#and they’d expect me to do that AND my shift which wouldn’t finish until 4am

[bambino1294]

My manager, replying to my ‘I have fucking covid’ email from MONDAY: so like 👉🏻👈🏻 have you tested negative as of yet and um 🥺 how are you currently feeling??

Me, knowing full well this man is one email away from trying to convince me to come into work tomorrow and/or Saturday:

[tsarisfanfiction]

I think I drank too much - with ma boi John Tracy, Eye in the Sky?

(I hope you wrestle uni into submssion)

A Bad First Impression

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Family/Friendship Characters: Scott, John, Penelope

Brain is in default Scott mode (when is it not?), so more Scott than John, but it is John saying the line, so that counts, right?  Haven’t proof read this or anything, but alcohol+John gave me one idea straight away, so here we go!

4am so the other prompt currently sitting in my inbox will have to wait until post-sleep (and probably post-more uni work), but feel free to send more in!

(Uni is... not going down without a fight but I have got my lecturers on my side so it’s not quite as terrifying as it was the other day.  Still got a heck of a lot of work to do, but hopefully it’s survivable now.)

Lightheaded/Fainting Prompts (I know it says ‘starters’ but I figure as long as the line’s in there somewhere it counts).  Or honestly any other prompt games I’ve reblogged are fine, too, just make sure to tell me which one it’s from!)

Scott glowered down at his phone, where his message was stubbornly remaining as sent.  Ideally, he wanted a reply, but it had been five minutes and it still wasn’t even showing as read.

People were sending him disapproving looks, no doubt seeing a stranger with a backpack lurking outside a door and drawing their own conclusions the longer he remained slouched against the wall.  Apparently even in England, people didn’t take too kindly to loitering, and Scott would appreciate it if his brother would hurry up and let him in.

Maybe for some people, five minutes was too soon to be getting cranky, let alone worried, and any of his other brothers, in any other situation, Scott wouldn’t expect an instantaneous reply, but it was John, at midnight.  He should be wired into whatever technology he was playing and receiving messages instantly - especially as Scott should be expected.

The journey had been a long one, jet lag was hammering hard, and he just wanted to greet his brother, catch up for a bit, and then crash out on the couch.  It had been too long since he’d last seen him - why John had decided to go to college in England, Scott had no idea.

Seven minutes, and still no answer.  No little icon assuring him John had even seen it, even though John had known exactly what flight he was on and had been the one to tell Scott how long the taxi would take from the airport.  Scott had fully expected his younger brother to open the door just as the taxi pulled to a halt.

The fact that he was still standing outside, seven minutes later - and midnight in Oxford was not warm - had Scott one part annoyed to three parts worried.

The looks were getting dirtier.  He was surprised no-one had confronted him yet, and hoped that didn’t mean they’d decided against talking and skipped straight to calling the police.

“C’mon, John,” he muttered.  “What’s taking you so long?”

Looking up from his phone again - nine minutes - he caught sight of a pair staggering their way in his direction.  One was ginger, and he straightened, more than a little disbelieving when his younger brother staggered right past him without looking and pawed at the door ineffectually.

“Honestly, John,” the girl he was with - petite, blond, and in high heels that made Scott’s feet ache just to look at (his younger brothers didn’t know about his time in high heels and it was staying that way) - sighed, although the giggle that followed it ruined whatever gravitas she was trying to exude.

There were many things wrong with the sight, from John being not inside, to John looking like he’d been at a nightclub, to John apparently bringing a girl home, but the thoughts all temporarily abandoned his head as John swayed just a little bit more.

“I think I drank too much,” his brother commented, in that sort of detached fashion Scott recognised from his own nightclub experiences, and ignoring the girl, he lunged forward just in time to catch John as he crumpled.

This wasn’t the greeting he’d been expecting.

Nor was the stiletto kick to his chest, winding him and almost making him drop his brother.  It was fortunate his first instinct was always to hold on tighter, otherwise John would probably have just gained a concussion to go with the hell of a hangover he was going to be facing in a few hours.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the girl demanded, drawing herself up to her full height - and even in those dagger stilettos, still failing to reach Scott’s chin.  “Unhand him at once, or I’ll call the police.”

Scott was tired, grumpy, and had no patience for irritating girls trying to get in with his not interested younger brother.  He straightened, hefting John into his arms - he might be tall, but John had never been a challenge to lift on the rare occasion Scott had carried him - and made a show of looking down at the small female.

“And I suppose you were planning on carrying him inside?” he challenged, shifting John’s weight until he could slip two fingers into his pocket and extract his door key.

John always kept his key in the same pocket.  Scott was glad that hadn’t changed.

“And now you’re trespassing,” she huffed as he fumbled the door open.  “No-one invited you in.  Leave, before I call the police.”

“Actually, I was invited,” Scott snapped, stepping through the door.  “You, on the other hand, are not welcome.  Go home.”

He kicked the door shut with his heel, knowing Grandma - and probably John, in the morning - would be furious with him for leaving her outside by herself at midnight, but not finding it in himself to care right then.

The apartment wasn’t large, just a kitchen with a sofa and a door that Scott determined had to lead to the bedroom and en suite, which meant he heard the front door open again as he shouldered his way into the bedroom.

“Who are you?” the girl demanded.  Scott ignored her as he settled his brother on the bed - planets and stars embellishing the otherwise plain navy comforter.  “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Scott pulled his brother’s sneakers off and set them down on the floor, making a mental note to find where John kept his shoes and put them away properly before his occasionally-clumsy brother tripped over them later.

“Why are you in his apartment?” he asked, kicking off his own shoes and letting his backpack fall onto the floor before pulling himself up onto the bed.  John could sleep in his clothes just fine, but that coat and jumper had to come off before he overheated.

“Are you stripping him?” she shrieked.  “That’s it; I’m calling the police.”

...Okay, Scott could see why it might look bad if she didn’t know who he was.

“Look, miss,” he started.

“Your ladyship,” she interrupted.

“Uh, what?”

“It’s your ladyship,” she said.  “Not miss.  I am Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, and I insist you tell me who you are and why you’re manhandling my friend.”

“John has friends?”  John did intellectual peers, but he’d never cared for friends, mostly because he found it tiring when people couldn’t keep up with him - or tried to force him into socialising, which Scott was starting to suspect this girl, Lady, whatever, had done tonight.  His friends were computers.

“Of course he does, you pervert,” she snapped back.  “Now answer my questions, and if I don’t like the answers, I’m calling the police.”

“Perv-”  Scott interrupted himself with a sigh.  “I take it John didn’t bother to tell you I was coming to visit for the week?”

“Your name,” she insisted, and he rolled his eyes.

“Scott Tracy.  I’m his brother, so if you could stop the ridiculous accusations that would be great, thank you very much.”

“You don’t look related.”

Oh, for-

“You should see the rest of them.”  John shifted against his chest in a quickly-aborted attempt to sit up.  Scott tightened his grip.  “Scott, Lady P.  You won’t get rid of her.  Trust me.  Lady P., my big brother, Scott.  You won’t get rid of him.  Trust me.”

“John-”

“So stop arguing and let me sleep.  My head kills.  Penny, why did you let me drink so much?”

“I was curious what you’d be like drunk,” she answered, completely unapologetic.  “You didn’t tell me your brother was coming.”  She paused.  “Why didn’t you tell me when I came to get you earlier?”

“You’d have accused me of lying to get out of going,” John muttered.  “Sorry, Scott.  Thought I’d be back before you turned up.  Wasn’t expecting to drink so much...”  He trailed off with a yawn, and Scott helped him lie back down.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said - not strictly true, but as far as reunions went it was already terrible.  He had no intentions of worsening it with an argument.  “Get some sleep.  I’ll find you something for the hangover in the morning.”

John was asleep again before he’d finished talking, and with a fond smile, Scott slipped off the bed and pulled the covers loosely over him.

Then, he eyed the blonde in front of him.  John didn’t like socialising, and yet she’d dragged him out regardless - and apparently never took no for an answer.

Scott did not like the implications of that.

“We need to talk,” he said, quietly enough not to wake John, but seriously nonetheless.  Blue eyes flicked from him to John and then back again.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “I suppose we do.”

[kittybellestark]

This is kinda an endgame fix-it of sorts. Tony is alive.

After the snap Peter and May were poor.

They were lucky to get an apartment with two bedrooms. They really were. And it was still in queens which was nice. But they were starting from scratch.

The government was useless. Well, maybe not useless, they were doing they’re best with the missing people from five years ago suddenly return. They had to deal with all of the deaths caused by the return, as well as all the now displaced people. Undoing the death certificates, finding any missing people. The government was doing a lot.

But it didn’t feel like it. Those who were snapped out of existence didn’t have their savings anymore. Or their jobs. They were entitled to ‘financial compensation,’ but that could take years to get, and would probably end up costing more then they’d get.

So, May and Peter were currently poor. And while their apartment seemed nice enough, it was pretty run down. They were lucky that Pepper had lent them one of the Stark’s many homes in New York until they found a place for as long as she did. With Tony having been in a coma for as long as he had been, and is still dealing with recovery, it felt wrong to intrude in such a way.

They’re new apartment has already been broken into twice. And May and Peter were currently sharing a cellphone where they bought minutes as they needed. May was finding small jobs here and there that was enough to cover the bills. And Peter was chipping in where he could.

Then the ceiling in May’s bedroom started to collapse. And while typically this would be the part that Tony would swoop in and save the day, May and Peter currently had no way to reach of to him, and Tony was still deep into recovery, still not permitted to even stand on his own.

Peter and May started putting money aside where they could to get the ceiling fixed. It was April and school had been cancelled until at least September to deal with the influx of students. So Peter got a full time job as a bartender while he isn’t actually old enough to serve or drink his ID is technically doesn’t say he’s too young either. And May finally found a full time position working for a non-profit that pays well enough to help relocate people after the snap.

May’s mattress is brought over to Peter’s room, (because the living room is too small and doesn’t have a couch yet, only too foldable chair and a little table in between) and they become roommates.

After 3 months they still don’t have enough money to fix the ceiling and Peter is feeling antsy.

May likes to sleep with the lights off, and Peter doesn’t want to tell her that the dark makes him think about the battle, or space, or the time he crashed an airplane, or when he was trapped under a building.

May goes to bed early because she has to wake up early, which means that Peter doesn’t get to be alone very often.

Peter misses having privacy.

He misses getting changed in his bedroom.

And crying without worrying about waking up the person a few feet away.

He misses having a place solely his own.

Peter understands why this is happening. He gets it. He knows they’re poor right now. Peter knows that they can’t afford to fix the ceiling. And he feels guilty. And selfish for wanting a place of his own.

He feels so selfish when he looks down at the pizza him and May just ate -because they were both over tired and their stove broke- and sees it as a luxury. Sees the money that could have gone to giving him his room back. He feels selfish for putting money on their shared cellphone so that he can check the internet to see if Ned or MJ were also snapped. To see if the news knows about Tony’s recovery.

Peter feels guiltly and horrible for just wanting to be alone for longer than a shower. He just wants to be able to be alone.

When Happy spots Peter when he’s walking home from work at 3am, Peter feels guilty for taking the offer for the ride home. He’s wasting Happy’s money. He’s wasting Pepper’s and Tony’s money. He feels like a burden.

“How come you haven’t come round to visit boss yet? I thought you too were close.”

Happy doesn’t want to say that he misses the kid. Doesn’t want to tell Peter he’s concerned over the hallowed cheeks and sunken eyes. He wants to see if Peter is okay, but without the kid feeling like he’s put on the spot.

“Don’t know where he is.” Peter responds simply with a shrug.

The way Peter slurs his words slightly along with the raggedy look of the kid are some massive red flags for Happy. Peter isn’t going off on some tangent about anything and it isn’t right.

“If you called I could have given you a ride.” Happy tries to sound nonchalant, looking at Peter in the rear view mirror, the kid doesn’t even perk up.

“Gotta have a phone for that, Happy. And your phone number.”

Happy pulls over to where the Parker’s used to live. Where things were good and happy and there was no snap. And there was no missing out on five years of life or sharing a bedroom, it was just another day.

“You guys still live here?” Happy asks, hoping for something to turn the conversation around, hoping for something, anything.

“No, but I can walk the rest of the way, it’s no big deal.”

“Not happening.”

Happy pulls back out onto the road taking Peter out of Queens to visit Tony and Pepper and Morgan. Hopefully that’ll cheer the kid up. Morgan is the cutest kid, so it’s impossible to be upset by her. And now that Tony is doing better it’s bound to have Peter rambling in no time.

“Happy, Happy, what are you doing? You need to pull over. C’mon man, not cool. I gotta work tomorrow. Let me out!” Peter tried the open the doors to no avail not thinking to unlock it.

“Peter I’m just taking you to the Lakehouse, just for a night.”

“I have to work tomorrow Happy, I can’t not go. Just let me out.”

Peter felt desperate, and selfish. Tears were in his eyes and he was seconds away from crying. He couldn’t miss work. Couldn’t miss out on the money that went towards his privacy. Towards having his room back. 

As Happy turned to pull into the driveway for the Lakehouse it was turning to 4am and the kitchen light was on. Peter felt the tears escape and he couldn’t call May, or his job and they needed the money.

“Happy, please.” Peter tried again.

Happy and Peter both got out the car, Peter trudging behind, dreading the idea of intruding on someone else. He didn’t want to be there and he was sure he wasn’t wanted.

They both walked in, gathering the attention of Pepper, who was making food in her pajamas. Pepper looked up and smiled at Happy, not seeing Peter who has hidden himself behind Happy. 

“Look at who I found wandering through the streets of Queens.” Happy pulled Peter out from behind himself to show off the boy to Pepper.

“Wandering through the streets? Peter, honey I know you’re enhanced but it’s not safe to be walking through Queens in the middle of the night.” 

Pepper moved and gave Peter a hug, surprised at how skinny he way. He wore enough layers that it wasn’t that obvious in any place other than his face, but when she squeezed him. All there was, was bones.

Peter didn’t respond verbally, only a slight shrug, and that was so out of character for him it nearly had Pepper reeling.

“Let me make you some breakfast.” Pepper nodded to herself before moving back into the kitchen to make Peter some food too.

“I really shouldn’t be staying long.” Peter broke the silence finally when Pepper got him to sit with food infront of him.

“You just got here, honey, there’s no rush. We missed you.”

Peter doesn’t really believe her.

“I have to go to work. I can’t miss work.”

Pepper gives Peter a look. A look that he’s received multiple times from May, the look a parent gives when they’re trying to figure out if their child is lying. It’s the squinting eyes and the frown, with the one corner of the mouth turned up.

“I’m sure you can take the day off.” Pepper’s tone has an air of finality to it. “We’ll get May here tomorrow. It’s been too long since we’ve last seen you guys.”

Peter shrugged, feeling tired and defeated. Fighting Pepper is a battle Peter doesn’t ever want to take up. Sometimes you just need to accept your losses. This is one of those times.

“Can I use your phone to call in then? I’m supposed to work at noon.” 

Peter held onto his head with both of his hands, already coming up with an excuse to why he can’t come in.

“Didn’t you just finish your shift? Why would you work at noon.” Happy snorted, clearly not believing Peter having a job.

“It’s called working a double. My shifts are 12pm-2am. Now could I please call in?”

“I’ll call for you honey, where do you work?” 

Ah, shit. This wasn’t a turn that Peter was expecting. He didn’t think that he would have to tell Pepper where he’d work. 

“Death & Company.”

“Excuse you?”

“I work at Death & Company. That speakeasy styled bar where we all wear bowties and suspenders. It’s pretty rich people stuff, I’m sure you heard of it Pepper.”

“Peter, impossible. You’re sixteen, they wouldn’t hire a minor.”

“Except the fact that my ID say’s I’m 21. I just happen to be the type of guy that they like to hire. Also the tips are really good.”

“You can’t work there. I won’t allow it. I’m sure May and Tony would agree with me.”

Peter groaned, dropping his head onto the table. He didn’t want to do this. He was tired and missed having privacy and he was doing something good. Sure, maybe he got the job for selfish reasons. And maybe he’d stay a little later most shifts and have a drink or two with his coworkers. It’s not like it’s illegal anymore. Might as well reap the benefits of being a legal adult while still 16. 

“May actually knows where I work and is grateful that I’m helping out while not in school. Four months ago it would have been a problem, or I guess five years ago, but now we need the extra cash. Besides, you don’t own me, I’m not your child, I’m technically a legal adult and therefore can work at a bar. The last time either May or I have spoken to you was right after the snap, and the last time I talked to Tony was during the battle.  You didn’t give us anyway to contact you, and the only reason I’m here is because Happy brought me here even though I asked to be dropped at home. You can’t just decide to show up in my life now and tell me what I can and can’t do. You haven’t been here and you don’t get to choose to be here for me now.”

“Peter, I’m so sorry that we’ve ignored you, but there’s been a lot going on, we’ve just got Tony back home and he’s able to do things again, and there’s Morgan and the company too. It’s been a lot.”

Peter felt tears in his eyes. He didn’t like doing this. He didn’t want to, but he might still be a little drunk. It’s been exhausting and he hasn’t gotten to talk about it with anyone, and now Pepper is here and it’s convenient.

“We’ve been threatened with homelessness multiple times, we’ve been robbed twice, our roof has caved in, we have one phone where we buy minutes when we need it, we don’t have hot water, our appliances barely work, May is working two jobs that don’t pay anywhere’s near as much as her old one and I’m working as well and sometimes we have to choose which utilities are more important to us. May had to talk a week off of work last month because she got the flu, knocked her down pretty good. I wanted her to go to the hospital because her fever hit 105 degrees, we couldn’t really afford it before everything either, but it would have been doable. Now she didn’t want to be brought to the hospital because it’d be cheaper for her to die and wouldn’t lead to me being homeless. We had our electricity and water shut down for a little while because of that.” Peter took in a big breath, trying to reign in his frustration, trying not to take it out on Pepper. “I understand that you’ve been through a lot these last few months, years even, but so have I. It isn’t your fault, but you’ve also not been there, so please don’t try to force yourself into a situation you will never understand. I need my job. May needs me to have my job. This isn’t about what you or Tony want, it isn’t about what you do and don’t like. It’s about what May and I need. And that happens to be me working at a bar for the unforeseeable future.”

The two sat in silence, and Happy backed his way out of the kitchen. It was clear that Pepper was processing Peter’s words. It was a lot. He couldn’t blame her for that. Or for her not being there. It happens. Life gets in the way.

“Okay. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry Peter. I’ll call them for you. Just the one day, and then you can go back to work if you’d like. For now why don’t you go to bed sleep a little bit. Then you can see Tony and meet Morgan.”

‘Meet Morgan.’ Because Peter hasn’t done that yet. Because Peter hasn’t been important enough to meet her before. Or important enough to see Tony. Maybe Peter just isn’t important. He’s an intern. Just an intern. Always will be an intern.

“Sure, tha-that’s fine.”

“Okay, you can take the first bedroom on the left. On this floor.”

Peter nodded with a mumbled thanks, moving out of his spot and to guest bedroom. When he entered the room it was obvious it was made for visitors. There wasn’t anything personal in there. Queen size bed, white comforter, white pillows with a colourful quilt. A tall dresser and desk, an ensuite bathroom and walk-in closet. 

It was too much. Way too much. It’s probably a memory foam mattress. He doesn’t deserve this. He wanted privacy, not to abandon May in a time of need. Peter just wanted his room back, not to be sicced on Pepper or Tony when they’re also in a time of need. All he needed was his creaky twin size mattress on his nearly okay bed frame, in his dingy bedroom that totally didn’t have mold or mice. All he needed was to be able to go to his own bedroom at night and be alone, not in this knock-off hotel room. 

May deserved it. Not him. May deserved better than him. Better than what she got. 

“I need another drink.” Peter groaned, closing the door behind him and through the room. He opened the window, throwing himself and his bag outside. 

The fresh air coming off the lake helped calm Peter’s nerves. The sun rose in colours of pink and orange and red. There were still stars in the sky and the moon too. 

Peter found himself being drawn to the docks. He sat down at the edge, pulling out a bottle of whiskey. The bottle was still mostly full, so he took a swig hoping for it to solve any problems. Of course it didn’t. It never could, why would it start now? Just because Peter was seated on the Stark’s dock, using up valuable resources, money and space didn’t mean that anything would be solved. It just meant that the sinking feeling in his stomach grew heavier and heavier. 

He should be at home. Dreading work, but grateful for the extra money. He should be in his shared bedroom with May. He should be doing more. May should be the one swept off her feet and given a day off. Why should he have anything good? Why should he be sitting here, privileged, when others are struggling much worse than he is.

He takes another swig.

It doesn’t burn anymore. Not like it used to. 

“You know, Whiskey was the first drink I ever had. Mind you, I was six years old and told I needed to drink it to show how grown up I was. I’m sure there’s a different reason as to why you’re drinking.”

Tony’s voice shock’s Peter’s system. There’s electric currents and his vision whites out for a second, he nearly drops his bottle. Peter can’t stop himself to turn around, finding Tony standing there, keeping himself up with a cane, his right arm a prosthesis, and healing burns up his face. Tony has a sad smile on his face as he carefully maneuvers himself to sit down next to Peter.

“I know that look.” Peter says carefully. “It’s not your fault.”

“Peter, you’re drinking.” Tony huffs, pulling the bottle from Peter’s hand.

“Don’t put this on yourself. It’s not like I drink all the time. Only after my shift sometimes. I’m legal, technically, and it’s not hurting anyone. Controlled environment with other adults. The whiskey was a gift from the owners because I bring in the most customers.”

Peter laughed, it was a heartbroken, self-deprecating laugh. The tips of his ears were red, and Tony noticed how Peter’s eyes were bloodshot and filled with tears. Tony was surprised to see that Peter was also skinnier, his cheekbones and jaw more prominent, his collarbone popping more and his spine visible through the sweater. 

“So then why?” Tony asked, testing the waters a little bit. 

This was the first conversation he was having with Peter after five years. Their first conversation and it isn’t one of happiness. Tony finally gets to talk to his kid and he’s scarred he’ll push Peter into closing off. 

Peter considers his answer. “Well I’d rather be dead and I can’t do that to May because that’s selfish of me. And I don’t have any privacy and we can hardly pay any bills. I don’t even know if Ned or MJ were snapped or finishing college. It’s been five years and I don’t really fit anymore. I just feel so selfish for wanting my own bedroom.”

Tony felt like an asshole. Of course Peter would be struggling with adjusting to a new world. He should of reached out sooner, though Tony wasn’t very lucid these last few months, finally weened completely off the pain medication this week. 

“Can I hug you, kid?” 

Peter nods, sobbing once he’s held in Tony’s arms. Tony rubs Peter’s back hoping to bring any comfort to the kid. Being alive for the last five years has been hard, trying to mourn the loss of half the world, move on from what once was, and then try and reverse everything to bring back Peter.

“Ned and MJ were both snapped as well. It was one of the first things I checked when I made it back. And I don’t know how much it helps but I literally invented time travel to bring you back, not for the greater good, but because I’m a selfish man who wanted my kid back. I know that there is no excuse for why I’ve not been there since you came back but I’m here for you now and whenever you need me in the future. I’ll put my number and Pepper’s and Happy’s and Rhodey’s number into your phone so you can call any of us whenever you need.”

Carding his fingers through Peter’s hair helped soothe Tony and he hoped it would also soothe Peter. Having a crying boy in his arms made him more like a failure than he already thought himself to be.

“I don’t have my own phone. May and I share, and we hardly ever have enough minutes. I wouldn’t deserve it anyways.”

“No, no, Kid you deserve it so much more than anyone else, and you deserve everything good. You’ll have a phone by the end of the day, with so many minutes you wouldn’t know what to do with any of it. Whatever you need, I’ll get it for you, but I need you to promise that you’ll only drink on special occasions or parties and not when your sad, or angry, or upset in anyway.”

Peter sobbed, his whole body shaking in Tony’s arms, he tries nodding, though the way that his body is shaking it made it hard to decipher, but Tony knew, he always knew.

“I don’t know why I thought things would be like normal. It didn’t really click that it’s been five years, but then it really was, and May and I don’t have anything and I went to space and died then came back to life and was thrown into a war. I can’t even sleep anymore, especially not in the dark. I don’t know why I thought things would be the same. Everyone moved on, the world moved on. There’s no room for me anymore.” 

“Okay, okay, Underoo’s. It’s okay, I know it’s hard and what you’re feeling I’m sure a billion others are feeling too, and that doesn’t make you any less deserving of your feelings. We’re going to find a place for you in this new world. We’re going to help you the best we can. You’re my kid too, and I’m so sorry I haven’t been there for you, but we’ll do this together, however you want to. You get to call the shots here. You have a room here for as long as you want it and forever after that, we’ll get you and May set up wherever needed. I love you, Pete.”

For the first time in a while Peter feels like things will be okay. He’s here with Tony and the world isn’t ending, and he has a room and someone who can tell him that it’s okay. He’s not happy, but he’ll get there.

[gaiatheorist]

Sexual Harassment.

(The Cheryl Yeoh/Dave McClure news article. I haven’t been sexually harassed. Not recently, anyway.)

Hers is the classic ‘creepy boss’ story, the abuse of power, by a person in a position of authority propositioning a person lower down the chain for sexual favours, a sleazy-inflated version of James Bond winking at Miss Moneypenny. We’ve come a long way as a society since Roger Moore’s horrible sports-jacket, but that particular behaviour is taking its time dying out. (I was in my last job for 14 years, and there was no sexual harassment, a combination of everybody behaving themselves, and my ‘do not touch’ persona being fully embedded.) At the age of 26, when ‘most’ women are probably still scouting for ‘the one’, I’d taught myself to project-untouchable.

This one is getting tangled already, for probably 10 of those 14 years, I had a silver band on my third-left finger, the symbol of unavailability, that I ‘belonged’ to the ex. (Who never wore a wedding ring, I bought him 3 over the 20 years we were together, and he lost all 3. As well as losing wedding rings, he also liked me to dress like a whore, so he could show off what ‘belonged’ to him. Some of his acquaintances were not respectful of my personal boundaries, and the display-behaviour seemed to over-ride the old slave-ring.) Part of my projecting-untouchable came about due to the nature of some of the scumbags the ex associated with, grown men, not the malleable boys I’d been used to in school and sixth form, who knew not to touch me because of that rumour that I was mad. (Started, predictably, by a boy who’d tried to touch me, and, in the confusion of me saying ‘No.’, he told enough people that I ‘Ate pins’ for it to become a school-truth. Disclaimer, I never ate pins, that WOULD be mad.)  

Before the slave-ring, the rumour that I was mad worked relatively well, and, within school, and sixth form, there wasn’t much of a power-imbalance, we were relatively ‘level’. Not entirely, because I was peripheral to the popular cliques, so occasionally a popular boy would assume his ‘status’ meant I wouldn’t say no. School-truth evolved into me being a mad lesbian, because I did say no. I would have been 17 the first time I experienced ‘real’ sexual harassment, working part-time as a waitress during my A-Levels. There was a weird dynamic between the male manager, and some of the young female waitresses, I was never particularly wary of him, because I was used to the ‘mad lesbian’ protective mechanism, and because I thought that the other girls were much more aesthetically pleasing than me. 

One evening, at the end of my shift, I’d changed out of my uniform in the disabled toilet, I was going out to one of the sticky-floored nightclubs that the sixth form periodically descended upon, queuing around the block, and trying to fit those of us who did have ID in amongst those who didn’t. Black jeans, and a button-up top, that I hadn’t buttoned all the way to the top, because sometimes a Wonder-bra was as good as ID. (The bouncers VERY often searched me, especially if I was in a skirt, the perverts.) The manager knew I was in there, and he locked the exit-door to the restaurant. There was no procedural reason to lock the exit, if he was ‘locking up’, he’d have locked the door from the outside as he left. (One of the female managers accidentally locked me in there once, in the days before mobile phones.) 17 year old girl, adult male, locked in a building.

“Oh, I didn’t realise you were still in there.” (You did, that’s why you locked the door from the inside.)

“I was just getting changed, I’m going out.” (Even then, “I’m going.”, not “Can you let me out?”, I’ve always had balls of steel, and I wasn’t going to ‘give’ him power.)

“Oh, wow, your boobs are amazing.” (What’s actually amazing is the trick I used to do with the Wonder-bra, a secret I will take with me to the grave.)

“Thanks. See you tomorrow.” I started to move towards the exit, and he moved to block my path. I was taller than him, not as tall as Alex, who I adored, because she once bit him really hard on the hand after he tried to grope her, his whiny-tantrum about his girlfriend seeing the bite-mark was legendary.

“Can I have a look?”

“No, you can’t.”

What followed was him repeatedly asking me to show him my breasts, and me repeatedly refusing. My 17-year-old head took great pride in having an adult male begging me to expose body-parts, but more pride in absolutely refusing. I thought, at that point, that I’d had the power, the control in that situation, in a strange way, I did, I’d never be as beautiful-bold as Alex, but I could continue to work there with him knowing I’d stand my ground, and he never ‘tried it on’ again.

The next series of instances, all lumped together in eight months worth of ‘expected’ harassment, avoiding lecherous-lunges, and politely declining offers from drunk men to walk me home. (Safety-mechanism, I used to stay behind, drinking after hours, usually until about 4am, how I actually passed my A-Levels is some kind of miracle.) I was 18, and I played on it, for tips and free drinks, thinking back, it’s a bit squirmy-icky, that I played on the ‘schoolgirl’ angle, I know better now, but, back then, I rocked the short skirt, and over-knee socks. It was ‘expected’ that the customers would try to ‘chat up’ the bar-maids, back in those days, there’d be two kinds of female bar-staff, the ‘landlady’, generally in possession of a face like a bag of spanners, and a “Just don’t.” attitude, and the ‘pretty’ ones. Struggling to accept that I was ‘pretty’, I’ll just accept that I didn’t look like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle. Between the regular bar-fights, the drugs-raids, and the mopping-up-puke, the other pretty/young barmaids never lasted very long, I lasted due to my balls-of-steel, and my mostly-saying-’No.’ (Mostly, there was a brief interlude of strategic-sex, which is how I came to be assistant manager of a nightclub at the age of 18. I don’t approve of the assumed-compliance from management, but, in that instance, I worked it in my favour.)

Next up, my first full-time job after finishing my A-Levels. One of the managers candidly advised me that having ‘that’ nightclub on my employment history was the main reason they’d chosen me. “If you’ve worked there, we know you won’t take any shit from the lads.” 1995, it was ‘accepted’, even then, that the ‘lads’ might try it on with me, as the only female employee in the company. The other manager was indirectly creepy, he didn’t try it on himself, but he made frequent suggestions that I ought to get together with the male office junior. I wasn’t interested, but his insidious insistence that I was fair game eventually rubbed off on the male colleague one afternoon. The two managers had left for the day, the junior was still more senior than me, he had the keys. He locked the two of us in my office, and asked me to kiss him.

“No, anyway, I’ve been smoking.” (That’s ‘No.’, with an excuse-opt-out built in for him, he didn’t smoke.)

“What do you want, a paper hat? Go on, give us a kiss.”

“No. I have a boyfriend.” (Who was, admittedly, a bit of a dick, and I already had my eyes on someone else. Not the man in front of me, though.)

“I won’t tell him. Go on, just one kiss.” (It’s rarely ever just one, but I was alone with this man, in a locked unit on an industrial estate, there were pens nearby that I could stab him with if the need arose. Nothing is ever ‘just’ with me, my risk-assessment mechanism is in permanent over-drive.)

“One kiss, and one only.” (Establishing control, and potentially developing the skeleton of an excuse to dump the then-boyfriend.) I kissed him, once, and he let me out, he was a little bit older than me, taller, and heavier, it was a calculated risk, screaming would have done no good, because the industrial estate was mostly-empty. He didn’t try it again, but the sleazy-manager subsequently locked the two of us in my office one day ‘for a laugh’. I left without notice or reference.

Back then, in 1995, it was accepted, although not acceptable, that certain types of male would try it on with females they saw as vulnerable, due to power-imbalance. We said ‘No.’, and I’ve more than one experience of grabbing a gropey-hand VERY hard by the wrist, and saying “I think you’ll find that’s mine.”, with regard to whichever part of my body meander-hands had landed on. It’s not accepted any more, and that’s right and proper, but comes with its own issues. For the females (I’m sure males are vulnerable to harassment as well, but my perspective is from the female angle) we’re aware of being at-risk, being vulnerable, and it’s our job to mitigate against that as far as is possible. We’re trained, from an early age, not to place ourselves at risk, the established-order isn’t changing, we just have to adapt to it, it’s the ‘dining alone’ thing, multiplied by a million, in instances where there’s a power imbalance. 

‘Not joining in’ was my primary strategy, and colleagues would be exasperated by my refusal to socialise outside working hours. Some dealt with it better than others, but, after the legendary “And don’t get shagging anyone behind skips this time!”, which wasn’t directed at me, and all of the gossip-fests after work-social events, it was easier-not-to. The ex’s insecurity played into it, he didn’t like to ‘let me out’, he knew he couldn’t physically stop me, but he employed a variety of emotional-control tactics, including complaining about his inability to ‘babysit’ his own son. He was old-school, raised under the impression that women did as they were told. Some might.

‘Not dressing up’ was another one, the ex liked to display me, but then threw tantrums when his mates, or random-others took an interest, not linking the fact that he wanted me to dress like a whore with others assuming I was one. Almost all of my clothes are for practicality, rather than presentation purposes, I’m usually covered-up, to minimise the risk of someone assuming that visible means available. It doesn’t. I’m deliberately not applying for jobs that include customer-facing, because I don’t want the expectation that I’ll wear high heels, and lipstick, I’m perfectly productive without having to ‘dress up’, thank you very much.

I suppose that now, at 40, I’m too ‘old’ to be targeted by the exact-same cohort that plagued my youth. I’ve sailed through my ballsy-bolshy years with very little notable interference. Flipping that out, I suppose I’m differently-vulnerable now, what with the world-in-general assuming that heteronormative co-dependency is the ‘only’ model of normality. “Are you seeing anyone?” “Are you looking?” “Are you bringing anyone with you?” It’s surprising how often I’m asked questions of that nature, the assumption that I can’t be ‘happy’ on my own is offensive, I was profoundly unhappy when I was married. Other-people’s fear of me being ‘left on the shelf’ opens up the worrying prospect that they’ll continue to project perceived-vulnerability onto me. (That’s easily dealt with, I just don’t engage with most people.) I navigated through my teens, twenties, and thirties projecting my balls-of-steel persona, I’m now slightly concerned that being single-and-40 (we’ll leave the disability bit out, that’s just a thing-that-happened) will give some people the idea that I’m anything-will-do desperate enough to acquiesce to advances. I’m not, I’ll continue keeping myself to myself, projecting-untouchable, and being vaguely scary, it’s worked so far.