fault that garden fairies are thought to have a stuck-up reputation, therefore many are surprised when they meet the other fairies with the same talent, like sweet Jimin, who bared resemblance with the snowdrops he carefully bloomed every spring season.

Yoongi doesn’t mind the reputation, might even be true in his case. He’d like not to be approached. It sounded about festive right now.

But eternal life doesn’t go the way we want it to, honeydew, Rosetta’s words ring into his head, pushing aside the unfinished monologue still tapping at the back of his head. There might be some truth to that, as no one would wish to share her experiences of being dragged in the mud and stuck in a carriage hundred times their size in The Mainland. Yoongi shudders, the roses in his hair rattling with the rhythm of his vibration.

Still, he wishes he could sleep in a hollow deep enough for fate to spare him the responsibility just this day. And the following one. And the next season, until autumn comes in and he gets to do what he has been meaning to all this time. See, another reason why he loathes being assigned on spring, besides having no way out of meeting with you. His conscience finds itself pouring magic dust on the monologue which takes the spotlight as it returns, and fine, he is exaggerating. You were not a bad person. Ahem. Fairy. 

Not a bad fairy.

In a sense, he knows that he can’t deal with you due to the differences in your kind and how you stood out from his perceptions. By nature you lacked tints of responsibility and regard for every other living creature, not for the fact that you chose not to care but you just forgot. Whatever the consequences were, you had no mind for those either: you were more inclined to brush them off and continue on with your duties, excuses and pretences of living in the present almost synonymous with your name. Yoongi had a word for that: human.

From what he learned about humans and their characteristics, you were eerily similar, it scared him sometimes. Only on the inside, where he liked to keep any thought which could give you an advantage over him. The first ‘oh well, I forgot’ from you in his presence brought a month’s drought on the eastern region and a near heart attack from Yoongi, while your first ‘oops’ stuttered with the most radiant smile followed after gentle, idiotic Namjoon trusted you with leading a lost mandarin duck and ending up on the other side of the world with it.

Although the similarities don’t make him lose his balance and fall face-down on bulbs nowadays, you’re still a constant surprise. Might be due to the fact that you are so far from the usual fairies he interacts with, preferring to stay away from fast-flying fairies and their tempers. Those often found him with his tongue prodding at his cheek, snarky remarks growing in his head like forest fungus but blocked as they glide closer towards his mouth. Might be due to the fact that you’re the fastest fairy he’s ever seen, speed intertwining with such positivity and enthusiasm that Yoongi is sure you could circle the world before it grinned sunset if you wished.

You were so far off what he had expected and all over the place that he used to hear about you only in emergency situations, wandering around with desires of helping and without a department, carrying every task your kind couldn’t. Not even Vidia, made of dark purple, confidence and sarcasm stepped up in times of crisis quite like you did.

Current crisis? Yoongi himself. At least that’s what he thinks, because he couldn’t explain your visits otherwise without shame dusting pretty cheeks pink.

Meeting with other fairies, it often left him on edge, small changes he would make picking apart at his brain and tightening inside his chest, scared of lashing out at others but obviously uncomfortable. Fairies needed routine, moves not missing the smallest element, but mistakes were prone: a package here, a honeysuckle with its vines intertwined there–one second of not paying attention and no one was doing things the way he wanted. And oh, how aware he was of it but how futile were his attempts to control his fixation as it ate away at his will to express it.

More often than not, the means of speaking up forced his heart into erratic pounds, coming down from the interactions drained and exhausting every resource in his body. He wishes for quiet, for slumber into tulip petals, wishes the warm wind breezed through the static air, widening the space between his fingers. Like now. Pixie dust stars fall upon his ground with you getting closer, and your grip on the strap loosens, the leaf cover of the pouch now held gently by your palm. He recognises the sensation without bringing his focus into it, the breeze that changes the direction of the heat and instead of descent, it’s brought into a spiral that surrounds the being. 

But then your mouth opens. 

“Ten bowls of clay, taken straight from under the sunlight,” you beam as you drop the luggage down, crouching to detangle the cover. Used to hearing the fairy’s instructions, you waste no time to put the items one over the other, bending to in your arms. Yoongi stares at you with his mouth open, and for once the shock in his eyes has a pleasant warmth rising the corners of your smile.

“Are you sure you can handle that?” Yoongi says slowly, syllables forming in reluctance as he watches the pile grow until it reaches your chin. It's going to fall.

“Of course, of course, I got it, just give me some space so I can move.”

His heart starts to pick up the pace at your mismatched steps, part of him wondering why didn’t you just fly over? Hello? He’d love to have the time to judge your transportation choices more, but his instincts kick in as his eyes land right on one bowl slipping from under your chin. It will fall.

He moves faster than his thought, diving to catch it, but he is no wind person and ends up hanging in the air, wings pulling his weight with shame as he finds himself face to face with the fallen bowl levitating in front of him.

“You think I’m some sort of fool, Min Yoongi?” you reprimand and the pixie dust you used on the items seems to form its usual sparkle, mocking his attempts. “All you do is nag me about getting flower paint on your precious cutlery. I can’t begin to imagine what would happen if I broke one of these limited edition bowls. What do you do with these anyway.”

He doesn’t even have the brain to be offended, questions about your word choices puzzling him and setting a fog over the remains of his previous scare. “Limited edition?”

What the hell.

“Well, of course,” you say as if Yoongi truly is some fool, and truly doesn’t know anything. “You think Jungkook likes playing with dirt?”

“Isn’t that what he always does?” Jungkook, that talented, curious and awful, awful tinker fairy who lived to torment him as well, Yoongi was sure Jungkook said this to you so you could rub it in his face.

“Yoongi! You know he has more important business, trying to decipher all this lost stuff. Tinkerbell never lets him breathe.”

Ah yes, the lost stuff, Yoongi recalls. The pieces of plastic with strobes of wires and organised circuits. He grimaces thinking of where those could have come from.

“Very fun,” he says despite himself, sarcasm dripping at the end of his mouth. “You were gone for a long time. Did you get to eat?” Yoongi coughs before crossing his arms, studying the cracks between the tree's bark. He didn't care for those in a while.

“Why? You wanted me to pick up something on the way? I could do it next time,” you say, eagerness pouring out of your words before it pauses to a halt, stopped by Yoongi’s blank face. “No? Fine. I ate, thank you for asking.”

And see, his fading conscience makes it hard for Yoongi to hate you when you are like this–and when he met you this often. Because you were not just the bane of his existence–you were his delivery girl too. His forgetful, airheaded delivery girl who treated everyone the same, paying no attention to Yoongi more than you’d do to anyone else, he thinks as you tilt your head to look at him with big, curious eyes. The silence stretches with the time you take to analyse him before you run with it in your chaotic rhythm.

“You should see how it goes when I don’t want to eat,” you continue on, not seeming to notice how you switched the tangent of your conversation. “Him and the other tinker fairies surround me and chant food, food, food, you know what I mean? I can’t believe them. It’s funny, but my mouth hurts from all the chewing.”

You cup your face and squish your cheeks with one hand to make your point, petal mouth open in a pout. Not soon after, way before Yoongi has time to dwell on it, your posture sags, hands flying to grip the ends of your top. The top made from bits and pieces of purple salvia that he took care of and sent for stitching with careful instructions, and here you were–not a care in the world about all that work by the way you were patting your tummy with mock indignation.

“They’re so so stubborn, I thought my stomach was going to pop out of this fucking–”

Rose glass breaking, Yoongi almost swears himself, getting close out of habit before he realises what he’s doing. His feet plant themselves straight onto the ground, feeling too awkward to back out or resume the beginning of his rant. “H...How many times did I tell you?”

“What? What am I doing?” you ask, dopey arches framing a full smile as you dote on the way his lips purse.

“Stop swearing,” he speaks with his voice lowered, reproachful tone curling like tendrils as it gets to you.

“What’s wrong with that?”

While fairies adapted the language of the region they were residing in, swear words were rare and a clear sign of human interaction. A thing you weren’t supposed to do. The hopeful part of his conscience was praying for you to have heard it from Vidia, back from when the group had their own human encounters. But the realistic side of him, the one occupying itself with creating bonds and structures within his space laughed at the thought: your curiosity was too big to be restrained to a life of nature for eternity.

“You can’t do that here. We have manners, unlike you wind people.”

“You’re being mean, you menace in pink,” he hears Namjoon say from a low branch before you get a chance at a reply and Yoongi drifts his eyes to see his preferred acquaintance (not for long) painting over the wings of a ladybug.

The garden fairy squints at his companion, eyebrows furrowing over delicate features. “Talk about me when your rat stops eating away at my seeds.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes, taking a second brush to puncture the first dot. “It’s a mouse, not a rat. Where did you even hear that?”

“But? But...They told us rats were an accident.” 

“They were,” Namjoon nods, solemn as he continues his work. “Weird how that happened. We should ask Yoongi, he has the experience.”

“For the last time,” Yoongi says in the same fashion, looking ready to puncture Namjoon with those brushes, “My aim was off.”

You cross your arms over your chest as you lean against the stem of a dandelion, a small smile playing over your lips at their bickering.

“So was the smell. And the plant. And the root that kept growing.” Namjoon points matter-of-factly, accentuating every hit with a dot on the ladybug. “Seems like you couldn’t get rid of that green duckfoot.”

Yoongi’s jaw ticks, “Stop making fun of it, no one actually calls it that.”

“That’s true, in cities they call it oregano,” you throw and both men turn towards you with bulging eyes, prompting you to return the stare with even bigger ones, as if saying ‘what?’. Namjoon snickers and Yoongi asks Mother Dove what duty he omitted to deserve this. Was it this cursed ‘oregano’ that made it all like this?

The mint disaster happened more than twenty seasons ago, when he was a mere apprentice fairy. Nothing more than a distracted occurrence, where he did not pay much attention to the fact that bloom happened with intention, his thoughts drifted as his magic poured into the soil. When he snapped back to reality, he was met with a different smell and patterns which made him think he had created another type of grass, but with more of a scent. It was humiliating, and it took a lot for him to wash off the stain over his reputation in the following cycles. The realization sinks in as it dissolves, disbelief replacing his initial panic. Not only did you know about the incident, but also–

“She’s been to the cities.” Yoongi murmurs to himself in despair, lips trembling with his shaky exhale as he watches your blank face, no reaction to your slip.

“Of course she’s been to the cities Yoongi, where have you been?” Namjoon teases. “Who do you think gave them the oregano?”

“You're welcome anytime too, you know,” you say with a smile, treading with care on making a direct invitation to Yoongi and putting him in a position he might not want. High chances are he is never doing that, and by the way your eyes plead with him, he realises you think the same. The garden fairy contemplates changing the subject, but he knows you're trying to help, and again, you do this with everyone, so he does not feel as pressured. 

His traitor heart, however, has another agenda: it jumps at seeing you manifest a sense of empathy, a patience that goes against your nature. He assumes you mean to ease him into the thought you, or any delivery person won't be there forever. Still,

“There’s something else I have to do.”

The way he says it makes you sigh.

He is so dreamy when he rejects you.

i’ve Been Workin On THis For 2 MOnfs and still not getting close to the end please motivate me !!!!! Tell Me WHot U think praise makes my red bloodcells multiply!

[masqueradelydia]

Maladjustment

Summary: A continuation of Adjustment. Remus prepares for and delivers a new performance.

Characters: Remus Sanders, Roman Sanders, Virgil Sanders, Patton Sanders, some characters I made up whose names aren’t important (The last names are different)

Warnings: None

Ships: N/A

Words: 5754

(Adjustment is here: https://masqueradelydia.tumblr.com/post/186685098818/adjustment-to-personhood if you want to read it first, but it isn’t necessary to read this piece.

           Remus swallowed. Something in his lower intestine begged to flip his organs inside out as he stood up from the little table in front of his fold-up bed and broken lampshade. Papers were strewn about, carefully kept away from the open cans of preservatives, baked beans, and littered Snickers wrappers, along with several tissues that had hardly been aimed anywhere near the trash can. He’d tried to keep them away from the part where the ceiling leakage would drip to the floor and where that ever-growing mold sliding along the edges of the wall, and away from any cracks where something could crawl through and nibble at them. These papers piled up in droves by his feet and around his ankles like mice waiting to scatter around his apartment, but Remus had meant to keep them on the table as he pored over the notes and sketches written on them, trying not to recite the lines on them loudly enough to receive a haranguing from the man next door, or receive another attempt at a hole being punched through his door. It wasn’t his neighbor’s fault after all that Remus couldn’t ever sit still long enough to be quiet.

           Remus should’ve thrown away all of these old papers, but they were still a part of the first project he’d done that would send him towards the life he’d stayed up all night for. His feet wouldn’t stop tapping as he wrote, as if the light from above some stage was getting ever so much closer to them, wanting them to step forward, despite his worn sneakers having so many holes he could feel the concrete through half of the right sole and his nicest jacket being frayed at the sleeves and the collar of it was almost completely detached from the rest of it. His hands wouldn’t stop moving either as he wrote out extra details to his stand-up routine for the night.

           He didn’t think about the sweat building up so much that he felt like it would drip into his eyes and ears, or the faces his friends made the first time he ran his routine by them, the way that Em’s eyes shifted as she cracked the faintest of smiles, or Cal’s drawn out sight and wide-eyed shake of his head as if he’d sat through a lecture. He wasn’t think about Silas’s hands circling his own beer bottle, his face thoroughly transfixed by its design during Remus’s quips and queries. He was going over his routine as it was right now, with its timing and phrasing, elaboration and cuts just enough to give him time to flash a certain kind of grin, the new stories he’d tell cut to their bare essentials and just enough punchlines where they needed to be. He nodded to himself as he looked up to the door, which was about to come off of its hinges from all of the knocking.

           “Remus! Come on out, our flight leaves in two hours,” Silas’s silvery voice sing-songed from the other side.

           “Finish up your makeup, bitch,” Em called out, a certain twang to her tone.

           She’d probably collapse laughing if she’d ever seen how he’d worn it back in the day, at least, when he still had access to it. She was always insistent on dressing her best, even if that just meant an old tank top and a nice haircut. Silas, on the other hand, preferred to show up exactly as he was with his hair up and the occasional wristband.

           Picking up his last draft covered in coffee stains, different colored pen marks, and a little bit of sweat, more than he’d like to admit, Remus went to open the door and was pulled out of it by his collar. One more tear wouldn’t hurt it. Silas slapped him on the back and started to lead him down the hall, the three of them ignoring the person twitching in her sleep a few feet away from them.

           “Look at you, you actually showered,” Silas chirped.

           “And early, too. If we were late, I would tear my eyes out and eat them, and throw them up with all of my guts!”

           “Eugh, we get it. I guess this is understandable, being nervous or whatever, but your set better not make me regret missing my third beer tonight,” Em added with a grumble.

           “You’ll never want to drink again,” Remus assured her.

           This got him a light chuckle from her as they reached the front door and headed for Silas’s truck covered in key marks and fading paint, and some old food residue by the tires. Silas had hauled the other two home drunk on multiple occasions in it, and Remus would count today as the first in months that he wasn’t told that if he threw up in this thing that Silas would kick him out and he would have to walk seven miles back to his apartment.

           Then again, if he hadn’t been out in the snow on one of the many days Silas had followed through with this threat, he wouldn’t have found Gossamer Scruff, a small rat he had hoped would have been alive for longer than a week had Cal not dropped him down the sewer, but today, Remus did not want to remember mourning a three-day old rat he would have not cared for at all three years ago. Cal didn’t see anything worth bemoaning, and Remus supposed it was strange for him to consider it, especially considering that he’d eaten more than one rat on occasion of a few relentless dares.

           “Did you fix up that story about that actor breakin’ your rib,” Silas asked, poking his chest and bringing him back to the present.

           He winced, still not convinced the pain that came with it was normal.

           “Down to the millimeter,” Remus announced, sitting up straight and crossing his arms.

           “You look like a cat when you smile like that,” Em said.

           “Like the Cheshire Cat? Or those weird hairless ones with the wrinkles—”

           “Like one that couldn’t scratch me if it tried,” she finished.

           Silas didn’t let him reflect on that for more than a second.

           “Hey, what’d I tell you? Took you forever, but look what you’re doing! You’re finally scraping up something I haven’t been falling asleep to.”

           “Don’t tell me that my old stuff didn’t at least give you one nightmare, come on, now.”

           Silas put a hand on his shoulder and leaned in as if telling him a deep secret. The smile starting to creep towards the corner of Remus’s mouth halted itself as Silas declared,

           “It gave me visions of nothing but static. I’d rather have my ass run through with a shotgun. At least I’d have something to look at.”

           Remus sat back and avoided slumping as Silas turned the corner. That old stuff had turned into something that Silas still hadn’t fully heard, although he had a good lot of it run by him. It wasn’t a choice out of nowhere for Remus to follow all of Silas’s advice, and Silas would know from holding concerts that were so popular that it resulted in people lining up at the doors hours before it had started, and why Remus could never get past the middle rows, and why Silas couldn’t hear him cheering him on.

           Silas, of course, wasn’t the only influence. Every minute of each day, Remus repeated parts of his routine to himself, tweaking it according to every rule of comedy and performance he knew that he admitted could be of use to him. He repeated it and kept those rules in his head, even if Roman’s occasional criticisms fell in with it, not letting him forget that Thomas could do better if Remus didn’t try to step on Roman’s toes all the time whenever he so much as looked at a playbill.

           Perhaps in the Mindscape everything seemed so sugarcoated because of the way that they would all tiptoe around everything, but afterwards, the realization that everything was crafted in a curiously particular way for the reason of nuances that he did not quite hold became clear. It could have been much better if he had been more involved, perhaps even more nuanced, but neither he nor Roman were given the gift of subtlety. At least, not when they were still getting their bearings. Roman had learned to grow into it and embody the façade of subtlety over years of scrutinizing himself and participating in Thomas’s acting career. Pretty soon, it started to appear after Remus had been on his own that his insistence on shining light on the heavier aspects of life was just that. Insistence.

           Without the chance to mimic the things that both he and Roman could have used, even separately, if he were able to peer through the crack of the wall that kept him hidden, he found the echoes he could manage to make out of Roman scrutinizing himself in the voices of his own acting instructors, with sometimes a certain flick of their head sending something unpleasant down the center of Remus’s spine and a sickly sweet taste in his mouth. He was different, though, he told himself. He was not using it to create something that people will tell their children as lighthearted bedtime stories. He was using it to grow his artwork into something that would actually stick with people, that would bore itself into their minds in the middle of the night and give them visions in their sleep that would frighten and entertain them in a way that could not be explained away just with words. Remus did not want to create his work based upon cheap fairytales that people would forget about, even if it was easier for most other people, even if those things brought them joy instead of irritation, and even if everywhere he looked since he’d come into existence, he’d seen those who’d chosen that path walk the red carpet and bask in the light of everyone who loved them. Ingenuity didn’t matter to them, did it?

          Remus latched onto every change he made to his routine and diagnosed it for anything that Silas or an esteemed director would so much as blink disapprovingly at in order to polish it up. It required ignoring how much his chest hurt when he turned a certain way to sell a few little pauses, and reciting and experimenting on his inflections was a part of the process until his throat felt raw. Most of everyone he knew wouldn’t be pleased to fall off of the back of their trash truck at work and almost be thrown off of it in frustration minutes later because he was trying to craft nuance on a particular part of his piece, but that is a story for another day.

          Em leaned on the back of his seat, pulling on a piece of his hair as if inspecting it for fleas after looking down at his phone bumping every few feet. It had several cracks in it, but still managed to work. If they were lucky, Silas’s car charger would get it up to fifty percent once they had reached the airport.

           “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you dyed your hair again, didn’t you? I guess I’m getting used to it more since you cut it above your ears.”

           “Grey doesn’t make a massive impression like this does,” Remus told her, gesturing to the two green streaks over his brown hair.

           There had been more grey to cover up since when he’d first moved here, and he’d found himself considering that fact more often than he’d have liked to once he’d started performing his first, for once, growing stand-up routine as the littering of grey over the front of his bangs had started to encroach further and further towards his roots, weaving itself through the sides of his head and down to the hair that grew towards the back of his neck, and was the first of it to reach his shoulders before he had finally decided to get a proper haircut instead of working with a pair of safety scissors over his sink, leaving them in the bowl of it to try again each day over the course of about a week and a half to get it right.

           “It’ll certainly turn a few heads. Keep your head straight and meet their eyes tonight.” Silas added.

           “I’ve timed it all out. I’ll stare at them until they want to run on stage and chop my head off to get me to stop it.”

           This received a “Mmm,” and a low “Hm,” from both of them.

           “Within reason,” Remus tacked on, trying to stare at both of them as he felt his voice drop off towards a bit of a growl.

           They took a short stop at the dry-cleaners to pick up Remus’s suit jacket, made with diagonal, fat green lines running up from the waist to the shoulder and arms. Putting it on, Remus had almost felt like he’d grown into it over the past two weeks. Why this was, he wasn’t sure. He’d come up with the basic idea himself, although Cal and Em had been the ones to help him pay for it. Perhaps it was the fact that he’d been getting a little more used to seeing bigger and bigger crowds at his own shows, and people cheering his name after he’d opened for a few comedians who had already made quite the name for themselves, at least, in the local area. He got used to seeing Silas crack a bright smile and let out a real laugh at more and more of his punch lines, and Cal had even dropped his bottle out of his hand from being a little more enraptured by Remus’s story about the time that he had manage to distract an angry group of hecklers at one of Silas’s concerts by demonstrating his ability to pop his shoulder out and pull a condom through his mouth after snorting it up his nose. Em’s head shakes had turned a bit more playful rather than disdainful as well. While Silas had decided to wait in the car for them, Remus’s tailor prattled to Em and himself.

           “You know, my son wanted to become a comedian when he was little. He thought he was going to be the next Conan or something. Do you two ever watch that show? I think it’s a little bit over-dramatic, but I wouldn’t know all that much about it.”

           “Thanks for the help, Donny,” Remus started. “But if we don’t leave now, my agent is going to have my ass on a stick.”

           “Oh, you don’t have to elaborate any further. I know from my son how important punctual-ness is, he would always get in a tizzy if he wasn’t the first to show up at his improv classes.”

           “We really can’t—”

           “Em, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you before your shift’s usually over, you look nice today. I know you usually do, but today you look like you’ve really put on your face, if you know what I mean.”

           “I do what I can, you know,” Em said with an eye roll as she ushered herself and Remus out the door and back to the car.

           Remus knew that Donny was a little bit chatty, but it felt like it was almost half an hour before he had let them leave. Despite this, he had almost forgotten to be surprised that Donny had not at least told him to break a leg that night, as he usually did whenever they saw him. Must have slipped his mind.

Em had her ears covered at the sound of the jet engines whirring in all of their ears while they climbed the railing, up to a small seating section. The pilot, keeping her eyes forward as she ran her fingers over the many buttons and switches on her control panel, cleared her throat and pointed to the seats behind them and the champagne in their cupholders.

           “We’ll be lifting off in precisely five minutes, so please take your seat, Mr. Morgan. Your stewardess will be with you shortly. Please refrain from using any electronic devices while you’re at it.”

           Remus nodded and followed Em and Silas towards the leather seats. Remus’s agent, Ellis, was already sitting in the front seat, looking over his sunglasses at all of them.

           “I see you’ve decided to bring your little friends along, eh? I guess a little moral support can’t be a bad thing,” he sneered, narrowing his eyes at Em and Silas.

           “Get the stick out of your ass, it’s so far up I can see it through your teeth,” Remus joked, sitting down next to him.

           “You’re the first person who’s made it this far without one up your own.”

           “I can find something more exciting than a stick to—”

           Ellis held up a hand, using the other to adjust one of his cufflinks keeping his impeccable black suit to a standard Remus didn’t even consider before he had met him.

           “Save it for the show, hot-shot.”

           “Fine.”

           “Where do you think they get this leather from,” Silas wondered out loud.

           “They skin cows for it, I think, and then they rip out their organs and bleed them out, and then they turn their skin into leather,” Remus told him.

           Em gagged next to him.

           “How the hell do you know that?”

           Remus shrugged, suddenly wanting to reach into the back of his mind to remember who had particularly taught that to Thomas, and how he had managed to remember it.

           “Some teacher in middle school told me,” he started, gesticulating as he began to elaborate. “I wanted to know all the details, it was—”

           “Remus, shut up for a second, I just remembered something!”

           Silas pointed to Remus’s phone, which had been thankfully charged enough to last him the rest of the night.

           “When you were in the dry cleaners, you got a bunch of voicemails. I think they’re from some people you know. They wanted to talk to you, but I told them you’d talk to them after your set.”

           Remus sat up straight, his face now perplexed as he twisted himself around.

           “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Who called? What do they want from me?”

           “I don’t know, I wasn’t paying much attention, I was taking a smoke when they called. You weren’t going to be able to talk to them anyway, I don’t think it was important. It was probably just some scammers.”

           That got Remus to sit back and lean his head on the seat.

           “Oh. You should ‘a told them to go fuck themselves for me.”

           “You can do that yourself when we land. Don’t hold your breath, it’ll be about six hours.”

           “Eh, I have bigger fish to gut anyway.”

           Em would have corrected him on his phrasing, but didn’t feel like speaking up as she prepared herself for a nice little nap.

           Ellis frowned at the sight of Remus’s routine in his hand, refusing to touch it with his own as Remus tried to hand it to him.

           “Don’t shove that at me, it’s covered in coffee rings.”

           A little scoff from him told Remus that no matter what he did, Ellis would not be convinced to pick it up.

           “Do you want me to read it to you, then?”

           “No, I want you to throw it out the window. Yes, read it! You told me you changed at least half of it last night, I want to hear how you’ve done that. This is your jumping point. If you nail this, I guarantee you will have your own television show and your own Netflix special by next August.”

           The next six hours were spent with Remus reciting his routine from perfect memory, trying to change his gyro graphical stability in the process of the jet’s movements in order to ensure that his own were held the exact place he wanted them, keeping Ellis’ every flick of the eyes in mind. While this caused him to stumble quite a few times and hit his head twice and distract his friends when he’d landed on his ass, this didn’t stop him from getting back up and picking it up again, even if it required repeating a few certain lines over and over again.

             Ellis nearly shoved him off of the jet once it had landed and the door had opened, covering his head with a black sheet. Remus was partially thankful for this as he felt nearly blinded by the camera flashes, and didn’t know which way to look. He was getting a little bit more used to hearing his name said so loudly, but this was the first time he’d heard it from so many paparazzi trying to clamor over them as they squeezed into the limousine waiting for them. He could hear Ellis shouting at Silas and Em as they veered off to grab a taxi. Soon enough, he would get used to this, and it would become some sort of routine for him, wouldn’t it? Maybe in a few weeks he would even take the time to scroll through his phone instead of keeping his eyes on Ellis rapidly repeating directions to the chauffeur.

           After repeating this process, he was led down a small red carpet towards what he assumed to be his dressing room. He almost stopped in his footsteps as he looked down at it and the ropes holding back the paparazzi again flashing cameras in his face. This was just the first step of what he had been looking for since he had come into existence. It was the start of everything he could only hope to hold himself back from really thinking of during his time sitting in a nearly light-less room in the Mindscape, listening to everyone talk over each other and hardly have the energy to pay attention to any of them. He had no time to dwell on this as Ellis pushed him forward and through a door that someone had pulled open for them.

           “Come on!”

           Inside, a small crowd of people all dressed in black carrying makeup brushes, clothing racks, speakers, wires, and set pieces. A gangly woman with a handful of makeup brushes ran towards him and pulled him into a rolling chair towards a mirror, turning him to face her and looking him up and down.

           “We’ve got about fifteen minutes before you go on. Tilt your chin up, you look much too pale.”

           He did as she instructed, finding her hand keeping his jaw shut as she held his face still, smearing his face with foundation, layering it over with bronzer and brushing his eyebrows with a small tool he’d only seen Em use.

           “Jake, come fix his hair,” the woman called.

           It only took about three seconds before a shorter man bustled over and ran a brush through his hair, followed by a fine comb and pushing it so that it stayed out of his face when the hairspray came. He pulled on it when Remus coughed.

           “Sorry, should’ve given you some warning, kid. Give me a second.”

           He gave Remus a few more tugs and another puff of hairspray before bidding him good luck and running off somewhere else. Remus didn’t want to say he didn’t recognize himself in the mirror, because he did, but he still felt a little bit dissonant from his reflection. He knew why he was here, and had been kept up on so many nights wondering what this would feel like, looking at himself backstage of a performance of this scale. He knew not everyone rose to be on The Late Late Show in such a short amount of time, but it wasn’t as if he had just woken up yesterday and thought it would be fun to do stand-up.

           He had fifteen minutes before he was on. He didn’t have time to overthink things, he thought, as he pulled out his phone. Huh. He had three new voicemails, but they weren’t from scammers. Nearly dropping his phone in his haste, he put the phone up to his ear and played the first one. An enunciated voice spoke through.

           “Hey, uh, I’d start with asking how you’re doing, but, eh, it seems I don’t have to! You’re doing pretty well for yourself after all, aren’t you? I heard about you all the way out here in Los Angeles! Well, I guess you’ll be here too by the time you get this, but, uh, I want you to know something. I won’t be there tonight, I’ve got an interview, but I know I never really listened to you back in the day. I don’t even know if this will mean all that much to you, after all of, whatever people call it, sibling bonding, we missed out on. I knew you could’ve done something like this, if you pushed yourself. And you did. You made us all look a bit foolish, didn’t you? I guess we had it coming to us. We had it coming.”

           A pause.

           “But that’s not the point. I’m… I’m proud of you. Break a leg.”

           Thirty seconds passed before Remus could register what he’d just heard. A voice he hadn’t heard since the last time he’d heard Roman screeching at him to pretend they’d never met, to scrape by on his own and taste what it feels like to deal with the consequences of being who he was. And now, this. Something pumped its way back into Remus’s lower intestine as the corners of his mouth reached up for his ears. The word, Proud, sounded almost different when someone said it to him, and he was not prepared for what it would sound like, with Roman’s voice cracking and breathing it into the microphone as if he had been waiting forever to say it. Remus swallowed again and let himself take another thirty seconds to collect himself as he played the next voice mail. It began with a long sigh.

           “So, you’re hot shit now. That’s fantastic, I guess. I got a call from someone telling me all about you being on The Late Late Show or something like that. You went from being a disease to whatever you call this. Congratulations. I’m… I’m rooting you on from Dark Owl Records. It sounds stupid, but I actually have a couple of my friends in here at the bar. We’re watching for you right now.” The voice softened. “You’ve got this.”

           He was surprised Virgil had bothered to call at all, but hung onto his long drawl. Virgil had never claimed to be a nice person, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t be when he wanted to be. And one of those times was for Remus. Maybe a rare moment, but maybe it would be worth it if Virgil could see the look on Remus’s face that even he himself couldn’t see, turned away from the mirror.

           The last voice mail practically had music coming from behind it, a bouncy piano that had before sent Remus running to his room before he was told to stay away from the family.

           “Remus! I can’t wait to see your face on TV! I knew you could turn yourself around if you just put away all of those bad impulses like I told you to! Oh, it took you so long, but you listened! You listened, and look at yourself! Don’t you feel so much better? You should, you should feel over the moon! Give it a ‘moo’ for me! A-hah! You’re going to do great! Remember to take deep breaths before you go on, okay? I’ll talk to you later. Break a leg, K—”

           Patton must have ended the call before he could finish. It didn’t feel quite right hearing such encouraging things from Patton, as if he were just doing it because—he didn’t have time to think about that, Remus thought. He didn’t really know Remus very well despite their time in the Mindscape, not really, but he at least put in the effort. He was doing his best, after all, according to everyone else. The olive branch went out to everyone, Remus supposed. And that was enough for him right now.

           Remus had to focus. He ran over his lines in his head, turning back to the mirror. He didn’t feel distant from his reflection anymore. He was present, grounded, and just a few minutes later his face would be visible to people who he never thought would meet him. Strangers, people who philosophized at night about such things he couldn’t even wrap his mind around who watched this show to wind down. People his age who were studying hard to pursue their college education, high school students in so many clubs that Remus wouldn’t be able to count them all. People his age who would not look at him two months ago because of the bruises on his neck and the gash running down his arm. It didn’t seem like a big deal then, but suddenly now it was. His own ingenuity was coming to the curtain.

           “Remus, you’re on!”

           He stood up, not knowing where the voice was coming from, but was quickly pulled up to the curtain. He breathed deeply and felt it in his hands, the fabric much lighter than what he’d expected, but this was television. It was not a theater stage. He shut his eyes, counted to three, and listened for the host.

           “And now, everybody, you know him already, let’s give a warm welcome to Mr. Remus Morgan!”

           Remus opened his eyes and pushed open the curtain, walking out expecting a microphone and a large stage, and the host sitting at his usual desk against the cityscape backdrop.

           Confetti flew into his face as party favor noisemakers bombarded him, a few of them landing at his feet. He looked above and below himself, finding the floor and walls of a warehouse, and a ceiling stretching up to several fans. He looked in front of himself and saw Cal, Em, Silas, and several people who he’d seen coming to his shows all smiling back at him. They waited for a second to let their noise die down before shouting one single phrase in unison.

           “The joke’s on you!”

           Remus took a step back and looked here and there at all of these faces, looking down again to register that he was not standing on a platform, and there were no bright lights over his head. He wanted to pinch himself. He wanted to say he’d walked through the wrong door to some place he had just imagined, something he’d conjured up in one of his own dreams that he just hadn’t slept through yet. Above the heads of his onlookers was a large white banner, painted in shoddy writing to say, “Joke’s on Remus,” and two plastic wine glasses were attached to each side.

           “Wh—”

           “We did it! We had you eating out of the palm of our hands,” Em cut him off.

           He tried again, but couldn’t get anything out before—

           “All of this is fake! Everyone here is an actor! They’re all paid actors! We got you, Ree! All of your shows were a prank,” Silas shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear.

           Remus stepped back again, gripping the curtain in his hands to keep himself steady, only for it to rip. He’d stayed on his feet, thankfully, as he stared back at all of them with an open mouth and pulse beating upon his ears. That was it. He couldn’t take all of this in at once, and at the same time, his mind had forced him to. His mouth was dry, and he felt something bubbling up in his stomach, choking it back down his throat to keep it from spilling out all over the floor. He tried to say something, anything, but all that came out was air. Just air.

           “You’re wondering why we’re doing this, aren’t you,” Em asked.

           He just looked at her, his eyes starting to blur. He felt like he was going to pass out.

           “Your comedy career is going nowhere, pal. This is the best you’re ever going to get! Oh, and those phone calls? Your other friends, they were in on it! They knew the whole time!”

           He wouldn’t have believed them if he hadn’t checked his phone and found that all of them had still had him blocked. He couldn’t see their numbers, and it was as if they’d never existed in his phone at all as it dropped to the floor. If he didn’t know better, he’d guess his knees were about to buckle right about now, and it was all he could do to keep himself from hurling his guts out all over them. He couldn’t think about whether they deserved to be thrown up on now. One hand was on his face, keeping his head from pounding so hard that he really would pass out, and the other was forming a fist.

           The voice that came out of him didn’t sound like himself. Not really, but he knew it was. He never wanted them to hear it like this, but he couldn’t change it now.

           “What are you all expecting,” he asked, trying to keep his voice somewhat similar to how he’d presented it only last week. “Are you expecting me to fall apart? To cry? To crumble at your feet?”

           A few murmurs rumbled through the crowd.

           “Are you—”

           A sort of… hiccup kept him from continuing. Somewhere in another universe, he wasn’t watching every good vision he’d had of himself fizzling out, dissolving into a melted mess of wax, quickly wrenching itself from all attainability and taking his throat on the way out. Somewhere in another universe, he was not currently denying everything he didn’t want to admit while simultaneously doing just that. Somewhere he was finding his fist flying right into Silas’s face, taking one of the chairs in front of him and using it as a ballista. Somewhere else, he wasn’t currently trying to put his voice together as it fell out of his mouth and rushed to the ears of everyone in the room. Somewhere, someone was proud of him.

A/N: The plot of this is piece based off of the episode The Gang Breaks Dee of Always Sunny. I don’t take credit for the idea since it came from them first.

[blackkudos]

Bert Williams

Bert Williams (November 12, 1874 – March 4, 1922) was a Bahamian American and was one of the pre-eminent entertainers of the Vaudeville era and one of the most popular comedians for all audiences of his time. He was by far the best-selling black recording artist before 1920. In 1918, the 

New York Dramatic Mirror

 called Williams "one of the great comedians of the world."

Williams was a key figure in the development of African-American entertainment. In an age when racial inequality and stereotyping were commonplace, he became the first black American to take a lead role on the Broadway stage, and did much to push back racial barriers during his long career. Fellow vaudevillian W.C. Fields, who appeared in productions with Williams, described him as "the funniest man I ever saw – and the saddest man I ever knew."

Early life

Williams was born in Nassau, The Bahamas, on November 12, 1874, to Frederick Williams Jr. and his wife Julia. At the age of 11, Bert permanently emigrated with his parents, moving to Florida. The family later moved to Riverside, California, where he graduated from Riverside High School. In 1893, while still a teenager, he joined different West Coast minstrel shows, including Martin and Selig's Mastodon Minstrels, where he first met his future professional partner, George Walker.

He and Walker performed song-and-dance numbers, comic dialogues and skits, and humorous songs. They fell into stereotypical vaudevillian roles: originally Williams portrayed a slick conniver, while Walker played the "dumb coon" victim of Williams' schemes. However, they soon discovered that they got a better reaction by switching roles. The sharp-featured and slender Walker eventually developed a persona as a strutting dandy, while the stocky Williams played the languorous oaf. Despite his thickset physique, Williams was a master of body language and physical "stage business." A New York Times reviewer wrote: "He holds a face for minutes at a time, seemingly, and when he alters it, bring[s] a laugh by the least movement."

In late 1896, the pair were added to The Gold Bug, a struggling musical. The show did not survive, but Williams & Walker got good reviews, and were able to secure higher profile bookings. They headlined the Koster and Bial's vaudeville house for 36 weeks in 1896-97, where their spirited version of the cakewalk helped popularize the dance. The pair performed in burnt-cork blackface, as was customary at the time, billing themselves as "Two Real Coons" to distinguish their act from the many white minstrels also performing in blackface. Williams also made his first recordings in 1896, but none are known to survive.

While playing off the "coon" formula, Williams & Walker's act and demeanor subtly undermined it as well. Camille Forbes wrote, "They called into question the possible realness of blackface performers who only emphasized their artificiality by recourse to burnt cork; after all, Williams did not really need the burnt cork to be black." Terry Waldo also noted the layered irony in their cakewalk routine, which presented them as mainstream blacks performing a dance in a way that lampooned whites who'd mocked a black dance that originally satirized plantation whites' ostentatiously fussy mannerisms. The pair also made sure to present themselves as immaculately groomed and classily dressed in their publicity photos, which were used for advertising and on the covers of sheet music promoting their songs. In this way, they drew a contrast between their real-life comportment and the comical characters they portrayed onstage. However, this aspect of their act was ambiguous enough that some black newspapers still criticized the duo for failing to uplift the dignity of their race.

In 1899, Bert surprised his partner George Walker and his family when he announced he had recently married Charlotte ("Lottie") Thompson, a singer with whom he had worked professionally, in a very private ceremony. Lottie was a widow eight years Bert's senior. Thus, the match seemed odd to some who knew the gregarious and constantly traveling Williams, but all who knew them considered them a uniquely happy couple and the union lasted until his death. The Williamses never had children biologically, but they adopted three of Lottie's nieces and frequently sheltered orphans and foster children in their homes.

Williams & Walker appeared in a succession of shows, including A Senegambian Carnival, A Lucky Coon, and The Policy Players. Their stars were on the ascent, but they still faced vivid reminders of the limits placed on them by white society. In August 1900, in New York City, hysterical rumors of a white detective having been shot by a black man erupted into an uncontained riot. Unaware of the street violence, Williams & Walker left their theater after a performance and parted ways. Williams headed off in a fortunate direction, but Walker was yanked from a streetcar by a white mob and was beaten.

Sons of Ham and In Dahomey

The following month, Williams & Walker had their greatest success to date with Sons of Ham, a broad farce that was perhaps most notable for its lack of the extreme "darkie" stereotypes which were then common. One of the show's songs, "Miss Hannah from Savannah," even touched upon class divisions within the black community. The pair had already begun to transition away from racial minstrel conventions to a more human style of comedy. In 1901, they recorded 13 discs for the Victor Talking Machine Company. Some of these, such as "The Phrenologist Coon," were standard blackface material, but the financial lament "When It's All Going Out and Nothing Coming In" was race-blind, and became one of Williams' best-known songs. Another Williams composition, "Good Morning Carrie", was covered by many artists, becoming one of the biggest hits of 1901. These discs existed only in pressings of fewer than 1,000, and were not heard by very many listeners. Sons of Ham ran for two years.

In September 1902, Williams & Walker debuted their next vehicle, In Dahomey, which was an even bigger hit. In 1903 the production, with music by Will Marion Cook and lyrics by Paul Laurence Dunbar moved to New York City, where it became the first black musical to open on Broadway. Part of the inspiration for the show was Williams' copy of a 1670 book, Africa, in which author John Ogilby traced the history of the continent's tribes and peoples. "With this volume, I could prove that every Pullman porter is the descendant of a king," said Williams.

This was a landmark event, but seating inside the theater was segregated. One of the musical's songs, "I'm a Jonah Man," helped codify Williams' hard-luck persona and tales of woe. It helped to establish the character Williams played most frequently in his career: the slow-talking, deep-thinking victim of life's misfortunes. "Even if it rained soup," Williams later explained, "[my character] would be found with a fork in his hand and no spoon in sight." However, Williams and Walker were ebullient about their Broadway breakthrough, which came years after they had established themselves as profitable stage stars. Williams wrote, "We'd get near enough to hear the Broadway audiences applaud sometimes, but it was some one else they were applauding. I used to be tempted to beg for a $15 job in a chorus just for one week so as to be able to say I'd been on Broadway once." Walker recalled, "Some years ago we were doing a dance before an east side audience. They gave us a hand, and I called out to them, "Some day we'll do this dance on Broadway!" Then they gave us the laugh. Just the same we gave Broadway that same dance."

In Dahomey then traveled to London, where it was enthusiastically received. A command performance was given at Buckingham Palace in June 1903. The show's British tour continued through June 1904. In May, Williams and Walker were both initiated into the Edinburgh Lodge of the Freemasons; the Scottish Masons did not racially discriminate as the United States chapters did, including the northern states.

Abyssinia and recording success

The duo's international success established them as the most visible black performers in the world. They hoped to parlay this renown into a new, more elaborate and costly stage production, to be shown in the top-flight theaters. Williams and Walker's management team balked at the expense of this project, then sued the pair to prevent them from securing outside investors or representation. Filings in the suit revealed that each member of the team had earned approximately $120,000 from 1902 to 1904, or well over $3 million apiece in 2012 dollars. The lawsuit was unsuccessful, and Williams and Walker accepted an offer from Hammerstein's Victoria Theatre, the premiere vaudeville house in New York. A white Southern monologuist objected to the integrated bill, but the show went ahead with Williams and Walker and without the objector.

In February 1906, Abyssinia, with a score co-written by Williams, premiered at the Majestic Theater. The show, which included live camels, was another smash. Aspects of the production continued the duo's cagey steps toward greater creative pride and freedom for black performers. The nation of Abyssinia (now Ethiopia) was the only African nation to remain sovereign during European colonization, repelling Italy's attempts at control in 1896. The show also included inklings of a love story, something that had never been tolerated in a black stage production before. Walker played a Kansas tourist while his wife, Aida, portrayed an Abyssinian princess. A scene between the two of them, while comic, presented Walker as a nervous suitor.

While the show was praised, many white critics were uncomfortable or uncertain about its cast's ambitions. One critic declared that audiences "do not care to see their own ways copied when they can have the real thing better done by white people," while the New York Evening Post thought the score "is at times too elaborate for them and a return to the plantation melodies would be a great improvement upon the 'grand opera' type, for which they are not suited either by temperament or by education." The Chicago Tribuneremarked, disapprovingly, "there is hardly a trace of negroism in the play." George Walker was unbowed, telling the Toledo Bee, "It's all rot, this slapstick bandanna handkerchief bladder in the face act, with which negro acting is associated. It ought to die out and we are trying to kill it." Though the flashier Walker rarely had qualms about opposing the racial prejudice and limitations of the day, the more introspective and brooding Williams internalized his feelings.

Williams committed many of Abyssinia's songs to disc and cylinder. One of them, "Nobody", became his signature theme, and the song he is best remembered for today. It is a doleful and ironic composition, replete with his dry observational wit, and is perfectly complemented by Williams' intimate, half-spoken singing style.

When life seems full of clouds and rain,

And I am filled with naught but pain,

Who soothes my thumping, bumping brain?

[pause] 

Nobody.

When winter comes with snow and sleet,

And me with hunger and cold feet,

Who says, "Here's two bits, go and eat"?

[pause] 

Nobody.

I ain't never done nothin' to Nobody.

I ain't never got nothin' from Nobody, no time.

And, until I get somethin' from somebody sometime,

I don't intend to do nothin' for Nobody, no time.

Williams became so identified with the song that he was obliged to sing it in almost every appearance for the rest of his life. He considered its success both blessing and curse: "Before I got through with 'Nobody,' I could have wished that both the author of the words and the assembler of the tune had been strangled or drowned.... 'Nobody' was a particularly hard song to replace." "Nobody" remained active in Columbia's sales catalogue into the 1930s, and the musicologist Tim Brooks estimates that it sold between 100,000 and 150,000 copies, a phenomenally high amount for the era.

Williams' langorous, drawling delivery would become the primary selling point of several similarly structured Williams recordings, such as "Constantly" and "I'm Neutral." Williams even recorded two compositions entitled "Somebody" and "Everybody." His style was inimitable. In an era when the most popular songs were simultaneously promoted by several artists (for example, "Over There" was a top-10 hit for six different acts in 1917-18), Williams' repertoire was left comparatively untouched by competing singers. Describing his character's style and the appeal it had with audiences, he said, "When he talks to you it is as if he has a secret to confide that concerns just you two."

Williams and Walker were prominent success stories for the black community, and they received both extensive press coverage and frequent admonitions to properly "represent the race." Leading black newspapers mounted campaigns against demeaning stereotypes such as the word "coon." Williams & Walker were sympathetic, but also had their careers to consider, where they performed before many white audiences. The balancing act between their audience's expectations and their artistic impulses was tricky.

In his only known essay, Williams wrote:

"People sometimes ask me if I would not give anything to be white. I answer ... most emphatically, "No." How do I know what I might be if I were a white man? I might be a sandhog, burrowing away and losing my health for $8 a day. I might be a streetcar conductor at $12 or $15 a week. There is many a white man less fortunate and less well-equipped than I am. In fact, I have never been able to discover that there was anything disgraceful in being a colored man. But I have often found it inconvenient ... in America."

Bandanna Land

In 1908, while starring in the successful Broadway production Bandanna Land, Williams & Walker were asked to appear at a charity benefit by George M. Cohan. Walter C. Kelly, a prominent monologist, protested and encouraged the other acts to withdraw from the show rather than appear alongside black performers. But only two of the acts joined Kelly's boycott.

Bandanna Land continued the duo's series of hits, and introduced a tour de force sketch that Williams made famous: his pantomime poker game. In total silence, Williams acted out a hand of poker, with only his facial expressions and body language conveying the dealer's up-and-down emotions as he considered his hand, reacted to the unseen actions of his invisible opponents, and weighed the pros and cons of raising or calling the bet. It later became a standard routine in his solo stage act, and was recorded on film by Biograph Studios in 1916.

Solo career

Walker was in ill health by this point due to syphilis, which was then incurable. In January 1909 he suffered a stroke onstage while singing, and was forced to drop out of Bandanna Land the following month. The famous pair never performed in public again, and Walker died less than two years later. Walker had been the businessman and public spokesman for the duo. His absence left Williams professionally adrift.

After 16 years as half of a duo, Williams needed to reestablish himself as a solo act. In May 1909 he returned to Hammerstein's Victoria Theater and the high-class vaudeville circuit. His new act consisted of several songs, comic monologues in dialect, and a concluding dance. He received top billing and a high salary, but "the White Rats," an organization of vaudevillians opposed to encroachments from blacks and women, intimidated the theater managers into reducing Williams' billing. The brash Walker would have resisted such an insult to his star status, but the more reserved Williams did not protest. Allies were few; big-time vaudeville managers were fearful of attracting a disproportionate number of black audience members and thus allowed only one black act per bill. Due to his skin, Williams typically travelled, ate and lodged separately from the rest of his fellow performers, increasing his sense of isolation following the loss of Walker.

Williams next starred as Mr. Lode of Koal, a farce about a kidnapped king that was well received by critics as a star vehicle though not a fully realized storyline. Camille Forbes' Introducing Bert Williams collects several reviews with competing race-based agendas. Many of the white reviewers praised Williams' "apparent spontaneous," "unpremeditated" humor, as if he were a guileless simpleton in no control of his own performance. A Chicago critic wrote, "They are racial, those hands and feet," while a Boston reviewer felt that the show's flimsiness and lack of structure were actually attributes because "when we succumb to the surreptitious desire for the broad tang of "nigger" humor, we want no disturbing atom of intelligence busy-bodying about." Meanwhile, many black reviewers ignored the show's faults, praising Williams' continued persistence and prominence as much if not more than his actual performance; an Indianapolis reviewer thought the play was evidence that "we are nearing the day of better things." Despite the good if loaded notices, Mr. Lode of Koal played a secondary string of theaters and was a box office flop.

Following the show's abbreviated run, Williams returned to the vaudeville circuit, and "the White Rats" renewed their opposition to his featured status. The Victoria Theater responded by cutting Williams to secondary billing, but putting his name on the marquee in lettering twice as large as that of the nominal headliner. Newspapers took note of the disingenuous manner in which the White Rats' demands had been met, as well as the way in which many of those performers who were impeding his career would rush to the front of the theater whenever his turn to perform came up.

Ziegfeld Follies

After Mr. Lode skidded to a halt, Williams accepted an unprecedented offer to join Flo Ziegfeld's Follies. The idea of a black-featured performer amid an otherwise all-white show was a shock in 1910. Williams' initial reception was cool, and several cast members delivered an ultimatum to Ziegfeld that Williams be fired. Ziegfeld held firm, saying: "I can replace every one of you, except [Williams]." The show's writers were slow to devise material for him to perform, forcing Williams to repeat much of his vaudeville act. But by the time the show finally debuted in June, Williams was a sensation. In addition to his usual material, Williams appeared in a boxing sketch playing off the racially charged "Great White Hope" heavyweight bout that had just taken place between Jack Johnson and James J. Jeffries. Reviews were uniformly positive for Williams, and also for Fanny Brice, who was making her Broadway debut.

Following his success, Williams signed an exclusive contract with Columbia Records, and recorded four of the show's songs. His elevated status was signaled not just by the generous terms of the contract, but by the tenor of Columbia's promotion, which dropped much of the previous "coon harmony"-type sales patter and began touting Williams' "inimitable art" and "direct appeal to the intelligence." As Brooks wrote: "Williams had become a star who transcended race, to the extent that was possible in 1910." All four songs sold well, and one of them, "Play That Barbershop Chord", became a substantial hit.

Few stage performers were recording regularly in 1910, in some cases because their onstage styles did not translate to the limited technical media. But Williams' low-key natural delivery was ideal for discs of the time, and his personality was warm and funny.

Williams returned for the 1911 edition of the Ziegfeld Follies, teaming up in some sketches with the comedian Leon Errol to ecstatic effect. The best-received sketch featured Errol as a tourist, and Williams as a porter using a mountaineer's rope to lead him across dangerously high girders in the then-unfinished Grand Central Station. Errol's fast-taking persona and frenetic physical comedy gave Williams his first effective onstage foil since Walker's retirement. Williams and Errol wrote the sketch themselves, turning it into a 20-minute centerpiece of the show after the Follies writers had originally given Williams but a single two-word line of dialogue. Williams also reprised his poker routine, and popularized a song called "Woodman, Spare That Tree."

The team of Williams, who was black, with the white Leon Errol was a groundbreaking pairing that had never been seen before on the Broadway stage. Also notable was the relative equality of the duo in their sketches, with Williams delivering most of the punchlines and generally getting the better of Errol. At the conclusion of their Grand Central Station routine, Errol offered Williams a mere 5-cent tip, to which the aggrieved Williams deliberately loosened Errol's supporting rope, sending him plunging from the high girder. Then, a construction explosion below sent Errol shooting into the sky, unseen by the audience, while Williams laconically described his trajectory: "There he goes. Now he's near the Metropolitan Tower. If he can only grab that little gold knob on top... uh... um... he muffed it." After Williams' death a decade later, Errol was the only white pallbearer at his funeral.

Williams continued as the featured star of the Follies, signing a three-year contract that paid him an annual salary of $62,400, equivalent to $1.5 million today. By his third stint, Williams' status was such that he was allowed to be onstage at the same time as white women—a significant concession in 1912—and started to interact with more of the show's principals.

In January 1913, he recorded several more sides for Columbia, including a new version of "Nobody," the 1906 copies having long since become scarce. All of the releases remained in Columbia's catalog for years. He continued to make several more recording dates for Columbia, though he stopped writing his own songs by 1915. He also began making film appearances, though most have been lost. One of them, A Natural Born Gambler, shows his pantomime poker sketch, and is the best-known footage of Williams available. Part of an abandoned Williams comedy film, Lime Kiln Field Day, was found in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art and restored for its first screening in October 2014. The film featured an all-black cast, and the recovered footage included cast and crew interactions between scenes.

Williams did not appear in the Ziegfeld Follies of 1913, instead taking part in an all-black revue of The Frogs, a Negro theatrical organization that had been founded in 1908 by George Walker. For many of his black fans, this was the first time to see Williams onstage since before he joined the Follies. Following the Frogs tour, Williams set out again on the vaudeville circuit, where he was the highest-paid black performer in history.

Back in the Follies fold for 1914, Williams was reunited with Leon Errol for a more absurd version of their girder sketch, this time set on the 1,313th floor of a skyscraper. But as the annual production became more lavish, more crowded with talent, and more devoted to the parade of "Ziegfeld Girls," Williams and other performers were given less stage time, and less attention from the show's writers. This trend continued in the 1915 edition. W.C. Fields made his Follies debut in 1915, and endured the same treatment when the writers cut his scene down rather than enhancing it. Eventually, left alone on an empty stage with a pool table, the comedian responded by creating his famed "pool shark" routine. In 1916, the writers gave Williams a takeoff of Othello to play, but by most accounts neither the material nor his performance was up to his usual standard.

The 1917 installment of Ziegfeld's Follies featured a rich array of talent, including Williams, W. C. Fields, Fanny Brice, Will Rogers (who had debuted in 1916), and newcomer Eddie Cantor. Williams and Cantor did scenes together, and struck up a close friendship. In 1918, Williams went on a hiatus from the Follies, citing the show's difficulty in providing him with quality parts and sketches. Within a month, he was performing in another Ziegfeld production, the secondary Midnight Frolic. By all accounts, Williams thrived in the smaller setting, in which he had the stage time he needed for his routines. He returned to the Follies of 1919, but once again was saddled with sub-par material, including a supporting part in a minstrel show segment.

Between 1918 and 1921, he recorded several records in the guise of "Elder Eatmore", an unscrupulous preacher, as well as songs dealing with Prohibition, such as "Everybody Wants a Key to My Cellar", "Save a Little Dram for Me", "Ten Little Bottles", and the smash hit, "The Moon Shines on the Moonshine". By this point, Williams' records were taking up a full page in Columbia's catalog, and they were among the strongest-selling songs of the age. At a time when 10,000 sales was considered a very successful major label release, Williams had four songs that shipped between 180,000 and 250,000 copies in 1920 alone. Williams, along with Al Jolson and Nora Bayes, was one of the three most highly paid recording artists in the world.

Despite continuous success, Williams' position was tenuous in other ways. When Actors Equity went on strike in August 1919, the entire Follies cast walked out, except for Williams, who showed up to work to find an empty theater; he had not been told about the strike. "I don't belong to either side," he told W. C. Fields. "Nobody wants me".

Williams continued to face institutional racism, but due to his success and popularity, he was in a better position to deal with it. On one occasion, when he attempted to buy a drink at the bar of New York's elegant Hotel Astor, the white bartender tried to chase Williams away by telling him that he would be charged $50. Williams' response was to produce a thick roll of hundred dollar bills out of his pocket; placing the wad on the bar, he ordered a round for everyone in the room. He told a reporter, "They say it is a matter of race prejudice. But if it were prejudice a baby would have it, and you will never find it in a baby... I have notice that this "race prejudice" is not to be found in people who are sure enough of their position to defy it." In a letter to a friend, Williams described some of the segregation and abuse he'd experienced, adding, "When ultimate changes come... I wonder if the new human beings will believe such persons as I am writing you about actually lived?" Even so, in 1914, a perceptive critic for the Chicago Defender wrote, "Every time I see Mr. Bert Williams, the 'distinguished colored comedian', I wonder if he is not the patient repository of a secret sadness... Sorrow concealed, 'like an oven stopped', must burn his heart to cinders."

Late career and death

Williams' stage career lagged after his final Follies appearance in 1919. His name was enough to open a show, but they had shorter, less profitable runs. In December 1921, Under the Bamboo Tree opened, to middling results. Williams still got good reviews, but the show did not. Williams developed pneumonia, but did not want to miss performances, knowing that he was the only thing keeping an otherwise moribund musical alive at the box office.

On February 27, 1922, Williams collapsed during a performance in Detroit, Michigan, which the audience initially thought was a comic bit. Helped to his dressing room, Williams quipped, "That's a nice way to die. They was laughing when I made my last exit." He returned to New York, but his health worsened. He died on March 4, at the age of 47. Few had suspected that he was sick, and news of his death came as a public shock. More than 5,000 fans filed past his casket, and thousands more were turned away. A private service was held at the Masonic Lodge in Manhattan, where Williams broke his last barrier. He was the first black American to be so honored by the all-white Grand Lodge. When the Masons opened their doors for a public service, nearly 2,000 mourners of both races were admitted. Williams was buried in Woodlawn Cemetery in The Bronx, New York City.

Legacy

In 1910, Booker T. Washington wrote of Williams: "He has done more for our race than I have. He has smiled his way into people's hearts; I have been obliged to fight my way." Gene Buck, who had discovered W. C. Fields in vaudeville and hired him for the Follies, wrote to a friend on the occasion of Fields' death: "Next to Bert Williams, Bill [Fields] was the greatest comic that ever lived."

Phil Harris was apparently quite a fan of Williams, since he recorded "Nobody" and "Woodman, Woodman, Spare That Tree" in late 1936 and early 1937, both big hits of Williams.

In 1940, Duke Ellington composed and recorded "A Portrait of Bert Williams," a subtly crafted tribute. In 1978, in a memorable turn on a Boston Pops TV special, Ben Vereen performed a tribute to Williams, complete with appropriate makeup and attire, and reprising Williams' high-kick dance steps, to such classic vaudeville standards as "Waitin' for the Robert E. Lee".

In World War II, the United States liberty ship SS Bert Williams was named in his honor.

The 1980 Broadway musical Tintypes featured "I'm a Jonah Man", a song first popularized by Williams in 1903.

Johnny Cash covered William's song "Nobody" on his album American III: Solitary Man released in 2000.

In 1996, Bert Williams was inducted into the International Clown Hall of Fame.

The Archeophone label has collected and released all of Williams' extant recordings on three CDs.

Dancing in the Dark (2005) by Caryl Phillips is a novelization of the life of Bert Williams.

Wikipedia

[in-the-shade-of-a-rooks-wing]

HAS SUCCESS SPOILED THE CROW?

The Puzzling Case File on the World's Smartest Bird

Any person with no steady job and no children naturally finds time for a sizable amount of utterly idle speculation. For instance, me - I've developed a theory about crows. It goes like this:

Crows are bored. They suffer from being too intelligent for their station in life. Respectable evolutionary success is simply not, for these brainy and complex birds, enough. They are dissatisfied with the narrow goals and horizons of that tired old Darwinian struggle. On the lookout for a new challenge. See them there, lined up conspiratorially along a fence rail or a high wire, shoulder to shoulder, alert, self-contained, missing nothing. Feeling...discreetly thwarted. Waiting, like an ambitious understudy, for their break. Dolphins and whales and chimpanzees get all the fawning publicity, great fuss made over their near-human intelligence. But don't be fooled. Crows are not stupid. Far from it. They are merely underachievers. They are bored.

Most likely it runs in their genes, along with the black plumage and the talent for vocal mimicry. Crows belong to a remarkable family of birds known as the Corvidae, also including ravens, magpies, jackdaws, and jays, and the case file on this entire clan is so full of prodigious and quirky behavior that it cries out for interpretation not by an ornithologist but a psychiatrist. Or, failing that, some ignoramus with a supple theory. Computerized ecologists can give us those fancy equations depicting the whole course of a creature's life history in terms of energy allotment to every physical need, with variables for fertility and senility and hunger and motherly love; but they haven't yet programmed in a variable for boredom. No wonder the Corvidae dossier is still packed with unanswered questions.

At first glance, though, all is normal: Crows and their corvid relatives seem to lead an exemplary birdlike existence. The home life is stable and protective. Monogamy is the rule, and most mated pairs stay together until death. Courtship is elaborate, even rather tender, with the male doing a good bit of bowing and dancing and jiving, not to mention supplying his intended with food; eventually he offers the first scrap of nesting material as a sly hint that they get on with it. While she incubates a clutch of four to six eggs, he continues to furnish the groceries, and stands watch nearby at night. Then for a month after hatching, both parents dote on the young. Despite strenuous care, mortality among fledglings is routinely high, sometimes as high as 70 percent, but all this crib death is counterbalanced by the longevity of the adults. Twenty-year-old crows are not unusual, and one raven in captivity survived to age twenty-nine. Anyway, corvids show no inclination toward breeding themselves up to huge numbers, filling the countryside with their kind (like the late passenger pigeon, or an infesting variety of insect) until conditions shift for the worse, and a vast population collapses. Instead, crows and their relatives reproduce at roughly the same stringent rate through periods of bounty or austerity, maintaining levels of population that are modest but consistent, and which can be supported throughout any foreseeable hard times. In this sense they are astute pessimists. One consequence of such modesty of demographic ambition is to leave them with excess time, and energy, not desperately required for survival.

The other thing they possess in excess is brainpower. They have the largest cerebral hemispheres, relative to body size, of any avian family. On various intelligence tests - to measure learning facility, clock-reading skills, and the ability to count - they have made other birds look doltish. One British authority, Sylvia Bruce Wilmore, pronounces them "quicker on the uptake" than certain well-thought-of mammals like the cat and the monkey, and admits that her own tamed crow so effectively dominated the other animals in her household that this bird "would even pick up the spaniel's leash and lead him around the garden!" Wilmore also adds cryptically: "Scientists at the University of Mississippi have been successful in getting the cooperation of crows." But she fails to make clear whether that was as test subjects, or on a consultative basis.

From other crow experts come the same sort of anecdote. Crows hiding food in all manner of unlikely spots and relying on their uncanny memories, like adepts at the game of Concentration, to find the caches again later. Crows using twenty-three distinct forms of call to communicate various sorts of information to each other. Crows in flight dropping clams and walnuts on highway pavement, to break open the shells so the meats can be eaten. Then there's the one about the hooded crow, a species whose range includes Finland: "In this land Hoodies show great initiative during winter when men fish through holes in the ice. Fishermen leave baited lines in the water to catch fish and on their return they have found a Hoodie pulling in the line with its bill, and walking away from the hole, then putting down the line and walking back on it to stop it sliding, and pulling it again until [the crow] catches the fish on the end of the line." These birds are bright.

And probably - according to my theory - they are too bright for their own good. You know the pattern. Time on their hands. Under-employed and over-qualified. Large amounts of potential just lying fallow. Peck up a little corn, knock back a few grasshoppers, carry a beakful of dead rabbit home for the kids, then fly over to sit on a fence rail with eight or ten cronies and watch some poor farmer sweat like a sow at the wheel of his tractor. An easy enough life, but is this it? Is this all?

If you don't believe me just take my word for it: crows are bored.

And so there arise, as recorded in the case file, these certain...no, symptoms is too strong. Call them, rather, patterns of gratuitous behavior.

For example, they play a lot. Animal play is a reasonably common phenomenon, at least among certain mammals, especially in the young of those species. Play activities, by definition, are any that serve no immediate biological function, and which therefore do not directly improve the animal's prospects for survival and reproduction. The corvids, according to expert testimony, are irrepressibly playful. In fact, they show the most complex play known in birds. Ravens play toss with themselves in the air, dropping and catching again a small twig. They lie on their backs and juggle objects (in one recorded case, a rubber ball) between beak and feet. They jostle each other sociably in a version of "king of the mountain" with no real territorial stakes. Crows are equally frivolous. They play a brand of rugby, wherein one crow picks up a white pebble or a bit of shell and flies from tree to tree, taking a friendly bashing from its buddies until it drops the token. And they have a comedy/acrobatic routine: allowing themselves to tip backward dizzily from a wire perch, holding a loose grip so as to hang upside down, spreading out both wings, then daringly letting go with one foot; finally, switching feet to let go with the other. Such shameless hot-dogging is usually performed for a small audience of other crows.

There is also an element of the practical joker. Of the Indian house crow, Wilmore says: "...this crow has a sense of humor, and revels in the discomfort caused by its playful tweaking at the tails of other birds, and at the ears of sleeping cows and dogs; it also pecks the toes of flying foxes as they hang sleeping in their roosts." This crow is a laugh riot. Another of Wilmore's favorite species amuses itself, she says, by "dropping down on sleeping rabbits and rapping them over the skull or settling on drowsy cattle and startling them." What we have here is actually a distinct subcategory of playfulness known, where I come from at least, as "cruisin' for a bruisin'". It has been clinically linked to boredom.

Further evidence: crows are known to indulge in sunbathing. "When sunning at fairly high intensity," says another British corvidist, "the bird usually positions itself sideways on to the sun and erects its feathers, especially those on head, belly, flanks and rump." So the truth is out: Under those sleek ebony feathers, they are tan. And of course sunbathing (like ice-fishing, come to think of it) constitutes prima facie proof of a state of paralytic ennui.

But the final and most conclusive bit of data comes from a monograph by K. E. L. Simmons published in the Journal of Zoology, out of London. (Perhaps it's for deep reasons of national character that the British lead the world in the study of crows; in England, boredom has great cachet.) Simmons's paper is curiously entitled "Anting and the Problem of Self-Stimulation." Anting as used here is simply the verb (or to be more precise, participial) form of the insect. In ornithological parlance, it means that a bird - for reasons that remain mysterious - has taken to rubbing itself with mouthfuls of squashed ants. Simmons writes: "True anting consists of highly stereotyped movements whereby the birds apply ants to their feathers or expose their plumage to the ants." Besides direct application, done with the beak, there is also a variant called passive anting: The bird intentionally squats on a disturbed anthill, allowing (inviting) hundreds of ants to swarm over its body.

Altogether strange behavior, and especially notorious for it are the corvids. Crows avidly rub their bodies with squashed ants. They wallow amid busy ant colonies and let themselves become acrawl. They revel in formication.

Why? One theory is that the formic acid produced (as a defense chemical) by some ants is useful for conditioning feathers and ridding the birds of external parasites. But Simmons cites several other researchers who have independently reached a different conclusion. One of these scientists declared that the purpose of anting "is the stimulation and soothing of the body," and that the general effect "is similar to that gained by humanity from the use of external stimulants, soothing ointments, counter-irritants (including formic acid) and perhaps also smoking." Another compared anting to "the human habits of smoking and drug-taking" and maintained that "it has no biological purpose but is indulged in for its own sake, for the feeling of well-being and ecstasy it induces..."

You know the pattern. High intelligence, large promise. Early success without great effort. Then a certain loss of purposefulness. Manifestations of detachment and cruel humor. Boredom. Finally the dangerous spiral into drug abuse.

But maybe it's not too late for the corvids. Keep that in mind next time you run into a raven, or a magpie, or a crow. Look the bird in the eye. Consider its frustrations. Try to say something stimulating.