#for some extra pharmacy humor!

[night-the-starfish]

This effect was surprisingly hard to do!

[angelsanarchy]

Glass Houses: Jack Thurlow x Y/N Series CH 16 -> CH 17

Tagging: @roryculkinluvr @thatsthewrongwallcraig @icarus-star @cc-luvr @madamemaximoff06 @shady-the-simp @quicksilversg1rl @s-0lar @kristennero-wallacewellsver @ophelialaufey @mayathepsychic1999 @x-prettyboy-x @rorylover71

Jack knew he had to come clean to Dr. Carty about what he did the other night. He was surprisingly not as pissed as he would have expected.

"Jack, if your side effects were this bad then you should have told me. I will send a few new prescriptions to the pharmacy but I want you to start making notes of the side effects every day. We have to figure out a better way for you to get the things you need without wrecking your system." Dr. Carty pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You're lucky she checked on you when she did. You could have died." He scolded softly and Jack nodded his head.

"I know. I guess if I'm going to have a guardian angel, it's probably a good thing she's a nurse that lives next door." Jack could see that Dr. Carty wasn't impressed with the humor.

"You should consider adding her as an emergency contact in the event you decide you want to get a little fast and loose with your medications again." He peered over his glasses and Jack scrunched his face.

"I don't think we're there just yet." Jack didn't want to burden Y/n with so much of his shit so soon. He wanted to build up a connection before she had to be a part of all his demons.

They talked for almost an extra hour, discussing new medications, what they're supposed to do and some of the side effects. Jack made sure to make a list to ask Y/n about the next time he saw her which turned out to be at around 9:30 that night. He saw her taking her evening walk as he sat on the porch reading through googles best medication side effects. He sat the computer down and jogged towards her.

"Hey!" She jumped making him laugh.

"Sorry, you scared me." She pulled her headphones out and pocketed them as he started walking next to her.

"You're looking a lot better. How are you feeling?" Y/n she asked as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I'm feeling a lot better thanks to you. I just wanted to apologize again-"

"Jack please. I'm just glad I was able to get to you in time. I highly suggest switching to weed if you need something to knock you out but that's just my medical opinion." She smiled at him.

"I finally talked to my Doc about the medicine change. I made a list of all the ones he's changing up just in case you want to give an opinion on that too." Jack pulled the list out and she laughed.

"Are you comfortable sharing that with me? I mean you can just tell me about the side effects when they hit. You don't have to-"

"I trust you." Jack pressed and she took the slip of paper. She nodded at the names and handed it back to him.

"These are some good alternatives. I would keep an eye out for dry mouth with this one. They make tabs to put under your tongue if it gets too annoying." Jack smiled at the recommendation.

"Who takes care of you if you're taking care of everyone else?" Jack asked curiously.

"Oh I've taken care of myself since I was young. I don't require a lot of care anyway. You'll be shocked to hear I am insanely boring." She lowered her voice.

"I don't believe that for one second. I'm sure you've got a wild night life that no one knows about. Maybe a secret second job at a club where you can dance in scantly clad clothes to get your kicks." Jack teased.

"So you think I'm a nurse by day and a stripper by night?" She laughed.

"I barely have enough energy to wash my hair let alone change out of scrubs to find some upper body to swing around a pole. Plus I have terrible knees." Jack laughed as she tried to show off a squat and winced.

"Okay so no secret double life. How about hobbies? What do you like to do when you aren't working or taking care of your mom and crazy neighbor?" Jack watched her take a moment to actually think about it.

"I like to read. I like to build things with my hands. I love to paint." Jack let out a belly laugh.

"Well shit why didn't you say that? I have tons of house that needs painting!" Jack gestured over his shoulder towards the house and she shook her head at him.

"I like landscape painting, not free manual labor." She pointed out.

"Maybe you could do a painting for me? My dad was an artist. He has this drawing of the house that kind of got wrecked during the clean out. I would love to get it redone. I'll even pay you for it." Jack offered.

"You don't have to pay me. I'm not an artist. I just like to paint." She blushed. This was kind of the first time Jack had seen a more vulnerable side of Y/n. She always seemed confident in how she presented herself. As a nurse, as a daughter, as a care taker.

"What about you? I think you mentioned you like to write?" Y/n remembered.

"Yeah I'm working on a book about my life...kind of. Changing the names to protect the guilty I suppose." Jack rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

"I'm sure it'll be great. The horror stories of our lives always make for believable fiction. Most people don't think there are people who actually struggle as writers portray." She paused in front of the front gate and Jack stopped walking.

"Maybe...you could read some of what I have? Let me know how believable it is?" Jack asked nervously earning a sweet smile.

"I would love that, Jack." Jack now felt more anxious than before knowing she might hate his writing or his life story.

"I'm glad you're feeling better. Please call me if you start to feel your breathing getting weird. I'm still worried you're going to have after effects." Y/n touched his arm and he nodded.

"I'm feeling better, I promise but I will call you if anything feels off." Jack promised.

"You can call me too if you need anything...or you know, you just want to talk." Jack took a step further and Y/n laughed.

"You want to talk about all the neighborhood gossip? Did you see Sharon's new gardening outfit? Absolutely scandalous." She teased.

"If Sharon's the one with the red hair and huge tits then yes, absolutely scandalous." Jack's smirk made Y/n hit his chest with the back of her hand.

"Ew Jack! Stop jerking off to the neighbors!" She pushed her way through the gate and Jack threw his hands up.

"What!? You can't just expect me to not take advantage of free tits!? I'm a man!" He defended.

"Now you're hurting my feelings. I thought I was special." She put her hands over her heart.

"You are. You still hold the top spot of best tits in town." Jack admitted. Y/n smiled so brightly her cheeks were blushed as she shook her head.

"Goodnight Jack." She waved over her shoulder and Jack turned back to the road to walk himself home. He took a breath he didn't know he had been holding, worried things would have changed between them. He was ready to make a different kind of connection with Y/n. He just hoped she felt the same way.

[styx-n-stone]

long story long

Ok so

where was i college right

yeah, need to revisit that at some point. Switched majors a few times after baaaasically going into a depression. Then kinda dropped out to do some soul searching

but the family was going to Hawaii and needed extra income right? So I did some job hopping.

Briefly worked at a Christian warehouse

That was a bust fast. Didn’t even hear why I was fired.

probably was the dark humor dealing with coping mechanisms thing. Totally forgot that’s not a traditional Christian thing to do.

so I ended up working at a pharmacy basically under the agreement of “you wanna work? Just be available whenever and ready to learn on your feet”

so the first 6 months was hell

but… I’m stubborn and I want to go to hawaii

so I stay through the abuse and change to better management

turns out when you get a good boss life is a lot better

still tiring as hell tho.

even after Hawaii I’m still here. Even thinking about going into pharmacy school

uh what else

Met several best friends on discord.

Even met my current BF and GF.

Didn’t realize I was poly but ya know what? It’s kinda nice. Tricky cause we all are long distance but like, worth it. They’re great people.

Figuring out long term living arrangements is gonna be uh… interesting

and also my parents probably won’t like the poly or gf part. I mean they kinda.. uh.. guilt tripped me into ending that last one

(k if you’re seeing this I am so sorry that ended like that. I had like.. no balls at the time and needed a lot of personal growth. There were other reasons but like, you really didn’t deserve how it ended. That’s on me. I hope you’ve moved on.)

some trauma shit happened along the way, a lot of soul searching and growth

do you ever realize you were probably groomed via the Internet but only several years too late when your ability to tell what’s appropriate or not is fucked? That’s not fun. But very revealing

But uh

yeah that’s the tmi gist of everything. tldr: irl character development happened; weird.

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

Top 5 Reasons Lee was the Best

Lee Everett is one of my favorite playable protagonists in any game I’ve played. Weirdly enough, I feel like he is somehow super loved yet under appreciated?? because sure, everyone says that they love Lee and talk about how he was just the best but like.... most times, they rarely go into details of why they love him and think he’s the best. 

Well, with today’s list, I wanna go into details about why I think Lee was the best. I tried to stick to more non-determinant things, but plenty slipped through, soo... it’s fine. I just wanna talk about Lee and why I like him so much.  

Also just wanna say thanks to @pi-creates​ for helping me out with these Top 5′s once again! We discussed a lot of these points and it was a huge help! :D

5. Lee is just... so funny sometimes. 

Not gonna spend too much time on this one because it’s more of a minor reason why I think he’s the best compared to the others but...

Lee is hilarious.

Like, even from the beginning, Lee knows how to make me laugh with his little “I’d fill that teacup with some bourbon if I could” line, and the fact that he is constantly falling down. The poor guy has to have at least three concussions by the end of ep1 alone. 

Also, his flirting skills...? Amazing. I’ll never get over, “You’re small.” 

He just has such a strange sense of humor about him that feels very dad-like... which makes perfect sense, but y’know. But even when he isn’t even trying, he still manages to get a laugh outta me for being such a weirdo.

Who goes up to a fence, looks at it, and is just like, “Hmmmm. Pointy.” 

Even after he’s bit, he manages to get a few painful laughs outta me when talking with Ben... though that laughter quickly dies when we reach then end of ep5 but..... y’know. 

4. His willingness to help those who have wronged him. 

Larry is a garbage man-- I think the mass majority of us would agree to that. From the moment we meet him, he’s all huffy and puffy, accusing Duck of being bitten and wanting to throw him out while taunting Kenny. 

But, no matter what, Lee is always the one to help Lilly break into the pharmacy to get Larry his medication. Because really, Lee could’ve said “Nope, not doin’ any of this, someone else help the asshole,” but he doesn’t. 

This is just a bigger example of Lee going out of his way to help people, even if they shitheads like Larry. Hell, even after Lee gets them the pills, Larry gives him a big thank you by punching him in the face and leaving him for death. Lee can hold a grudge about this, or he can let it go and do his best to get along with Larry for the better of the group. 

Another example with trying to help Larry despite him being the worst is, of course-- the meat locker. Now, this is determinant, but I feel bringing it up is important. 

Lee choosing to help Larry, even though Larry was just taunting him minutes before and Kenny’s being a real shitbird, says a lot about him as a person. 

Another example of Lee willing to help others he may not get along with would be Kenny, depending on your choices. When Kenny’s going through the hardest day of his life, Lee can take it upon himself to take care of Duck and comfort Kenny. 

Shit, what about Lilly? After she kills Carley/Doug right in front of everyone, he can still take pity on her and not leave her at the side of the road. 

I think because I have a really hard time helping those who have wronged me, I can look at this as an admirable trait that I wish came easier to me, y’know? 

3. Mourning the deaths of people he barely knew/didn’t know at all. 

This is an interesting one that Pi brought up, but there are several points within S1 where Lee will take small moments to mourn the deaths of those he either barely knew, or didn’t know at all, showing he has it in him to be really empathetic to other people's struggles and sufferings. 

Like, think about the woman at the motor-inn, the one you can give the gun to. Lee will stay behind no matter what to be with her, and you can see it on his face. He didn’t know her, didn’t get her name or anything. 

In Jolene’s camp in ep2, when Lee looks into the tent, he can find a stuffed animal and a picture of Jolene and her daughter and again, you can see it all on his face. He gives a sigh, and a moment of silence for them. 

Oh, the woman that Kenny wants to leave alone while they’re on a run to the drug store? This one is determinant, but if Lee chooses to shoot her, he does so to put her out of her misery-- he doesn’t want her to suffer anymore than she has to just so that they can grab an extra candy bar or two. 

Another big one would be the boy in the attic. Y’know, that chilling scene of the boy who starved to death/died of dehydration, became a walker, and then couldn’t even walk because he was so weak? Yeah, that one-- Lee carries that boy out to the yard and gives him a proper burial. He didn’t have to, but he did. 

Hell, he even mourns Brie when talking to Vernon in ep4, and that Anna woman that you see on the tapes after it’s revealed that she’s pregnant and has to give up her baby. 

Oh, and Chuck in the sewers? That one you can’t skip, and no matter what, Lee will stop and tell Chuck that he deserved better. 

Last example, but the dead couple in ep5-- this is one that everyone stands around in silence because it really is a chilling sight. 

This to me just shows a lot about Lee, especially in a setting where it’s easy for these characters to gloss over the deaths of those they didn’t know or to let others hurt for their benefit [y’know... Kenny with the bitten woman]. I’m sure there are even more examples, but I do have three other things to cover.

2. Taking responsibility for Clementine.

Okay, these last two are to be expected, but we’re gonna talk about them anyway. 

Listen, when Lee found Clementine alone at her house after she saved him from walker Sandra, he didn’t have to take her with him. He could’ve left her behind so that she didn’t “weigh him down” or “become a burden” since y’know, having a child in your care isn’t easy. 

But Lee didn’t do that. She saved his life, and he knows her parents are dead and not coming back. There wasn’t even a doubt in his mind-- he was taking this girl with him to ensure her safety. If he hadn’t, she could’ve ended up just like the boy in the attic, or worse. 

I also love that moment when they’re leaving the house and Clementine takes his hand. It’s sweet and shows us that they’re in this together now, and when Clementine shares her fears of leaving, he reassures her that he won’t leave her alone. 

Lee does his absolute best to care for her and give her what she needs. Hell, you can play as Scumbag Lee and most times, that doesn’t even matter-- he still expresses his care for her. 

Like... I don’t think game would work if the relationship between Lee and Clementine didn’t work, y’know? It’s strong and one of my favorite parts of S1 when I go back to it. I love seeing them grow from Lee being Clementine’s protector to Lee teaching her to survive and protect herself. 

Again, he didn’t have to do any of that. He could’ve pawned her off onto to anyone at the motor inn and called it a day, but he didn’t, and I love that about him. 

Lee goes through so much for a child that isn’t even his blood, but considers family nonetheless... which brings us to #1... 

1. Saving Clementine from the Stranger despite being bitten by a walker. 

Sigh.

Okay. I’m sure you’re tired of me saying this but... after Clementine is kidnapped by the Stranger and bitten by a walker, he could’ve given up. He didn’t have to go after Clementine-- he’s bit, he’s dying... he’s not gonna survive this, so why bother?

Because even though Lee knows he’s not going to survive the bite, he’s going to use the last of his time and energy to ensure that Clementine is safe. He’s gonna do whatever it takes to get Clementine the away from that madman who took her, make sure she remembers everything he taught her, make sure she’s armed, and make sure she knows where to go after he dies. 

Again, Lee didn’t have to go through this. He fought like hell and suffered plenty in making it to her. His last moments were agony for him, I’m sure. 

But he did it and you can tell he has no regrets because Clementine’s alive and going to make it. 

And y’know... that last damn scene in ep5 is just... a lot. 

I love it but I also hate it, and I believe I’ve mentioned this before but I’ve come to really love the ending where Clementine leaves Lee to turn. I know everyone gets upset because that means Lee will become a walker and [?] Everyone HATED that... but, I dunno... it shows something about Lee when you pick that choice. He’s more concerned about her than himself, y’know? Don’t waste the bullet, don’t risk the noise, don’t force her to physically kill him, let her walk away so she can remember her for what he was and not what he’s going to turn into... it’s reeeeal bittersweet. 

Then, of course, you can do the other choice and have Clementine shoot Lee which is just as great at making me cry, soo... thanks. 

Lee just goes through so much during this game-- he gets a second chance and everything he did, he did to ensure Clementine and his group’s survival and just... what a man. 

Lee Everett, you are the best and I love you. 

---

Honorable Mentions

-Not dropping Ben. Again, determinant, but I love a Lee who doesn’t drop children to their death because the mustache said so.  -Struggles with doors. Relatable.  -Is voiced by Dave Fennoy who gives a fantastic performance.  -Awkward flirt. Again, relatable. 

---

So what do you think? Do you agree with these reasons, or do you have any to add? Lemme know, it’s always fun to have character discussions. 

Have any suggestions for future T5F’s? Feel free to send ‘em in! :D

Next week’s T5F Top 5 GOOD Things About Season Two

[justjessame]

Starting Over Chapter 39

I woke up wrapped in the security of Bucky’s arms - and wearing my nightclothes which I have to admit took a few extra beats to catch up to remembering the cause - but his lips were on mine and it didn’t matter why.  Nightclothes, late nights, even gunshot victims sleeping their pain meds off on our couch didn’t matter - not when Bucky was kissing me awake.  

“Brooke!,” the tiny voice that called my name had both mine and Bucky’s eyes snapping open and widening. “Buck kissed you up like Rora in Sleepin’ Beauty.” And then a round of toddler giggles that had both of us pulling away with what I had to think was a silent prayer of gratitude for our fucking nightclothes.  

There, with her tiny chin propped on Bucky’s side of our bed and her dark eyes staring up at us, was Bryn.  And now that we were WIDE awake, I could hear voices downstairs - and if I wasn’t completely fucking insane - I was hearing MORE than just Connie and Sharon’s.  

While I kept Bryn occupied, Bucky slid out of my side of the bed.  A three year old does NOT need to see what Bucky Barnes is packing early in the morning, trust me.  I pulled her up into the bed with me and grabbed the remote to the TV.

“What do you want to watch?”  After putting it on her favorite early morning cartoon, I settled back against the headboard and smiled when I realized that Byrn had compared Bucky to a prince.  “Bryn?”  She hummed and I slid my fingers through her loose curls.  “What’s the prince’s name in Sleeping Beauty?”

“Phillip.” It didn’t come from Bryn.  It came from the doorway and a very masculine voice.  I glanced over to where Bucky stood, fully dressed now and I grinned with a raised eyebrow.  “What? She told me while we were talking about her dolls and our tea party.”  

I nodded and he came over to join us.  “Did you do any recon?”  He snorted.  “What would you call it? Super sneaky Winter Soldier ninja snooping?”  

Shaking his head, he kissed me again.  “I did.”  He sighed.  “Sam, Chris, Carrie, Connie, and Sharon.”  I knew my eyes were wide enough to be in threat of falling out of my head, but for fuck’s sake.  “Come on, Bryn,” he held out his arms and she hopped up and jumped into them.  “Let’s go downstairs and see if we can get some breakfast ready for Brooke while she gets ready for the day.”  

I contemplated staying in bed.  Our house had been invaded - and while I’d sworn that I’d answer my phone and door, I hadn’t been given the OPTION of answering - they’d just barged right the fuck in.  Giving myself about five minutes to stew and wallow, I finally rolled out of bed and grabbed some clothes to toss on.  A stop in the bathroom to brush my hair and my teeth and then downstairs to meet the invaders.

They were in the kitchen - ALL of them.  Gathered around the table and island, watching as Bucky worked on another omelet - omelets I corrected as I came in and moved closer to him.  Sam was drinking coffee, and I almost asked where he’d gotten it since he was drinking out of one of my mugs, but then I noticed that someone had started up my parents’ coffee maker.  I hadn’t tossed it out, of course I also didn’t buy coffee for it - Connie shook her head and nodded toward the bags of groceries that she’d clearly put away before we woke up.

“Morning,” I greeted our guests, “everyone.” Started strong, but the landing left something to be desired.  “To what do we owe this -”

“Well,” Connie came over and wrapped her arm around my neck.  “I knew that you probably hadn’t had a chance to go shopping for groceries since you got back.” Whispering very quietly in my ear that she knew exactly WHY I hadn’t and she APPROVED of why.  “I thought I’d do a run while Bryn and I were out -”

“We saw how much she grabbed and -” Chris volunteered, grins growing.  Such good samaritans and great friends.   “We couldn’t let her struggle.  She had her own stuff, yours, AND Bryn.”  

Carried piped up, “we stopped by her house and dropped hers off first.  When we got here, Sam had just arrived.”  She was beaming - and why not?  She just met the new Captain America, after all.  

“Since I have a key for emergencies,” Connie finished the tale with a shrug.  

I nodded.  “You have a key for emergencies and groceries are an emergency.”  Bucky’s shoulders were shaking, and I knew he was enjoying this shit immensely.  “And letting Captain America in - I mean, I’m sure he made it sound like it was an emergency.”  

Sam was taking a drink when I said it and he snorted, spewing coffee just a bit.  “Don’t make it sound like I was being all sneaky or something, Brooke.” He sputtered.  

I raised an eyebrow and reached for one of my tea towels.  Tossing it to him, I waited while he cleaned up.  “It’s broad daylight, I highly doubt you were being sneaky, Sam.”  He nodded.  “So?” 

“So?”  Confusion glowed on his face. 

“The reason for your visit?”  

“Ah,” I shook my head as realization dawned on his face.  “Sarah -” shit the print, but he went on.  “She and I wanted to invite you and Bucky to a celebration back home.”  

They were planning on a huge party in Delacroix - and for good reason - hometown boy makes VERY good.  And now that they weren’t selling the boat, or house, I could see why they’d want to have a party. Bucky glanced at me over his shoulder, wanting my input on whether we should go or not, but in this instance the ball was in his court.  

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, plating our breakfast - for all eight of us - and lining them up on the island for us to carry into the dining room.  “We’ll drive down.”

“Drive?”  Sam was curious, carrying his plate and refilled cup of coffee into the dining room.  “Renting a car instead of flying?”  

We settled around the table and I shook my head when Bucky moved to sit at one of the sides.  “Head, Bucky.”  His eyes went wide, but I stood firm.  OUR house, and he was the man of it.  Everyone waited to tuck in until he sat, and then I took my seat.  “Yes, drive, Sam.”  I smiled across the table at Bucky, who was staring at me like he was amazed by me again.  “We like to take our time - Bucky and me.”  That got a few chuckles, but then everyone took a bite of their food and suddenly no one was laughing - because once again they were surprised by Bucky Barnes.  

Our guests didn’t stay too long.  Bryn understood that it wasn’t the day for our tea party, since she hadn’t brought along any princesses for it.  I watched as Bucky got down on his knee to have a long conversation with her - privately, they told the rest of us, and I smiled when she hugged him tight at the end of it.  

“I think Bucky has a fan,” Sam was beside me, watching Bryn with Bucky.  “Seeing him like this -”

I felt my smile growing. I loved hearing anyone’s tone change to reflect them seeing him in a new light.  “You think this is the Bucky that Steve knew, don’t you?”  He hummed an affirmative.  “It is,” I bit my lip as Buck turned, his gaze meeting mine.  “He’s always been there, Sam.  Just took him a little longer to surface than he expected.”  Bucky came closer to include me in Bryn’s goodbye hug, and got me to promise her that sleepover too, despite my misgivings.  A kiss to her soft cheek and she was handed off to Connie.  

“We’ll let you two get back to -” I rolled my eyes as Connie waggled her eyes in her attempt at being suggestive.  “Bye, Brookie.” She was grinning when she gave Bucky his own parting, then Chris and Carrie gave us a less gregarious, but no less friendly goodbye, leaving just Sharon and Sam behind.  

“And then there were two,” I murmured, getting a chuckle from Bucky, coupled with a soft sigh.  

“I heard that,” Sam offered, carrying a stack of dirty dishes to the kitchen and shooting Sharon a dirty look when she hissed while she tried to grab some to help.  “Sit your wounded ass down.”  

She glared at him, but with a hand on her side, complied.  “Hey,” I got her attention and tilted my head toward the hall bathroom.  “Want me to have a peek at your bandage?”  

“Do you have -” she bit her lip, and I nearly laughed at her conundrum.  Does she insult me by asking if I have first aid experience after I gave her clothing and a roof over her head or does she humor me?  

“I took some classes,” I assured her.  “My parents liked to make sure all the bases were covered.”  Helping her carefully to her feet, I got her to the bathroom where one of the many family first aid kits lived.  Opening it up and setting it on the countertop, I saw her eyes widen.  “I told you - my parents liked to keep the bases covered.”  Our first aid kits weren’t something you bought at a local pharmacy or online.  “Mom was an RN,” I gestured for her to take her place on the toilet seat again.  “She made sure to keep me up to date on my safety classes.”  Every CPR class, first aid requirement, and anything else she imagined a layperson might need - she signed me up for.  I helped Sharon with the loose shirt Bucky had grabbed out of my drawer, and smiled at the wrapping the ER had put on her wound.  “Good news,” I bent down and took a closer look.  “You haven’t started bleeding through the packing and wraps, so I don’t have to rewrap you.” She sighed and I chuckled.  “Damn it,” I glanced up to see her looking down at me wearily.  “I kind of hoped to use you for practice.”  

She shook her head and a tiny smile threatened to creep onto her lips.  “It hurts like hell though.”  She started to pull the shirt back into place.  “Gonna make getting back on the road a trial,” I was just opening my mouth to tell her she didn’t have to rush when she stopped me.  “Thank you, Brooke, for your and Bucky’s generosity and hospitality, but trust me, I should go - and soon.”  

I nodded, standing up to help her to her feet.  She was taller than me, just like every other person in my life.  “Take my number,” I watched as she pulled a phone from her pocket and I rattled off the number while she tapped it into the contacts.  “If you need me or us -”

“Thank you,” she smiled, a small one, but I thought it might be genuine.  “Steve would have liked you.”  

“So I’ve heard,” I shook my head and put the first aid kit away.  “Do you need another change of clothes?”  Sharon wouldn’t hear of taking more from me, and insisted that she had a car coming to take her away.  “If you’re sure -”

“I am.” We left the bathroom to the sounds of Bucky and Sam in the kitchen, soft music not hiding the sounds of them bickering over how to fill the dishwasher.  “You’re going to have your hands full.”  

“Yeah, I do,” I agreed, shaking my head as I listened to the two of them, their back and forth, and thinking that they sounded more and more like brothers.  “I think they’re getting more -”

“Partners,” Sharon nodded.  “They’re a team now.”  

“Scary.” I heard a soft knock on the door and Bucky’s head appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room.  “I think -”

“It’s for me,” Sharon offered, hand back on her wound.  “Time for me to go.”  

“You sure?”  It was Sam who asked, coming up on Bucky’s left, arms crossed over his chest.  “You could stay, I could always -”

“I think you’re making enough waves, Cap.”  I bit my lip at Sharon using the nickname so soon.  “I can wait for my pardon.”  She was moving toward the living room, with me behind her in case she stumbled.  “I’ll just grab my small pile of stuff and be out of your way.”  She grabbed her clothes - the ones she’d changed out of and turned to find me waiting at a close distance.  “Hovering?  That’s a very Steve Rogers trait, Brooke.”  I rolled my eyes.  “I’ll be fine,” she assured me, moving her hand from the bandaged side and sighing.  “Keep those two out of trouble.”

“Yeah, right.”  I muttered, opening my arms, thinking what the hell - a hug was warranted.  She allowed it, awkward though it was.  “Stay safe, Sharon.”  

“I’ll try.” She murmured. “You too, ok?”  

I nodded and then she pulled away.  I busied myself with the living room while she said her goodbyes to Sam and Bucky, thinking that less was more in the case of Sharon Carter leaving our house.  I had just folded up the blanket and put it with the pillow when I heard the front door open and close.  

“And then there was one,” Bucky murmured, wrapping his arms around me.  “What do you think the chances are that Sam goes home to prepare for the celebration and lets us follow behind?”

“Slim and none,” Sam offered, leaning against the archway between the living room and the entryway.  “Sarah doesn’t need me to plan a party, and I have a couple loose ends to tie up here in NYC, so -”

“Don’t put away the blanket and pillow, Brooke,” Bucky kissed my cheek.  “The couch has a new guest.”

[shireness-says]

Wherever You’re Going (I’m Going Your Way) [1/6]

Summary: 1952. A lost boy without a home, Killian Jones rides America's back roads on his motorcycle, searching for a purpose that's just out of reach. This pit stop was only supposed to be a few days, a couple of weeks at most, but a pretty blonde waitress just might be his salvation. Is he brave enough to let her? Rated T for language. Also on AO3.

~~~~~

A/N: I’m pleased to present my contribution to the CS Rewrite-a-thon! Big thanks to the organizers at the @captainswanbigbang​ for organizing this. This is an expansion of a oneshot I wrote a couple of years back called A Sunlit Night, and I loved the chance to get back into the feel of that piece. The fic title is from “Moon River”, which didn’t exist in 1952, but some things are about the aesthetic and it fit too well to resist.

Special thanks to my beta, @thejollyroger-writer​, and to @snidgetsafan​ and @profdanglaisstuff​ for the extra eyes and helping me work through some hurdles along the way. 

Tagging the usuals. Let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the list! 

@kmomof4​, @aerica13​, @thisonesatellite​, @searchingwardrobes​, @let-it-raines​, @teamhook​, @ohmightydevviepuu​, @optomisticgirl​, @winterbaby89​, @spartanguard​, @scientificapricot​

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Storybrooke, Maine could be any town in America — just as picturesque as the name suggests in a way that doesn’t seem quite real. The houses have picket fences and boats bob in the harbor and there's an honest-to-god Main Street, lined with a diner and a general store and a pharmacy with advertisements for Ovaltine in the window. It's every picture of America that's ever made its way across the pond, every stereotype of small town life made real. It makes his presence all the more jarring; loners on motorcycles don’t belong in this picture-perfect magazine print town. 

He never meant to stop here — in fact, it’s the kind of little hamlet Killian doubts anyone ever means to find themselves in. Though he may not have planned on stopping — not here, not anywhere, not for anything — he also hadn’t planned on the noise his bike’s engine had started making as he cruised down backroads under the emerald canopy that is rural Maine in June. Killian is used to making minor repairs to the machine — it’s inevitable with the miles he’s putting on the motorcycle, and besides, there’s things you pick up in a war, especially when he spend much of World War II criss-crossing Europe in his plane — but for all of his handy skills, he still can’t make parts materialize out of thin air.

And so, he finds himself in Storybrooke — the nearest town, according to the road map he’d picked up at a welcome center on his way into the state. He’ll find a garage, he’ll work for parts, he’ll be on his way. It should be simple; a few days, a week at most, and then he’s gone again.

(The sooner, the better, in his opinion; a woman wiping down tables outside of the diner shoots him a dirty look, and Killian can’t help but feel like he deserves it for disrupting this idyll they’re living in.)

Blessedly, there is a garage attached to the town’s service station — NOLAN'S REPAIR, a large painted sign advertises across the top of the panelled door — but there's no sign of life inside. A quick glance at his watch, one of the few relics of the war that Killian willingly carries with him, reveals that it's already past seven. That's fine; he doesn’t mind waiting until the morning. 

It's easy enough to find space to park his motorcycle, conveniently alongside a park bench Killian suspects that he'll be spending the night on. As uncomfortable as it might sound to others, he barely thinks twice about the prospect anymore; he's spent plenty of nights on worse, both during the war and after it. His bedroll does more to counter the hard ground than anyone would expect. 

(Sleep is hard to come by these days anyways, and when it does, it only brings nightmares — visions of falling and flames, reminders that there’s no real good reason why he was pulled out of the Atlantic when so many others weren’t.)

(It should have been Liam who was saved, not you, a terrible voice in his mind whispers. It’s easier to drown out during the daytime; at night he’s too tired to deny the truth of it.)

Satisfied that he's got a plan until tomorrow, Killian unbuckles the satchel containing his few important belongings from the body of his bike and sets out to locate the diner. He remembers the sign promising the establishment was open 24 hours a day, and he intends to take advantage of at least a few of them.

Sure enough, the lights of the diner still shine brightly as Killian approaches. Granny's, the neon letters out front read. By all appearances, it's typical of family-type joints across the nation (or at least the parts of the nation he's seen so far). A bell jingles merrily as he pulls open the door; inside, the diner is adorned with a busily patterned wallpaper that somehow avoids looking suffocatingly dark like he would have expected when paired with the red vinyl upholstery of the booths, chairs, and barstools. The jukebox plays faintly at the edge of his hearing, just low enough for him to ignore the sound. Not that he could place the song anyways. Even if there is something of a feeling that the establishment could have been located anywhere and he wouldn't have known the difference, there's a comfortable aura in the air as well. 

"Seat yourself," an older woman calls from behind the counter without looking his way, apparently apprised of his entrance by the aforementioned bell. Considering the diner’s moniker, Killian can’t help but wonder if this is the eponymous Granny. It’s probably for the best that she hasn’t turned to face him; he can’t imagine the woman would be as welcoming had she seen his face. He’s a bad influence, they say wherever he goes in voices too loud to be a whisper, too loud to ignore. On a Tuesday night, the crowds here are minimal, a small blessing; after surveying his options, Killian chooses a booth in the back corner where he can watch everyone but hopefully not be disturbed. Already, his unfamiliar face is drawing attention from the few other diners. They’re not used to outsiders, he can tell, and he’s not surprised about it in a town this small. Already, he can feel an unnatural hush in the air as suspicious and in some cases curious faces follow him as he makes his way across the room.

Maybe, in another life, Killian might have stared back, daring his spectators with a look to do something about their staring. That life slipped away when he crossed the ocean in search of anonymity, however, and he makes a show of ignoring the stares, rustling in his satchel instead. From the cluttered depths, he extracts two books; one for his own reading, picked up from the last used bookshop he ran across, and one blank for his own use. Once upon a time, the sights he’s seen and the faces he’s met would have inspired verses, the words tripping over his fingers and across the page in a quest for life, but it’s been a long while since that’s been the case. There are many reasons Killian forges ahead on his endless, aimless ride — some of them tangible, some of them unknown even to him — but his pursuit of his words is part of it. The closest he comes these days is behind the controls of his bike, once more racing through the open sky; it’s only then that the guilt quiets somewhat and he feels like inspiration could be dancing along the breeze, like a bit of dandelion fluff. 

This diner, however, is not the open air or the world rushing past him without a care, and his notebook will once again go to waste.

"Can I get you something?" a different voice asks — feminine, but a little deep and throaty. Killian glances up, expecting to order tea and a ham sandwich and turn back to his own distractions. He expects a passing, forgettable interaction.

He does not expect to look up and find himself faced with an angel.

It's far too fanciful to call her that, especially when she stands in front of him, flesh and blood and bone, but it's all he can come up with when faced with such perfection. Her hair is a shade of gold that painters and pirates must have coveted in times long past, shining and catching in the light with every movement. Though her tresses are pinned back, a few tendrils have still worked themselves loose to frame her face and model the slight curl to the lustrous strands. The way it's swept and pinned makes her eyes shine brighter than any he's ever seen, highlighting their green in a way she can't possibly be oblivious to. There's an aura about her that he can sense but not quite see that practically makes her glow, even in a blue uniform dress and stained apron that's less than flattering. She's somehow entirely separate from the drab surroundings of this small town diner, yet simultaneously he knows she must be an integral part — like the purest diamond embedded in the dingiest mine.

(Maybe there's a verse in there, somewhere. It's been too long for him to even tell anymore.)

He must be gaping like a fish, because she arches an elegant eyebrow at whatever expression graces his face, the barest hint of a smile pulling at her own mouth. It ruins the goddess effect a little bit, but makes her look more human instead — someone with a sense of humor, perhaps even a bit mischievous. "Sorry?" he finally manages to stutter out, though whether that's an apology or a request for clarification is anyone's guess. 

"Would you like to order?" she repeats. "Or would you like some more time to look at the menu?"

"Just some tea, please." It's some kind of miracle that he doesn't trip over his own tongue, though not enough of one to remember that ordering tea in this country is a fool’s errand. "And a ham and cheese sandwich."

"Earl Grey alright?" she asks, surprising him, quickly scratching his order down on her notepad. From Killian's vantage point, he can just see her handwriting — a messy kind of script that fits his impression of her, casual and hurried and somehow still elegant. 

"That's fine." Better than, really; he’d expected that terrible facsimile Americans insist on calling tea. He keeps drinking it anyways, for some indiscernible reason, like a last-ditch grab to hang onto a piece of who he used to be.

The waitress must see some of his surprise on his face, as she smiles knowingly. “Granny spent some time in England in her youth, and came back with very specific opinions about tea. None of the Lipton stuff here.” That would explain it — though it’s still unexpected in a tiny Maine hamlet. “Now, do you want that sandwich grilled or cold?"

"Grilled, please." The mere act of ordering a meal constitutes the most decisions he's had to make in a long time, and certainly the most he's spoken to anyone; his voice feels scratchy with disuse, which can't make the good impression his ego desperately needs. He was considered quite the catch once, if anyone could believe it; Killian wouldn't blame those who called him a liar, to see him now. 

As he grimaces at his own ineptitude, the waitress finishes scribbling out his preferences and tucks her order pad back away in the pocket of that awful apron again. "We'll get that going for you then," she smiles. "Let me know if you need anything else."

(A name would be nice, for one, but it feels like overstepping to demand that particular snippet of information. He'd caught an E at the corner of her breast pocket, but that could be so many things. Eleanor? Elizabeth? Etta?)

"Wait, lass," he cuts in as she turns to disappear back behind the counter. Her head tilts in a sign of her attention — an adorable one at that. If he were a braver man, he might ask her a bit about herself. Unfortunately, he is not a braver man. "Is there a telephone somewhere I could use?"

"All the way down the hall," she nods. "Can't miss it."

"Thank you, lass," he murmurs as Ella-Ernestine-Elsie walks away again. There's no telling if she heard him or not, but Killian is almost afraid to bring any more attention to himself. 

Sure enough, the payphone is just down the hallway. It's far enough away to offer Killian a modicum of privacy, which is more than he's come to expect in many places. It's dimly lit, and right next to the bathrooms, but he's not here for the ambiance anyways. 

There’s a calming ritual to making the phone calls to New York, even if they’re only sporadic. He’s accustomed by now to speaking with the operator, inserting the change when directed, waiting for the shrill ring as the call connects across hundreds of miles. He doesn't make these calls very often, but it's been several weeks — somewhere in upstate New York was his last call, he thinks — and this unexpected pit stop is as good an excuse as any.

It doesn't take long for the other end to pick up. "Scarlet residence," declares the softly accented voice on the other end of the line, familiar and comforting even across such a distance. 

"Hello, Belle, it's me." Killian leans into the corner formed by the wall and phone as he settles in for the conversation, propping his forearm on the top of the telephone's boxy structure. Belle just might be the last family he has left — certainly the last family he’s aware of — some sort of distant cousin on his late mother’s side. The details of it don’t particularly matter; what does matter is that she’d opened her heart and home when Killian had left, nay, fled England without any plan to speak of. London had still been in shambles, even after hostilities had long since ceased; Killian had found it impossible to live every day surrounded by ghosts and memories, all decaying and obliterated. Belle had offered to let him stay, too, help him get back on his feet again, but the itch to keep moving had been too strong under his skin.

(One thing they don’t tell you when you enlist in the Air Force is this: the solid ground will lose its appeal in a way you can’t imagine, and the world will start to move too slow everywhere else when you’ve spent enough time in a cockpit.)

Besides, Belle has a family of her own, a husband who loves her and two small boys; as kind as she is to offer, and as hard as she has tried to include him, Killian would inevitably always be an outsider in that tableau. It was for the best that he left, to try and settle his demons and rediscover who he can be on his own. 

"Killian!" It's easy to hear the warmth and excitement in his cousin's voice. "How are you? I was just thinking about you today." Just worrying about you is what she means, but Belle's always been too much of a lady to say it out loud. Besides, she understands why he's doing what he's doing; as settled as she is, he hadn't expected her to understand the itch to move that's settled beneath his skin, impossible to ever truly alleviate, but she'd just smiled and asked what she could do when he'd told her his plans. It's how she wound up the custodian not only of Killian's scant belongings, but also his savings account in his absence. 

"I'm fine," he assures her as best he can. "I'm in Maine. I'll be here a few days, I think."

"A few days?" The worry isn't back in her voice yet, but he knows it's coming, just as soon as he shares his reason for stopping. 

"Aye. There’s a nail in my tire. I’ll get it checked out at the shop tomorrow, but I assume they’ll need to order in the new tire. I doubt they’ve got the right ones for the bike on hand."

"But you're alright?" Ah, there's the worry. "You don't need anything? I can wire you money, if you like —"

"I'm fine, Belle, truly," he hastens to assure her. "I'm hoping to trade my labor for parts, help out around the shop if the owner will let me. I'll need something to do around here anyways, it's a pretty small town. I'll let you know if you need to wire me money, don't worry."

"If you're sure..." Belle tries to start, but Killian cuts her off. 

"I'm sure."

"I suppose I'll have to be fine with that. But now, Killian, how are you? Not your motorcycle or the roads — how are you?"

"I'm okay," he says truthfully. It's the best he can give most days; he hasn't quite found what he's looking for, can't even put his finger on what that might be, but he knows it's still out there, still out of reach. Still, it feels better than being cooped up in some office job, forcing himself into the boxes polite society wants him to inhabit that are slowly smothering him. It lets him try to figure out who he is now without Liam and without a clear purpose.

"But are you happy?" It's not the same thing, she doesn't say, but Killian hears it anyways. 

"Enough." It's the best he can give her. "Listen, I just wanted to call and let you know where I am. If it seems like I'll be here more than a few days, I'll give you a number you can reach me at. Tell Will and the boys hello for me."

"I will," Belle promises. "If you need anything at all, if there’s anything I can do, promise you'll call me, Killian. Promise."

"I promise. Love you."

"We love you too, Killian. You can always come here, even if it's not home."

She says that every time, and every time, Killian hangs up to avoid responding. The truth is, he still doesn't have a good answer, and as much as he loves his cousin and her family, their apartment just isn't home. That's something he's not yet sure he'll find again. 

He's barely returned to his seat before a steaming pot of tea is placed before him, the cup following in its wake. "Your sandwich will be ready shortly," the blonde angel assures him. "Let me know if you need anything else."

"Thank you, lass," he tries to smile. At least his voice is audible this time after his conversation with Belle. 

As Killian lifts the pot to pour himself a cup, he’s thrilled to see the genuine article trickle out. Even with the waitress’ explanation, his expectations of the promised tea had been low. This, though, is steaming and hot and just the right strength. It tastes like a little cup of the home he’d left behind, and infuses him with a warmth and comfort that he hasn’t felt in… years. Not since before the war, just he and Liam sitting at the kitchen table with a cuppa and the radio. 

(It’s a feeling he’s long since lost, and one he didn’t expect to find again in the middle of nowhere, Maine. Everyday miracles can still sprout anywhere, he’s learning, as long as you’re looking for them.)

His dinner arrives as quickly as promised, and time begins to blur together in between warm bites and crisp pages and his thoughts. At some point, the empty plate is whisked away and another cup of tea is brought for him to enjoy. Killian is so used to entertaining himself that he doesn't truly notice any movement around him — that is, until a new plate is placed on his table and nudged into his hand. Glancing at the clock, Killian is surprised to find that the time is now just before ten; he'd been at the diner over two hours, far longer than he’d intended. Blame it on a good book and intriguing, if passing, company, he supposes.

Another quick glance reveals the small plate that the waitress had deposited to display a slice of pie — blueberry, if he's not mistaken. The thing is, he’s certain that he’d never ordered it.

"Excuse me, miss," he calls before she can walk away, "I believe you delivered this to the wrong table."

"No, I didn't," she smiles back, before glancing towards the door. It must be time for her to go home; Killian will regret her absence once she departs, though he knows he doesn't have any true right to do so.

Still, he must insist. Good form and all that. "I didn't order this, I'm afraid." I'm not sure I can afford it, he doesn't say, though that's what he means.

"I know," she replies. "You like pie?"

"I do," he assures her, still confused.

"Then it's on the house. Granny's got a soft spot for the lonely ones." As she tears his ticket off from her order pad, Killian wonders if the woman in front of him might have a soft spot, too. Maybe she was a lonely one herself, once; something in her eyes speaks to the kind of understanding you just can't fake. "If you'd like some more tea, Ruby will be happy to help you," she nods towards a smiling brunette behind the counter. "Have a good night."

"You as well, lass." 

The pie is delicious; he should have expected such just from the look of that flaky crust, but the confirmation is its own revelation. He can't say any of this was what he expected when he set out for dinner — not the blonde angel, and certainly not her unexpected kindness towards him. The more he thinks about it around bites of pie, the more he thinks the diner's proprietress had nothing to do with the sweet treat in front of him — especially since he hasn't even seen her on the premises since his server made that claim. No, he thinks that the pie must have come from the waitress herself, though he can't fathom for what reason.

He finally pays his bill and leaves, letting the diner's bell ring behind him as he exits, but it's not until he's nearly halfway back to the garage and the bench out front that he realizes:

He never actually learned her name.

[silvokrent]

Slings and Arrows

Some wrongs cannot be righted. It’s a lesson Pietro learns a lifetime too late.

[The rise and fall of Dr. Arthur Watts, M.D., PhD.]

“Phase-II trial of Auratic synthesis, test number—” The rustle of papers was followed by a sigh. “—test number sixty-four. Initiating.”

The monitor on his desk whirred to life. Pietro watched the numbers on the holographic screen climb as the program ran the simulation. Thirty seconds without anomalies. A minute. He knew better than to get his hopes up, but the longer the systems operated without rejection, the harder it was to suppress the mutinous optimism at the back of his head. Maybe, this time, he’d finally found the right—

The monitor let out a dejected-sounding beep, and the screen flashed.

Insufficient variables. Analysis results too unstable for implantation.

Only when he slumped back in his seat did Pietro realize how tightly he’d been gripping the arms of the chair. He tapped at his scroll and activated the audio function.

“Test number sixty-four was unsuccessful. The simulated Aura was deemed too structurally unstable to survive grafting to a biotechnic lattice. Recommend recalibrating the values for ω, λ, and ρ to increase viability. Describe what mistakes were made.” Pietro contemplated the scroll in his hand, before lifting it to his face and smacking it into his forehead. Repeatedly. “My mistake was deciding to pursue a degree in bioengineering, followed by the even bigger mistake of my alma mater handing me a diploma. All other setbacks are incidental. End recording.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Pietro called up the diagram from earlier. The hologram cast his office in various shades of blue light that, while it had a calming effect on him, unveiled the minefield of loose papers, folders, and post-it notes that had become his workspace.

For a moment, he considered setting aside a day in his schedule to reorganize his desk. Only when he couldn’t find his calendar did he remember why it had gotten so bad in the first place.

His calendar was buried somewhere underneath.

Brokenly, Pietro stared at the untamed bed of chaos before him. On one hand, he needed to clean his desk. On the other hand, incineration was faster, and the chemistry lab had a blowtorch.

“You look desperately in need of this,” said a voice from behind.

The unexpected drawl startled Pietro out of his thoughts. He swiveled around in his chair to the sight of Arthur Watts leaning against the doorframe, a steaming mug in each hand. Judging by the amused smirk, he’d been there for some time.

“Arthur!” Pietro minimized the program with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

His friend stepped inside and carefully kicked the door shut with his heel. He strode across the room and reclined into the vacant chair opposite of him, ankle propped on his knee. He held out the second mug. “Kuo Kuana roast. Extra cream, and enough sugar to give you every cardiovascular disease known to man.”

Pietro accepted the offered drink, and for a moment simply held it to his face. The aromatic scent was blue water and white sand, and it never failed to make him nostalgic for the coast. He let out a long, quiet exhale that took some of the tension from his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he said, “but how did you—?”

“I saw the lights on under the door and took an educated guess,” Watts said. He took a draught from his own mug before continuing: “The janitors left at the end of the day, and no one else is unhinged enough to stay after hours.”

Pietro arched a brow. “Apart from you?”

Watts snorted. “I had a meeting that I couldn’t reschedule.”

“At ten o’clock at night?”

“I made the mistake of postponing one too many times. They couldn’t be dissuaded.”

They lapsed into companionable silence. Pietro indulged in his coffee while Watts picked up a folder and flipped through it at random.

The company was a welcome respite, and not just because it came bearing gifts.

Their office arrangement had started off rather unextraordinarily, all things considered. Handing off paperwork, returning a piece of equipment, passing along department memos—the sort of banal normalcy one would expect between colleagues. Pietro hadn’t begrudged the unexpected interruptions from Watts (quite the opposite, in fact), and Watts never protested when Pietro ventured into his space long enough to drop something off.

Only a few months after becoming acquainted did Pietro notice the shift in their interactions. It had been subtle at first: an animated conversation during a faculty meeting that led to Pietro following Watts back to his office to continue the topic. A request from Watts for a second opinion on a patient chart, which led to Watts loitering in Pietro’s office long after he’d humored him. A day where Watts had cleared his schedule to allow Pietro to vent about his latest experiment following an incident in the labs.

It hadn’t taken long for the intrusions to devolve from legitimate reasons to half-contrived pretenses. The reed that broke the Dromedon’s back had been a memorable afternoon where Pietro’s office door swung open, and Watts—bag strap slung around one arm, a stack of documents tucked under the other—announced that he needed somewhere to hide from his interns, and no one would think to look for him here.

There were, admittedly, more unconventional ways to start a friendship, though Pietro hardly minded. Especially not after Watts had treated him to dinner as an apology for the inconvenience.

It was an aspect of their relationship Pietro was both fond of and deeply appreciated, though he was tactful enough to not comment on it aloud. Watts wasn’t exactly the sentimental type. (Though the steaming mug in his hand begged to differ.)

He watched as the other man returned the folder to its original spot in exchange for a file.

“No luck, I take it?” The question was as much rhetorical as it was a tacit invitation to brainstorm. Pietro gladly accepted.

“I had a thought after yesterday’s meeting: ‘What if it’s quantitative rather than permutational? Maybe we only need to adjust the inputs rather than the sequence.’” He shot a rueful glance at the monitor. “You can imagine how that went. It feels like the answer’s staring right at me and I’m too stupid to see it.”

“If you were stupid”—Watts turned the page, not bothering to look up—“we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.” He took another sip from his mug. “Sleep-deprived, on the other hand…”

“Can you blame me?” Pietro asked.

This time, Watts did look up.

“We’ve been at this for six months and have nothing to show for it. We’re running out of time.”

Watts set the file down. “James never stipulated a deadline,” he murmured.

“No,” Pietro agreed, “but he’s not the only person we have to justify ourselves to.”

“If this is about the lien, I wouldn’t fret. As long as our funding comes from the military, they’re not going to pull the plug.”

Pietro frowned at the drink in his hands, at the contemplative reflection that mirrored his own. “James may have greenlit the project, but that doesn’t change the fact that the military budget comes from tax revenue. The other councilors get a say in how that money is allocated. And if they think our research is a waste of public resources…”

An uneasy quiet fell between them, and it was telling that Watts didn’t immediately refute him or attempt to assuage his concerns.

For lack of anything constructive to say, Pietro sighed. “For thousands of years we consumed willow bark as an analgesic. When people learned that salicin was the culprit, a chemist learned how to make it from scratch. Pharmacies around the world now manufacture and distribute that medication to millions of people.” He leaned back into his seat. “How is it that we figured out how to make an artificial compound, but we can’t figure out how to make an artificial Aura?”

“Well—” Watts motioned with his drink in a vague sort of gesture. “That might have something to do with acetylsalicylic acid being a synthetic chemical, and Aura being the manifestation of the soul. They’re not exactly analogous.” He stroked his chin. “It would also be remiss of me not to point out that up until a few centuries ago, pneumatophysicists were regularly executed for heresy. It’s not as if we have the breakthroughs of our predecessors to build upon.”

A weak, self-deprecating laugh escaped him. Reflexively, Pietro combed through his hair.

“It’s frustrating, isn’t it?” Frustrating might have been putting it charitably. Pietro still had half a mind to fetch that blowtorch.

A knowing look crept across his handsome features, though Watts deigned only to shrug in response. Obstacles and setbacks were held in a similar estimation to success; they seldom bothered him. Nonetheless, he offered, perhaps by way of consolation, “Nothing worth doing is ever easy.”

“I’m not looking for easy. I’m looking for possible,” said Pietro, “and right now, we’ve hit a dead end.”

The holographic diagram from earlier rematerialized over his desk—a simulated Aura field superimposed atop the three-dimensional render of an android. He parsed through the accompanying schematics with a wave of his hand, calling forth and highlighting relevant segments of data.

“We know that Aura is related to the sum product of a person’s neurological pathways, because it’s the same system responsible for generating consciousness.” Pietro activated the synaptic filter. A branching web of neurons lit up the hologram in tandem with the Aura field. “Here’s the problem. Functionally and behaviorally they’re similar, so you’d think replicating one system would mean the simultaneous generation of the other, right? But it doesn’t work like that.” His brow furrowed. “Not only is Aura’s reliance on this system facultative, but it verges on metaphysical. It means that we’re missing something. You can break down the physiology of the CNS and PNS into all the various electrochemical signals, but the second you try to do the same thing with Aura—”

He dismissed the hologram with a flick of his wrist, and slumped in his chair.

“I’m starting to think James picked the wrong proposal,” he quietly admitted. “At least yours didn’t hinge on reconciling a decades-long conflict between pneumatophysical models and—”

“Self-pity doesn’t become you.”

The brusque statement startled Pietro out of his rambling. It only took a second of being subjected to Watts’ flat, unimpressed stare before Pietro ducked his head.

Watts snorted under his breath. “For better or worse, the general picked your proposal. You have an obligation to not fail, so I suggest you pull yourself together.”

Embarrassment quickly faded to mild annoyance. “You’re as sobering as a cold shower. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Watts’ expression softened. “Sometimes a little cold helps to clear the head.” There was thoughtful pause before he unhooked his ankle and leaned forward, elbows braced against his legs. “You know,” he began, “success isn’t always contingent on understanding.”

Coming from the man who actively condemned ignorance, that surprised him. Pietro stilled with the mug halfway to his lips. “True,” he conceded, lowering the coffee back to his lap. “But I don’t think we’re in a position to trip over the answer like it’s a sleeping cat.”

Another pause followed, longer than the one that preceded it.

“What if we had a way to circumvent it?”

“What do you mean?”

With a soft thunk Watts set his mug on the desk. “Your proposal requires grafting an Aura onto a mechanical vessel. It never specified where that Aura came from,” he said. “Whether it was artificially created…or acquired from somewhere else.”

He laced his fingers together.

“Someone else, perhaps.”

He’d been told more than once that he had a terrible poker face. Clearly that hadn’t changed, if the way Watts pursed his lips was anything to go by.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. I’m not suggesting we go abduct people and harvest their organs in a back alley.” He rolled his eyes. “I would hope you’d have a somewhat higher opinion of me.”

“You have a way with words, Arthur. A questionable and slightly terrifying way with them.” Pietro fidgeted with his tie. “Let’s, for the moment, ignore all of the potential obstacles involved. Like receiving an extension on our funding to cover any unanticipated costs. Or getting approval from the Atlesian Ethics Committee to perform an unregulated and untested surgery on a patient. Or even finding a candidate who would willingly consent to such a procedure. Even if we hypothetically resolved all of those issues, we’d still be left with a problem.”

“Only the one?” asked Watts. He arched a slender brow. “Very well, I’ll bite. Enlighten me.”

Another frown tugged at his lips. “Even if we found a way to perform such a surgery, removing even a fraction could be fatal. You can’t survive without Aura.”

“That’s not, strictly speaking, true.” The mug had made its way back into his hand. Watts idly traced the rim with a finger. “I’ve treated patients with Chronic Aura Degradation before. It’s not uncommon to see cases where up to 45% of the Aura was eroded. And in every one of those cases, the patient survived with weekly EMF-DS therapy.”

Pietro shook his head. “You, better than anyone, know that ‘survived’ isn’t the same thing as ‘cured.’”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “Forgive me if I insinuated otherwise. I only meant that regular treatments resulted in a negligible impact on their quality of life.”

“I’m not denying that.” Only when Watts stilled his hand, and began circling the rim in the opposite direction, did Pietro realize he was staring. He snapped his head up and cleared his throat. “But that’s an archotheronotic disease. You’re talking about using Auratic intercision to create a manmade version of CAD. There’s no telling what that would do to the donor, or if the amount of Aura donated would even be enough to sustain an entirely new person.”

Watts conceded with a sigh. “It’s just a thought.”

It wasn’t the most outlandish thing Pietro had heard—the staff breakroom regularly churned out weirder ideas on a weekly basis, and gods knew he’d contributed to quite a few of those himself.

Still…

“I’m not opposed to alternatives,” he replied at last, “but I can’t imagine anyone condoning a surgery that mimics a Grimm-based illness. The controversy alone would be a nightmare.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.”

Watts made a noncommittal noise as he stood.

“Scientific progress has always been controversial. What matters is how we deal with it.” He lightly clapped a hand on Pietro’s shoulder. The residual warmth from the mug lingered; it was oddly soothing. “Do me a favor, and try to get some rest?” He smirked, and the hand retreated. “Sleep on my suggestion. See if you’re not better disposed to it in the morning.”

Pietro sipped at his coffee, eyes crinkled in amusement. “I’ll pass on the sleep for now.” He motioned with the cup. “Keep these coming though and you might just persuade me.”

Watts let out a low chuckle. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He turned on his heel for the door, tossing a parting glance over his shoulder. “Good night, Pietro.”

Pietro smiled into his drink. “Good night, Arthur.”

“—has to be something we haven’t thought of yet.”

“We could give the pneumatograph another go. Run the Dust vortex generator with different configurations.”

“And waste more Dust in the process. Repeating the same tests isn’t going to get us any closer to generating an Aura.”

“Okay. Well, what about Grimm exposure trials? We could map out field fluctuations and look for any biopenumatic discrepancies.”

“After what happened last time? We’d be lucky if the Grimmoire loaned us a bloody paperclip, let alone a Boarbatusk. Try again.”

Will pulled a face as he crossed out a line on the clipboard, before tossing the pen back to Watts. He cast the cages lining the wall a glum look. “I guess we could go back to rodent models,” he said.

The mice Pietro was feeding began to squeakily protest. He lapsed into momentary silence before agreeing, though not without some reluctance. “It couldn’t hurt.” Not in the technical sense, anyway. But if the thought of their work regressing back to animal trials didn’t sting a little. Given the dwindling list of alternatives, however, he wasn’t about to object.

One of the mice nosed at his hand, and Pietro obligingly scratched it between the ears. “I’ll fill out the requisition forms. It shouldn’t take more than a day to get the approval.”

“As long as the technicians remember to give us an Aura-active batch,” Will added. “Last time they forgot.”

Their conversation petered out, replaced by the high-pitched din of the mice and the clink of the pellets in their food bowls. Pietro sealed the latch on the enclosure and placed the dispenser on the nearby counter, thinking.

“Even in a worst-case scenario, if the rodent models end up not working out, we could always repurpose our findings for later studies. Once the Penny Project is over”—though whether or not they succeeded, he chose not to theorize on—“if we can get the grant money for it, well, who knows? Apothymetics is relatively uncharted territory, and it’d be a shame to see all those mice go to waste…”

Watts slowly lowered the chart in his hands, and pinned him with the full intensity of his stare. “You want to run tests…on the mice…to see if you can unlock their Semblances,” he said. He broke apart his sentence as if he were running it through a translator.

Pietro shrugged. “It’s theoretically possible. If an animal can unlock an Aura, by extension it should be able to acquire a Semblance. Haven’t you ever wondered what that would look like?”

Sometimes, he liked asking questions because it was fun to speculate on the possibilities of the hypothetical. Sometimes, he liked asking questions because it was fun to see what sort of face his friend would make. Watts had yet to disappoint.

He watched with delight as Watts squinted his eyes, as if the mere idea were an affront to common decency. “No,” he said, “I haven’t wondered what that would look like. Perhaps my imagination isn’t as vivid as yours, but I’d rather not contemplate the horror of a 700-kilogram polar bear learning how to run at Mach 1, let alone a lab rat.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Arthur,” Will chimed in, in a voice far too casual to be anything but. “Think of all the possibilities. Telekinetic service dogs. Self-cloning chickens.”

“We could solve world hunger,” Pietro said. This time he was unable to suppress a grin.

It took a second for Watts to register the look on his face; his expression evened out, and he let out a loud sigh. “Stop enabling him, Will. He doesn’t need a co-conspirator.”

“I thought you were my co-conspirator,” said Pietro, feigning a look of wounded betrayal.

“No. I’m your impulse control. And I seem to doing a rather poor job as of late.” Watts jotted something on the chart in his hands, his brow momentarily furrowed in concentration. “Those mice are supposed to be euthanized anyway. I doubt they’d let you repurpose them for another project, even if you pitched it as a financial incentive.”

Pietro considered. “I can be persuasive.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

Will set the clipboard next to the dispenser and leaned back, his amusement tempered with intrigue. “I know you were kidding—mostly—but eventually, someone else is going to ask the same question, and they won’t be. Sooner or later, it’s going to be proven or disproven.”

“With any luck, they’ll disprove it,” Watts replied. “It’s already bad enough when people unlock their Semblances.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure Huntsmen need those.”

“Huntsmen, certainly. Their line of work requires it.” Watts glanced up from the chart. “The average person, on the other hand, would frankly be better off without.”

“Come off it, Arthur. I know we’re supposed be scientists and demystifying this stuff, but…” Will shrugged. “You can’t deny that it’s a little exciting for someone to try and imagine what their Semblance might be.”

“Oh, no, you’re absolutely right. It’s very exciting when someone with no training accidentally unlocks their Semblance, only to discover they now wield the power of fire, and proceed to give themselves a second-degree burn.” He clicked the pen, and pocketed it in the folds of his lab coat. “That was last Tuesday, by the way.”

Will crossed his arms. “I take it you wouldn’t want to find out what yours is?”

“If I was going to do something that permanent and that irrationally stupid, I’d get a tattoo on my left—”

A scroll dinged. Will jumped like a tasered cat, and fished through his pockets until he found it. “It’s Meg.” The sudden tension eased from his shoulders as his eyes darted over the screen. “She just wanted to let me know how the appointment went.”

Pietro’s eyes lit up. “How is she?”

“Good. She’s due in another nine weeks.” Reluctantly, he pulled himself away from his scroll. “Since I need to call her, now seems like as good a time as any to take a lunch break.” He started for the door. “I’m heading to the cafeteria. Do either of you want anything?”

“Pastrami on rye. Toasted,” Watts called after him.

“If they have any tuna salad left, I wouldn’t say no,” Pietro added.

Will gave a parting wave as he slipped out the door, the scroll already held to his face.

There was a brief silence, filled by the squeaks of tiny mice.

“So.” Pietro side-eyed the other man. “Where did you say you were putting that tattoo?”

Watts swatted him with the chart.

With nothing else to distract them for the time being, Pietro dug out his scroll and consulted his schedule.

“Busy this afternoon?” Watts prompted.

“Nothing too exciting. The hospital wants me to review some patient files and see if I’d be willing to consult on them. And around three I’ve got an appointment with a new client needing cybernetic optimal implants. The insurance company approved her for a fully-integrated interface, similar to the model James has.”

“Which reminds me…” Watts turned his attention to his own scroll. “I need to notify him about his follow-up. His prostheses are due for inspection.”

“Good luck getting him out of his office.” At his inquiring look, Pietro elaborated: “The Vytal Festival’s next month. He’s been busy overseeing the travel arrangements for his students.”

“Damn it. I forgot that was coming up.” Watts pinched the bridge of his nose, before skimming back over his calendar. “Well, at least I’ll have one appointment today that won’t be akin to pulling teeth.”

“Oh?”

“A new client by the name of Rainart. It seems he needs treatment for acute Dust poisoning.”

“Collier?”

“He didn’t say.”

Pietro tagged a file on his scroll and dismissed it from the queue. “We’ll need to meet with the rest of the team and make sure our schedules are coordinated,” he stated. “I think tomorrow would—”

“Hold on.” He hadn’t realized Watts was reading over his shoulder, and didn’t register the proximity until he felt a puff of air on the side of his neck. The sudden presence startled him. “Go back to the last tab.”

He shot him a puzzled look, but obliged him all the same. “This one?” He tapped the screen and enlarged it.

“Why did you pass on this case?” asked Watts.

Pietro peered at the text. “‘Name: Mia Atelier. Age: 19. Patient is in a hypothermia-induced coma and has been unresponsive to all attempts to resuscitate.’” He frowned. “There’s nothing I can do that the hospital staff haven’t already tried, I’m afraid.”

Watts took a step back, his eyes narrowed. After a moment he returned to his scroll. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Phase-II trial of Auratic synthesis, test number seventy-one. Initiating.”

The monitor gave a powerful thrum as the simulation booted up. Other than the pneumatic hiss of the internal fans, their silence was uninterrupted. A hand reassuringly squeezed his shoulder, though Pietro didn’t bother to find out whose it was. He didn’t dare look away.

As quickly as it began, the program aborted. An all-too familiar error message flashed counterpoint to the readouts on the screen.

The team let out a collective sigh.

Pietro willed himself through the motion of activating the audio function on his scroll.

“Test number seventy-one was unsuccessful. The recalibrations based on the gravid murine analysis didn’t provide the missing variable for the Aura simulation. It’s possible that the in-utero pneumatographic scans failed to identify the unknown factors necessary for generating and implanting an Aura. Recommendations for subsequent tests are…” It dawned on him midway through that he didn’t know where to go next. “…The team will reconvene to discuss further options. End recording,” he finished.

For lack of anything better to do, Pietro buried his face in his hand. Around him the voices of his colleagues stirred, their chatter sounding strangely far away.

“I really thought we had it that time.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. We modeled it after a gestating animal. What the hell could we have possibly missed?”

“Maybe the issue is what we’re modeling. What if we replicated the scans on a more complex organism?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure the guys in obstetrics would love that. ‘Can we borrow one of your patients for nine months? We just want to run some non-invasive tests.’”

“Hey, Will, how do you feel about offering up your firstborn child in the name of science?”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Well, what do you suggest we do?”

“I suggest we go down to the pub on Baker Street and put our funding to good use.”

“Pretty sure you’re supposed to do that after you succeed, not before.”

“What about you, Arthur? You’re being unusually quiet.”

Pietro peered up from between his fingers to where Watts stood, inspecting the hologram of the simulated Aura field. Light from the projection struck the side of his face, carving out the angles in shadows.

“I think,” he said, “we should consider alternatives.”

It wasn’t an opinion shared by the majority of the faculty, but Pietro liked the distance between the buildings.

Admittedly, there were drawbacks to the layout. For example, when back-to-back classes were scheduled on opposite sides of the campus, it was fairly common to see students and professors alike sprinting between lecture halls.

Personally, Pietro enjoyed the sweeping courtyards. The altitude of the city meant a steady supply of brisk air, along with an unobstructed view of the stars that no amount of light pollution could diminish. If nothing else, the long walk between buildings gave him a chance to declutter his thoughts after hours spent cooped up in his office. Given the excuse, he gladly jumped at any opportunity to walk the grounds.

Not that he really needed the excuse, he mused, as he approached Watts’ office.

Pietro went to knock, only to be stilled by a snippet of conversation that filtered through the door.

“—understand your concerns. Rest assured, the surgical theater is still reserved for then. I spoke with the administrator at the medical center this morning, and received confirmation for the private transport. Everything else has been taken care of.”

Pietro was careful not to cause too much of a disturbance as he slipped into the chair across from him. Watts greeted him with a nod, before turning his attention back to the call.

“Certainly. We can discuss your daughter’s treatment plan afterward. I’d rather not burden you with undue stress in the meanwhile. If you have any other questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

He set aside the scroll on his desk. “You’re here earlier than usual,” he noted. “Either something went extremely well, or horribly wrong. Which was it?”

“Depends on how you look at it.” The joints in his shoulder popped as Pietro stretched. “Remember those parts I ordered? The shipment was delayed another week.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I presume there’s a silver lining?”

“Well,” he said, “the original plan was to spend the next three days working on the rotary cannon for the Colossus prototype. But seeing as that’s no longer possible…” He leaned forward, hands clapped on his knees. “I know you’re not usually a fan of ‘that hideous blood sport,’ but the doubles rounds start tonight and the matches have been pretty good so far. Everyone’s getting together later in the staff breakroom to watch. The betting pool this year is pretty sizable, too.” He offered a sheepish grin. “Not that I would know anything about that.”

Watts smirked. “Of course not.”

“But—if you’re still opposed to watching the Tournament—” Pietro shrugged. “My weekend’s free. We could make plans to do something. If you’re interested.”

Watts inclined his head, green eyes half-lidded in thought. After a pause he averted his gaze to his hands, neatly folding them atop one another. “As much as I would love to take you up on that offer, I have a flight this evening. I’ll be out of the capital for a day or two.”

That caught him off-guard. “You didn’t tell me you were heading down to Mantle.”

“That’s because I’m not. I’m heading to Argus.”

“You’re leaving the country?”

“Hardly. With how much the city relies on trade with Atlas, it might as well be part of the kingdom.” He dismissively waved his hand. “But, yes. I’m overseeing a procedure there.”

It took Pietro a moment to conceal his disappointment behind a consolatory smile. “Well, what can you do.” He scoured his brain for any recent mention of traveling during the last few conversations, and surprisingly drew a blank. “I’m guessing this was last-second on your part. A new patient, I take it?”

“Something to that effect.”

“Well”—Pietro hopped to his feet—“if you’ve got an airship to catch then I won’t hold you up. I’m sure you want to get out of here and pack.” He quirked a brow. “Just so you know, I’ll be very upset if you don’t bring me back a souvenir.”

Watts rolled his eyes. “I’ll stop at the hospital gift shop on my way out,” he drawled, without a hint of sincerity.

Pietro laughed. “I’ll hold you to it.”

He made it as far as the threshold when a voice called him back: “Pietro.”

Watts was shuffling a stack of papers on his desk—a pointless gesture, with how meticulous his workspace already was. He spoke without meeting his gaze: “When I return, I’d like to discuss some ideas I had for your project. I might have found a solution.”

His pulse quickened. “Are you—are you sure?” Pietro asked.

The rearranged stack was pushed off to the side. “I will be after tomorrow.”

When he got the news a week later, Pietro stared out his office window, and didn’t move for a long time.

“That girl’s blood is on your hands.”

“Don’t you dare say I took a choice away from her.”

Pietro hesitated outside the imposing metal doors. Announcing his presence would have been the right thing to do—something he should have done ten minutes ago—but a sense of dread, morbid curiosity, and some other nameless instinct stayed the impulse. Instead he leaned closer, only just able to discern the pair of muffled voices on the other side.

“She was dying. What was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for the hospital board to convene and debate the ethics? They would have wasted precious seconds wringing their hands and fretting over indemnification, while I had a chance to save her life.”

James’ voice was taut with the tension of a fraying rope. “And you failed.”

“People die from surgical complications every day,” Watts snapped. “We can’t save everyone. But we can try, and I did. She may be dead, but the contributions her death made have advanced our understanding of—”

“‘Contributions’? Do you hear yourself?”

Pietro nearly forgot to breathe in the deafening silence.

“You didn’t do this out of some misguided altruism,” James said. “You did it to satisfy your own curiosity.”

“I did it because she was running out of time and options. A transfer of consciousness by incising her Aura and siphoning it into a receptive vessel was the only way to ensure her survival. What other options were there?”

“Hospice.” The word was ground out through clenched teeth.

“If you’re waiting for me to grovel to you for clemency,” said Watts, “then you’ll be waiting for some time. I did nothing wrong.”

“Oh, really? Is that you why you had your patient shipped to a hospital in another kingdom so you could perform an illegal surgery?”

Pietro flinched.

“As I’ve explained to you numerous times, the procedure is illegal under Atlesian law. Mistral, on the other hand, has no such qualms when it comes to the implementation of pioneering medical research.”

“Hiding behind a loophole doesn’t change the fact that you manipulated her emotionally-compromised parents!” A fist slammed against the desk. “You knew they were desperate, and you knew they would say yes if there was even the slightest chance they could get their daughter back. Their consent was based solely on the premise that your theoretical procedure might work.”

“It’s not theoretical anymore.” The words saturated the air, like the ozone that preceded lightning. “I proved that it can be done. My efforts, while unsuccessful, weren’t a failure. We can take what I learned from her death and repurpose it—”

“That’s enough.”

Pietro recoiled from the shout. Then he realized what he’d done, and quickly repositioned himself next to the door.

“Did you know…” Shoes scuffed over the tiled floor, across the sunken dais. “During the height of the Great War, Mantle oversaw the detainment of captured soldiers. In time, their wardens saw little benefit in expending resources on them if there wasn’t some use for all of those people.” The pacing stopped. “Eventually, Mantle did find a use for them. They were experimented on. When the war came to a close, hundreds of people had perished. The textbooks never fail to recount that.”

Watts took a steadying breath. “What they often conveniently omit is that many of the technologies we have today were born from those experiments. Analgesics, psychotropic drugs, new surgical tools…and neuroprostheses.”

A pause.

“The metal grafted to your body exists because prisoners of war bled for it. You can’t ridicule my work and absolve yourself of hypocrisy.”

When James’ reply came, it was dangerously soft: “For better or worse, we have that technology.”

“For better or worse, we could have had one more,” Watts retorted. “How does condemning my choices justify yours?”

James exhaled through his nose, and his tone evened out into something approximating his regular speech. “Because I don’t condone the loss of lives, or the dehumanization of people. I didn’t participate in the atrocities that brought us those advancements.”

“No. You only benefited from them. Tell me, James. How many more people do you think will suffer needlessly in the future because you stymied my research? Inaction will deprive future generations.”

“Whereas action will slaughter the current one,” James shot back. “The ends don’t justify the means. You know that. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gambled on asking for forgiveness over permission, had the girl actually lived.”

Neither man spoke into the yawning chasm that filled the space between them.

“…I didn’t want her to die, James.” An unfamiliar emotion crept into his voice.

James sighed. “I didn’t call you here to debate your motives. What’s done is done.”

When Watts spoke again, the question was accompanied by unease: “Then why did you arrange this meeting?”

“To discuss the consequences with you.”

“Am I being arrested?”

“Not presently, no,” James said. “The Council hasn’t formally issued any charges, and they won’t until they meet to discuss the matter in-depth.”

“If I’m not being arrested,” Watts ventured, “then what consequences are you talking about?”

The general’s reply was delayed. “I spoke with the Medical Board. Your license has been suspended.”

Pietro’s blood ran cold.

“On what grounds?” His voice was nearly inaudible.

“Malpractice.”

“You can’t place me on probation for a law I didn’t break—”

“Arthur.”

The interruption killed whatever momentum he’d gathered. When no more protests were forthcoming, James continued: “It wasn’t my call.”

Another gap in the conversation followed, shorter than the ones before it.

“If the Board’s intention was to simply strip me of my license, they could have easily done so without involving you. If the Council plans to do nothing yet, then this meeting is a waste of our time.” His confusion faded, replaced with wariness. “Why am I really here, James?”

“…I want you to understand,” James began, “that I arranged this meeting as a courtesy. I didn’t want you to be in the dark about events going forward—”

“Why am I here?”

Pietro could picture James steepling his hands, tightening his jaw.

“As you’re aware, the Penny Project is a classified military project. Your surgery appropriated that research, and you performed it on a civilian.”

“My research”—Watts bristled—“was based on an archotheronotic disease. Where I drew my inspiration is irrelevant.”

“The other councilors might not have letters after their names, but they’re not idiots. They saw the parallels. It’s not a coincidence that your procedure and the project both focus on Aura.”

“The difference,” Watts spat, “is in the intent. The project’s goal is to create an Aura from scratch. Mine was to separate and transfer an already-existing one. If we can separate a host’s Aura and place it within a new receptacle, then that proves we can also remove a portion of it and do the same.”

“Even if you’re right, that doesn’t change the fact that the girl’s parents went to the media and took their story public,” James said. “Soul-based research is already controversial. How long do you think it will take for people to start asking questions? That’s a scrutiny we can’t afford right now.”

The chair legs scraped over the ground as James stood.

“The reason why I called you here is because the Council believes that your actions jeopardized that secrecy. The unauthorized disclosure of classified military intelligence is a potential security breach. Which is why, until they conclude their investigation, your passport is being revoked and you will be confined to the Kingdom of Atlas.”

James sounded tired.

“The charge they intend to level against you is treason.”

Nervously, Pietro rapped his knuckles against the wooden frame.

“Arthur? May I come in?”

Watts stood with his back to the room, an outstretched hand removing several books from their shelves. At the sound of his name, he stiffened. “If you must,” he answered flatly.

“Thank you.” He was careful to avoid tripping over the boxes stacked by the entryway as he closed the door behind him.

The other man had never been particularly materialistic, but even so, his decorating was far from sparse. Awards and accreditations had hung from the walls, while shelves with medical tomes lined the perimeter of the office. Occasionally, projects from the lab migrated into the room, and had taken up tablespace by the windowsill where a lone bromeliad sat.

It was jarring to see those possessions packed away.

Watts didn’t immediately turn to face him. Instead, his head sunk between his shoulders. “…Are you here to yell at me as well?”

“Yes. No.” He ran a hand through his hair. A thousand different thoughts colored his mind like a fractured kaleidoscope. There were plenty of things he wanted to say, each worse than the last. Pietro ruthlessly shoved those thoughts aside. “Look, I’m upset, but right now you need a friend, not another detractor.”

“How considerate of you.” His words were devoid of inflection.

“I’m not going to pretend I know how you’re feeling right now, but I still think you should—” Pietro glanced at one of the cardboard boxes on his desk, only to do a double-take. “What are you doing?”

“Vacating the premises.” Watts resumed packing. “Seeing as I’m no longer tenured, the institute felt this room could be put to better use.”

“I already know that. That’s not what I meant.” Pietro gestured to the lacy scrawl on the side of the box—Free to whoever wants it. “Why are you getting rid of your things?”

“I have no reason to keep them. It’s not as if I’ll be able to use them again for another employer.”

“You don’t know that—” Pietro began to protest.

“No one in their right mind would hire me. And that’s assuming I won’t be spending the rest of my life behind bars.” He folded the box flaps with slightly more force than necessary. “Seeing as you’re already here, help yourself to whatever you like. I’ll be taking the rest of these downstairs to the breakroom, once I’m done. I know Will was always partial to my microscope.”

“I’m not taking your things!” Pietro let out a long, deep exhale, forcing himself to calm down. “I want to talk to you.”

“Very well.” Watts finally turned to face him, and Pietro was struck by how ill he looked. A gauntness clung to his features, though whether from a lack of food or a lack of sleep, he couldn’t say. Stubble had begun to creep in below his jaw, and his clothes were far more disheveled than he could ever recall them being. “Talk.”

It took him a moment to collect his thoughts. “You need to get a lawyer.”

“And what good will that do me?” His eyes were dull. “Even if the odds weren’t overwhelmingly stacked against me, what lawyer would touch my case?”

“I’m sure someone would, if you asked around.” Pietro hated the idea, but he willed himself to say it: “What about Jacques Schnee? You’re acquaintances, right? The SDC settles lawsuits all the time, so they’ve got to have legal experts on retainer. Maybe you could arrange something with him—”

“If you think I’ll let myself be indebted to that myopic narcissist—” As quickly as it flared, the fire in his eyes faded. Watts’ posture folded in on itself as the anger drained from him, leaving only fretful cinders behind. “I’m sorry,” he said, with a hard blink. “I was out of line.”

Pietro worried his lower lip. “What can I do to help?” he asked. “Do you want to go out? Get something to drink?”

“I—” Watts cut himself off with a sigh, and shook his head. “No. Thank you. I have plans to meet with one of my former patients later. He wants to discuss alternatives for his Dust poisoning, seeing as his treatments have been…discontinued.”

Pietro cast his gaze helplessly about the room, trying to think of something. With an unpleasant lurch in his chest, he realized that he couldn’t. “I’ll leave you to it, then?” he said.

“That would be for the best.”

Despite the overwhelming urge to protest, Pietro turned to leave. He stopped with his fingers on the door handle, and glanced back. “You’ll come and get me if you need anything, right?”

Watts opened another box, and began writing on the side. “Of course.”

Save for the occasional fleeting glimpse, Pietro saw little of his friend over the next two weeks.

While his presence on the campus was a necessity, Watts seemed to be doing what he could to minimize it. Only the administrators—who refused to speak about it—and his former clients—who spoke too much about it—spent any length of time with him. His public avoidance did little to deter the gossip, which varied in accuracy and failed to account for all the details, given the clandestine nature of his termination. It didn’t help that Pietro staunchly refused to contribute to it, and told off anyone bold enough to press the subject.

When their paths did cross, Watts didn’t linger long enough to chat. He had a faraway look on his face, and his appearance was unkempt.

It worried Pietro that he no longer seemed to care about himself.

It was early into the evening when Watts visited his office.

“Forgive me for the intrusion.” Pietro glanced up from his paperwork to see Watts hovering in the doorway. Strangely, he was carrying the bromeliad. “Might I steal a moment of your time?”

“Certainly!” Pietro pushed aside the document stack and gestured warmly to the chair. To his dismay, Watts remained standing. “What can I do for you?”

Watts adjusted the potted plant in his arms. “I was wondering,” he began, “if I could ask for a small favor.”

“Go ahead.”

Pietro didn’t know what to make of the unexpectedly calm expression on his face, so at odds with his recent emotional state.

“I need someone to look after this for me.” Watts took a step forward, and set the plant on the edge of the desk. “If it’s left unattended for a day or two it’s not an issue. Any longer, though, and it begins to dry out. The care required for it isn’t overly involved; the soil simply needs to be misted with distilled water every so—”

“Wait a second,” Pietro said. “Why does it sound like you’re going somewhere?”

Watts hesitated. “I’m travelling to Evadne for a few days.”

Pietro started to rise. “Arthur—”

He held up a hand. “I’m forbidden from international flights, not domestic. The southern coast of Solitas is under Atlesian jurisdiction, is it not?”

Slowly, Pietro sank back into his chair. “It is,” he agreed. “But why are you travelling now?”

Watts closed his eyes. “I want to see the coast one last time.”

He frowned. “You shouldn’t talk like that. You don’t know what’s going to happen.”

His friend didn’t comment. He merely stared at him.

“Fine,” Pietro relented, “I’ll watch it for you. But just so you know, I’ve killed plants before.”

His lips twitched in a faint smile. “That’s quite all right.”

Pietro reached forward to move the pot, only to be taken aback when his hand was intercepted by Watts’. The contact startled him, so much so that he didn’t react when Watts lightly squeezed.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

Pietro forced his jaws to move. “For what?”

“For more than I care to admit.”

The hand retreated.

“Enjoy your trip, Arthur.” Pietro tried to sound cheerful. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

Watts opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. He dipped his head in a polite nod, before turning on his heel.

He wasn’t sure why he was here.

It was the second day after Watts’ departure for Evadne. The office was unrecognizable without any of its usual décor—walls now stripped bare of his possessions, floorspace empty save for the generic chairs and desk pushed off to the corner. The open space was dissonant with Pietro’s memories of the many times he’d spent in this room, either with other members of the team, or by himself. Almost as soon as the thoughts formed, they were accompanied by a pang of nostalgia. His fingernails dug into his palm.

Adjusting to the new normal was a prospect he dreaded, not just for the uncertainties at play, but simply because he didn’t want things to change. In truth, Pietro didn’t know what the Council’s verdict would be.

And he would have been lying if he said the thought didn’t keep him up at night.

It was as he was looking around the room that he noticed something glint in the waste bin. Intrigued, he bent down and pushed aside the crumpled papers partially obscuring it. When he lifted it from the bin, Pietro was surprised to see his reflection staring back at him from the plaque’s glassy surface.

The Atlesian Institute of Technology is honored to present the Rigel Award to Arthur Watts in recognition of his contributions to the fields of archotherology and pneumatophysics.

“I know things are bad right now, Arthur, but you shouldn’t just throw things like this away…” He’d been at the reception where the award had been presented; it had been a milestone in Watts’ career.

Carefully, Pietro wiped away a smudge with the hem of his shirt. A stubborn resolve seized him.

“It’s not breaking and entering if you have the spare key,” Pietro told himself, as the lock clicked.

The first thing he noticed, as the apartment door shut behind him, was the immediate onset of cold. Ice cold. The sort of chill that settled in a person’s lungs, and caused their breath to fog as they gasped for air.

“Gods above.” Pietro wrapped his arms around himself. “I know you like it cold, but this is ridiculous. What’s the temperature in here?”

Not intending to trip his way through the room, Pietro reached for the light switch.

Nothing.

“The bulb must have blown out.” He resorted to the flashlight on his scroll. Mindful of where he stepped, Pietro moved into the hall where the thermostat was. The last thing his friend needed was to return to a drafty apartment.

Understandably, he was confused when he tapped the screen, only for the thermostat to not respond.

“Surely this isn’t broken too…?”

A nagging suspicion prompted him to reach for the next light switch in his path. The hall remained dark, even after Pietro flipped it several times.

Something wasn’t right.

The next three lights he tried remained unresponsive to his attempts. Pietro stopped in the kitchen, his scroll in one hand, the glass plaque grasped loosely in the other. What else wasn’t working?

His gaze fell to the sink. With a slither of incredulity, Pietro turned the handle on the faucet.

It was cold, granted, but not cold enough to freeze the pipes. And he refused to believe that all of the utilities simultaneously stopped working. Even if they did, Watts would never have knowingly allowed them to remain in disrepair.

His mind discarded one possibility after the next, trying to identify a pattern, an explanation.

Pietro lifted the plaque to eye level.

For the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why he’d want to get rid of something so important. It was a question he’d have to ask him when he came back—

His eyes widened.

Glass skated over the tiles as the plaque shattered against the floor. Pietro fumbled with his scroll, cursing, as he bolted back down the hall.

James answered on the second ring. “Pietro? What—”

“Where are you?” he gasped.

“The Academy,” he said. “Is something—”

“Meet me in your office!” The door slammed shut behind him. “We need to stop him!”

“And you’re sure about this?” James gravely looked on as Pietro paced.

“Why else would he have gotten rid of his things?” He gestured wildly. “He already believes his life is over. He had no reason to keep them.”

Those words had taken on an entirely new meaning, one that made Pietro feel sick.

“I understand, given the circumstances, how you would've arrived at that conclusion. But is it possible you’re wrong?” He spoke with the calm, patient authority of his rank, with a pragmatism meant to ease. All it did was agitate Pietro even more. “Arthur is a lot of things, but suicidal? It doesn’t seem—”

“You haven’t seen him the last few weeks!” His voice shot up an octave. “He’s hardly eating, barely sleeping, he isolated himself from nearly everyone. I knew he was depressed, but I didn’t think…” He trailed off, at a loss for words. “James, please. We need to do something.”

James leaned back into his desk, hands braced against the edge. “We should consider every possibility before we act.”

Pietro halted in his tracks. “What other possibilities?”

“Consider what you’ve just told me. He disposed of his personal belongings—things that would have encumbered him. He distanced himself from other people—social contacts that would have tied him to the kingdom. He canceled his utilities—lien he no longer has to waste.”

Pietro turned to face him. “What are you suggesting?”

“Given the pending criminal charges, it’s possible that he’s trying to flee the kingdom.”

Pietro tensed.

“Think carefully about your last conversation.” James watched him closely. “Did he indicate that he planned on coming back?”

Mutely, Pietro shook his head.

“If he wanted to leave without drawing attention to himself, Evadne would be the logical choice,” he said. “It’s a small town on the water frequently used as a stopover between the interior cities and Anima’s northern coast. It has a comparably smaller military presence, and most of its visitors are tourists. He won’t look out of place. And if he’s brought lien with him, it wouldn’t take much persuasion to stow away on an airship or a boat. Dust smugglers regularly make use of those tactics.”

Pietro started to shake.

“Both possibilities are upsetting in their own right, and I’d prefer for neither to be true. But the evidence isn’t something we can just ignore. Right now, the latter seems more likely. I didn’t notice—”

“Of course you didn’t notice!” Pietro shouted. “You were so busy trying to end his career that you didn’t realize you were ending his life!”

His words echoed around the room. In the stunned silence that followed, Pietro continued to yell.

“‘I want to see the coast one last time.’ That’s what he said to me when he left! He didn’t mean before he was arrested; he meant before he died. And why wouldn’t he? What did he have left? Either he was going to waste away in a cell, or he was going to spend the rest of his life unable to rebuild it. No one in the medical community will speak to him, no one on the team will look at him—” He doubled over with a strangled cough. “I know what he did was wrong. I think it’s wrong. But I don’t want him to die because of it! I don’t want to be right, but with everything I’ve seen we can’t wait around to find out if I’m wrong. James, please, we have to—”

A hand fell on his shoulder. Pietro wheezed.

“We’ll find him.” James’ grip tightened. “I can have an airship ready in ten minutes.”

The night was alive with the weaving bands of the auroras.

A distant part of his mind tried to find comfort in the emerald and indigo light, as it rippled through the sky amidst a backdrop of stars.

“We should be there in a few hours.” From the seat across from him, James consulted his scroll. “Our ETA will be about 6:00 AM.”

Pietro turned away from the window. “What are we going to do when we get there?”

“I have a special operative who’s currently stationed in the area. Her name’s Caroline. I radioed her as we were boarding. Her team’s going to meet us when we land and help with the search.”

He nodded.

“Before Arthur left”—James glanced up from the screen—“did he tell you where he was staying?”

“No, I’m sorry,” he replied. “He didn’t.”

“That’s all right.” James returned to his scroll. “If he checked into a hotel, the transaction will be on his bank statement. I should have access to his account history in a minute.”

“James.” Pietro steeled himself. “If I’m right…about…” He drew in a shuddering breath. “How are we going to handle this?”

“It depends on what we find, and what—condition he’s in.” James’ face was pinched. “The plan is to make sure he’s not a danger to himself or anyone else.”

“‘Anyone else’?”

James’ expression darkened. “I’ve seen situations like this before, with soldiers and Huntsmen. Sometimes they lash out.”

Suddenly, Pietro was grateful for his friend’s long military career, and the experience that came with it.

That went doubly so a second later when his scroll chimed, granting him clearance.

James read over the information as it poured in. “Well, this confirms what we already suspected—he canceled his utilities a few days ago.”

“Did you find out where he’s staying?”

“Let me see—got it. I have the name and address. It’s…” He scrolled through something on the screen. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

Pietro leaned forward, trying to get a better look. “What is it?”

“Right before he left, he emptied his account.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Hang on. I might be able to trace where it went—” James trailed off.

“What is it?”

“He—” James peered at the records. “A large percentage of it was made out as a check. To the Ateliers.”

Pietro didn’t speak. If he opened his mouth now, he’d vomit.

“The remainder appears to have been withdrawn, though I’m not sure why.”

The cabin was mercifully silent as James immersed himself in parsing through the records. With nothing to do and only his thoughts to preoccupy him, Pietro returned to the window. It was several minutes before James spoke again:

“It’s going to be a while before we land. Try to get some sleep.”

When he trusted himself to not be sick, Pietro answered. “I’m okay, James.”

It was a lie. And judging by James’ expression, he didn’t believe it either.

“General Ironwood.” A woman of remarkably short stature saluted them. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

“Likewise, Caroline.”

She fell in step beside him while her two subordinates took up positions at the rear. For every one step James took, Caroline had to take three.

“Anything to report?” he asked.

“We’ve been monitoring the building from afar for the last half hour. We haven’t seen Dr. Watts enter or leave.”

James didn’t comment. Rather, he quickened his pace.

“Do you have any orders for us?”

“The manager will be expecting us, although she wasn’t fully informed as to why. I want you and your team to start in his room, then sweep the premises while we interview the staff.” He stopped with his hand on the glass doors, and gave her a hard stare. “Do not, under any circumstances, harm him. If the situation becomes dangerous, you are to either deescalate it or wait for me to join you. Do I make myself clear?”

She grimaced. “Yes, sir.”

A woman with a sheet of long, violet hair stood waiting for them in the lobby. “Welcome, General Ironwood. Dr. Polendina.” She offered a shallow bow. As she rose, she registered the accompanying operatives, and her eyes flickered with unspoken questions. “How may I assist you?”

“We’d like to speak with you, along with any staff that may have interacted with one of your guests.”

The manager glanced at Caroline. “Are we in danger?”

“No. Not likely,” said James.

The manager didn’t look reassured, but she didn’t protest. “Very well. Please follow me.”

She guided the small group to the front desk where the receptionist sat, their eyes wide in bewilderment. “May I have the guest’s name?” she asked.

“Arthur Watts,” James said.

Without prompting, the receptionist keyed in the name. “Uh. He’s in room 3A.”

James turned to the manager. “May I have your permission to send my team upstairs?”

“Go ahead.”

He nodded. At once Coraline and her subordinates dispersed.

The manager waited until they’d filed into the elevator before she spoke: “You said you had questions for me?”

“Along with any staff that interacted with him,” James clarified.

“I’ve interacted with him.”

The receptionist seemed to regret that decision the moment three pairs of eyes turned on them. Nevertheless, they continued: “The guy with the mustache, right?”

Pietro’s pulse stuttered sharply. “When did you last see him?”

“This morning. He left over an hour ago. Said he was going for a walk.”

It took every shred of willpower Pietro had to not run out those doors.

“Did he leave with any belongings on his person? A bag, perhaps?” James asked.

The receptionist shook their head. “No, sir. Just his wallet and his room key, like he usually does.”

Pietro swapped a look with James, before turning back to the receptionist. “What do you mean by ‘usually’?”

“This is the time when he usually goes out. He stops to talk to the receptionist—well, me, I guess—and then heads out for a few hours. Comes back around noon, grabs lunch in the dining hall, heads back upstairs. Goes out again around five o’clock, and comes back some time after seven.” They gave a helpless shrug. “I—I guess he has a routine.”

Some of the tension left James’ shoulders. “It’s possible Arthur did in fact come here just to destress,” he said.

What should have been a reassuring thought made Pietro want to sink into the ground in mortification. He could only imagine what Watts’ face would look like when he returned to the hotel, to find that Pietro had brought along the entire cavalry. All because he assumed his friend had a death wish.

Pietro was dragged out of his pity party by James’ next question: “Do you remember anything specific about his behavior? Anything that might have looked or sounded strange?”

To his surprise, the receptionist looked guilty. “Well…” They glanced at the manager.

“Whatever it is, you’re not in trouble,” she said.

The receptionist hesitated a second longer, before heaving a reluctant sigh. “You get a lot of guests in a place like this, right? So you don’t always remember all of them. Not unless they stand out in some way. He…” They paused. “He’s been nothing but polite and friendly to all the staff.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly noteworthy,” James observed.

The receptionist fidgeted. “No, it’s not that. It’s not just that. He tipped us well.” They swallowed. “Like, really well.”

The lingering dread from earlier resurfaced. “How much did he tip you?” Pietro asked.

They averted their gaze. “Ten thousand lien. Each.”

The dread beat savage wings against his ribs.

Out of his periphery, James stepped off to the side with a finger pressed to his earpiece. A second later his face went unsettlingly blank. “Excuse me,” he said. “I need to speak with my team.”

Pietro dimly registered his departure. He looked between the two hotel staff, his mind frantically scrambling for an explanation other than the one he didn’t want to hear. “Did he say anything?” he asked. Begged. “Anything that you might remember could help."

They considered his words with renewed thoughtfulness. “When he’d come back from his walks, I’d ask him how he was—the regular sort of small talk you’d make with guests. He told me that he went down to the beach. When I asked him, ‘Did you do anything while you were there?’ he said, ‘Not today. Perhaps I will tomorrow.’”

“Pietro.”

James had returned.

Coraline and her team hurried through the lobby; he could just make out “mobilize search-and-rescue” being barked into her earpiece as they rushed past.

He regarded Pietro with pale, haunted eyes, before slowly holding out his hand. “I’m sorry.”

A note hung from his fingertips.

After four days of searching, Arthur Watts was declared dead.

James scrubbed at his face. “I already told you, Camilla,” he sighed, as the doors slid open, “I’ll have it resolved once I—oh, Pietro. I didn’t realize it was you.”

Pietro managed a weak smile. “Disappointed to see me?” he asked, as he strode into the room.

“Relieved, actually.” James set aside some manner of document he’d been working on. “I was half-expecting another lecture.” Pietro accepted the tacit invitation to join him, and eased into the chair. “What can I do for you?”

Pietro tapped his fingers against the armrest. “I need a favor. A big one.”

“Why do I get the impression I won’t like what you’re about to ask me?”

“Because you won’t.”

Predictably, James wasn’t amused, but he didn’t try to bodily throw him out of the room, so that was a good start. “All right,” he said. “I’m listening.”

This conversation had sounded so much easier in his head. Pietro contemplated which option to take, before deciding on the direct approach: “Did you ever look over the report Arthur wrote after the surgery?”

It was brief, but Pietro didn’t miss the flash of regret James very neatly concealed behind unwavering calm. He steepled his hands. “I did,” he answered.

“Did you see the post-op notes?”

“I did.”

“But did you read them?” he pressed.

There was a hint of humor in his reply: “I read them to the extent I could understand them.”

Pietro braced himself. “I took another look at his work on Auratic intercision. He did it, James.”

When the other man said nothing, he hurriedly launched into his speech. “Even though the initial attempt failed, he managed to deduce what went wrong during the procedure. I won’t waste your time with all the technical mumbo jumbo, but I did the math. Split-Aura transfer is possible.”

He held James’ gaze. “We can finally build Penny.”

For a moment that stretched into eternity, James remained silent. He closed his eyes, exhaled, and opened them again. “You want my permission, to use the same research that nearly got him arrested, to complete your project.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Pietro said.

“I can certainly appreciate the irony, if nothing else.” He narrowed his eyes—thoughtfully, not in anger. “This wasn’t an idea you came up with overnight. It’s been nearly two months. Why did you wait this long to bring it up?”

“It’s as you said: it’s been two months. The last of the journalists have retired the story. People are no longer fixated on the proceedings. No more controversy, no more public backlash. The scandal died with him.” It hurt to say, but Pietro pushed onward: “Synthesizing an Aura has proven impossible, but now, we have a viable alternative. We can’t bring Mia Atelier back. But perhaps we can give someone else a chance at life.”

He waited.

At last, James nodded. A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding left him. “You have my permission.”

“Thank you,” Pietro said.

“There’s just one problem.”

James regarded him intently. “The procedure requires a donor, does it not? You need a volunteer.”

Pietro straightened. “You’re looking at him.”

It had been a while since he last had the chance to sit and diagram.

A combination of blueprints, tablets, and holographic projectors were scattered about the desk. Other than the sleepy hum of the generator, and the scratching of pen against paper, his office was silent. The ambiance gave Pietro a pleasant rhythm to work to as he alternated between mediums.

He was in the middle of diagramming the thrusters when a voice spoke up from behind: “Burning the midnight oil?”

Pietro gladly accepted the mug James offered him, as he occupied the empty seat. “Just getting a little more work done before I call it quits.” He grinned. “I just finished the template for her skeleton. It’s on the tablet to your right if you want to see it.”

“This one?” James picked up the tablet in question.

“Swipe left, it’s the first file.”

The device lit up in his hands. James made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat as his eyes darted across the screen.

“What do you think?” Pietro asked.

“I think”—he continued to skim through the files—“I picked the right proposal.”

He didn’t realize how much he needed to hear those words until he felt a hot, stinging sensation in the corner of his eyes. He tried to discreetly dab it away.

Not discreetly enough, it seemed. James shot him an inquiring look.

“Oh, don’t mind. I’m just a little sensitive right now.” Pietro ducked his head. “It’s not every day you get to become a father.”

James wore a knowing, if somewhat bemused smile, but he was considerate enough to not say anything. He turned his attention back to the files in his hand.

“A lot of those are aesthetic mock-ups. I haven’t finalized anything, so if you want to throw in your two cents on the design input, you’re more than welcome to.”

“Did he know?”

Pietro’s hand stilled over the parchment. When no elaboration was forthcoming, he lifted his head to deduce one for himself.

His pulse beat painfully beneath his skin.

The file on the screen was one of the earliest drafts for Penny’s design. It was also one of the only files to have received a color palette. Red hair hung in thick curls about her pale face. Her cheeks were flecked with freckles that contrasted just enough to be visible, just below her eyes.

Eyes that were a very familiar shade of green.

He didn’t say anything for several moments. He debated saying anything at all.

But there was no judgment on James’ face, no hint of contempt in his voice. Only sympathy.

“No,” Pietro answered. He let out a tired sigh, and set the pen down. “And he never suspected. I made sure of that.”

“You didn’t want to tell him?”

“I wanted to tell him for a long time." He closed his eyes. "I’ve spent the last four months regretting every day that I didn’t. And on every one of those days, I wondered if telling him would have made a difference.”

“It’s not your fault,” said James.

“I know.” Pietro reached for the photo on the edge of his desk, and gently lifted the frame into his hands. It was the last picture the team had taken together. “It doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone.”

He lifted his eyes to the file in James’ hands, to the image of the young girl staring back at him.

“But maybe, through someone else—someone new—he can still be here.”

“Dr. Watts?”

Watts lifted his head from the chart he'd been reviewing.

At the entrance of his lab stood Hazel, his expression as impassive as ever.

“We have a meeting to attend.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Watts smoothed down the front of his coat. “Tell Salem I’ll be right there.”

Guess I've got some explaining to do. For anyone curious about my RWBY worldbuilding and headcanons:

Pietro not being disabled prior to the start of the series - We have no confirmation of this in canon, but I think that donating a percentage of his Aura to Penny has slowly chipped away at his health. I based this partly on the fact that in the show, the areas on his body where his Aura has been excised most prominently are over his legs and lower torso. If donating too much of his Aura is fatal, then it stands to reason that there are intermediary complications between points A and D - loss of mobility in his legs, chronic respiratory illness, worsening vision, and so on.

Archotherology (Gr. archo-, ruler, + -thero-, beast, + -logy, study of) - The study of Grimm.

Pneumatophysics (Gr. pneûma, soul, + -physics) - The study of the soul and its physical manifestation, Aura.

Apothymetics (Gr. apo-, derived from, + -thym-, soul, + E. -ics, from [?] Gr. -ikós, pertaining to) - The study of Semblances; a subdiscipline of pneumatophysics.

Auratic disease - An adverse condition that typically affects a person’s Aura, and by extension, their Semblance. Auratic diseases are generated by plague-type Grimm, and then transmitted to people through proximity. Watts' research simulated an Auratic disease, which is why Pietro later acquires a manmade version of CAD. You can click here to read more about them.

Evadne - A coastal city in southern Solitas. Named after the Greek figure Evadne, the wife of King Argus.

[hopeshoodie]

What do you think the LIs would do for Mc when she’s sick?

Rocco: Rocco says he uses ‘alternative medicine’ but only as a means to avoid actually seeking help. He doesn’t actually know anything about herbs or essential oils, he just always offers them as a strawman if MC says she wants to go to a pharmacy. He’s 100% the kind of guy to muscle through sickness and hasn’t been to a doctor/dentist in years. If MC is sick he’ll encourage her to pretend that she’s fine, and if she’s /really/ sick he’ll panic and not know where to bring her. MC absolutely had to take charge of both of their health and find the nearest doctor (and the appropriate place because Rocco defaults to ‘Emergency Room’ every time) if she wants them both to not die.

Carl: I don’t think Carl knows how to be around sick people. He himself doesn’t get sick all that often, and when he does he has an irrational fear of doctors so he really strays away from seeking medical attention. When MC is sick, Carl’s caught between not wanting to get sick and wanting to help her. I think that manifests in cooking a lot of soup for her (even though he’s a horrid cook and the vegetables are undercooked while the noodles are overcooked) and bringing her supplies from the drug store while wearing a mask and gloves. She laughs and says he’s treating her like an alien, and he sheepishly smiles and shrugs. 

Gary: I think regardless of if MC is sick or on her period, Gary dotes on her. He’s really thoughtful and brings her extra tampons, chocolate, Nyquil, and cold compresses without her having to ask. He still goes to work because, like a normal person, he realizes a little flu isn’t the end of the world, but he’s really diligent about checking up on how MC is feeling. 

Henrik: Henrik believes a healthy amount in alternative medicine without outright rejecting western medicine. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not an anti-vaxxer. He just knows a lot about herbal remedies and has MC try them. If she doesn’t like them/insists they’re not helping, he gladly takes hers to the doctor. Especially for topical injuries and simple things like a cough or cold, Henrik has all sorts of herbal tonics and ointments. MC humors him usually because some of them kinda slap- like this steam treatment he has for sinuses where he puts an organic herbal tab that has some kind of root in a pot of steaming water and then you breathe in the steam. MC hasn’t had a sinus infection since Henrik showed her that. 

Ibrahim: For some reason? I have literally no thoughts about Rahim taking care of MC when she’s sick? I feel like he’d be incredibly average. Like yeah he’d bring her medication and a hot water bottle, but who wouldn’t? I dunno, I just don’t see Rahim as super excited to be a caretaker nor do I see him as adverse to it. 

Lucas: Like Carl, I think Lucas is super awkward around sick people. He’s not super comfortable taking care of others and seeing MC vulnerable really upsets him. Instead of being afraid of doctors, though, that’s his out- he doesn’t know how to take care of MC but he can bring her to someone who does. Lucas suggests going to the doctor for literally everything. If MC has a cold- do you need to go to the doctor? If MC has the flu- should I take you to urgent care? MC tweaked her back and has pain- I can call an ambulance. He’s also super awkward when she’s just nursing an illness at home- he’ll awkwardly stand there and ask “what can I do? Can I bring you something?” If she says no, he’ll just hover uncomfortably until she yells at him to let her sleep.

Marisol: Marisol overreacts whenever she’s sick (usually that’s because she ignores little problems until they build up and doesn’t address sickness until she’s literally too feverish to be coherent), so when MC (who has a healthier concept of rest and recovery) calls into work sick Marisol assumes she’s dying. Marisol smothers a sick MC in affection and gifts, and insists on taking her temperature every morning until she insists she feels better.

Noah: Noah!! Is!! A caretaker!!! Almost to an annoying degree. He played that role growing up for his siblings, so he has no qualms swooping in. If MC is bad enough but still saying ‘I can go in to work’ he’ll call in for her and explain she’s too sick. He’ll wake her up every six hours to take medication and always ensure she’s drinking enough water. MC complains about it sometimes, but she has a habit of just putting health issues off to ‘see if they get better’. Noah always ensures they take care of ear infections/injuries/pain right away. He’s also super cognizant that women are undermined in medical settings (doubly so if MC is a WOC), so he’s the annoying husband who goes with her to major appointments and badgers the doctors to take her symptoms seriously. Whenever they deny testing, he’ll say “Can you record that in writing, that this test was denied, in her file”, and he’s amazing at dealing with insurance companies if they deny claims (no idea if England is as dystopian as we are, but I spent 4 hours on the phone last month after I got Lymes disease and had to go to the emergency room). 

Bobby: I know everyone wants me to say Bobby is uwu soft and would love babying MC, but... Nah. I think he gets a LOT of gratification from MC being incapacitated and having to depend on him. He LOVES feeling need and getting to spend all day with MC absolutely focused on her and him. He absolutely takes it farther than it needs to go, getting off of work to sponge bathe MC and spoon feed her meals. He’s really sweet and normal if their kids get sick and stay home from school but when it’s MC... game on.

[biillyhargroves]

“I hate cough syrup...” “I hate you coughing all over me, yet here we are...” **** Hello! I’m dying for a sick fic, but where Steve is sick. I feel like every time I see a sick fic, it’s Billy who is hurt/sick, and I need some feverish, cuddly, insecure Steve and some overbearing, impossibly sweet, medicine giving Billy. If you have some time. ❤️

relief(fic requests open)

Steve is half-dozing, his head leaned against the cool car window, when something strikes his leg. He startles and blinks blearily until Billy comes into focus. He drops into the driver’s seat and the radio roars to life when he turns the key in the ignition.

“I thought you were getting cigarettes,” Steve says. He lifts the object that had hit him: a small white paper bag with Melvald’s General Store stamped in blue across the front. It is heavy for its size, and Steve lets it fall onto his lap. 

“I did,” Billy says, and it is then that Steve realizes that Billy is already smoking. A fresh Marlboro dangles from his lips. Billy pinches it between his fingers and uses it to point at the bag. “That’s for you,” he says. 

Smoke from Billy’s cigarette wafts around Steve’s head. It tickles his throat and drifts up his nose and makes him cough. What starts as a single, isolated cough turns into a fit that makes Billy frown. He rolls down his window and exhales a long smoky breath into the wind. The sudden rush of air makes Steve shiver. Billy seems to notice this, too, and he flicks his cigarette into the street and rolls the window back up. 

"What the hell is this?” Steve asks. He holds up a small white and red box. 

“You can read, can’t you, Harrington?” Billy quips.

“I hate cough syrup,” Steve complains. 

“Yeah, well, I hate being coughed on,” Billy says. “What’s your solution?”

“I haven’t coughed on you,” Steve says. As if on cue, he coughs. 

“You’re getting real damn close,” Billy says. 

“I’m fine,” says Steve. 

“Bullshit,” says Billy. 

“I am,” Steve protests.

“You’re talking to the king of I’m fine,” Billy says. “Can’t pull that shit with me.” 

He pulls up in the Harringtons’ driveway. The house is empty for the week, with Steve’s father gone to a conference and his mother off visiting some sick aunt so many times removed that she swears Steve met at some family function that he doesn’t recall going to because he’s almost positive he had been an infant. Billy gets out of the car, and he is already at the passenger door when Steve opens it. 

“You gonna carry me or something?”

“Don’t think I won’t,” Billy says, but instead he offers a hand which Steve reluctantly takes. Steve attempts to break free, to step away and prove that he can walk on his own, thank you very much, but his feet seem to have other plans. He can’t quite keep them beneath himself and he stumbles and falls against Billy’s chest. His cheeks flush red when Billy laughs. “Relax,” Billy says, securing an arm around Steve’s middle and supporting him up the front steps of the house. “We’ll save the fireman’s carry for more dire circumstances.”

“I hate you,” Steve grumbles, and then he coughs.

“Mhmm,” Billy says. He helps Steve into the house. They shuffle into the living room together, where Billy eases Steve onto the couch. He takes the paper pharmacy bag from him and fishes out the cough syrup. He also produces a small bottle of Tylenol, a can of Coke, and an extra pack of cigarettes which he pockets for himself. He sits on the coffee table so that he is opposite Steve and he quietly observes Steve, who has curled into the cushions and his eyes half-closed. Billy gently touches the back of his head to Steve’s forehead. Steve shudders. “Shh,” Billy soothes.

“Your hands are cold,” Steve says.

“You’re warm,” Billy tells him.

“You mean hot,” Steve says with a small smirk.

“Sure,” Billy concedes. “That, too.” He drops his hand, and Steve lets out a little whine. “Okay,” Billy says. He cracks open the bottle of cough syrup. “Come on,” he says. 

“Billy, please,” Steve murmurs pathetically. Billy pours a dose of the syrup into the little plastic cup. “I don’t need it,” Steve insists, but his body betrays him and coughs again. He groans when he is finished, and looks up at Billy. “See?” he says unconvincingly. “I’m fine.”

“Humor me,” Billy says flatly. He holds out the cup. Steve frowns at it. When Billy doesn’t relent, Steve takes the cup from him. “Do it like a shot,” Billy tells him. He pops the tab on the Coke can and holds it out to Billy. “Chase it with this.” 

Steve takes the soda. He frowns, looks at the medicine, looks at Billy, looks back at the medicine. Finally, he downs the cough syrup. He winces, and begins coughing. Billy takes the cup from him and moves to sit beside him. He takes Steve hand, the one holding the soda can, and guides him to drink. Steve takes a few sips and then he hands the can to Billy, who places it on the coffee table. Instinctively, Steve curls toward Billy. He exhales and rests his head against Billy’s chest. Billy rubs small, soothing circles over Steve’s back and Steve uncoils toward him. 

“That sucked,” Steve says eventually. Even so, he nestles closer to Billy.

Billy smiles. He says, “You’ll thank me later.”

[deepestdarkestsickestpartsofu]

Introduction

We met in spring of 2017. He changed my life forever, in a way that I will never be able to explain. What I would want you to understand before reading this, is how much love has taken charge of my feelings and impulses. 

I loved him, I love him. 

Nothing he did will ever change that.

At this point I bet you may be wondering who I am. Right... I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Nadir, a 25 year old man that is attracted to other men, but that’s not the most significant part in the story. I grew up in a quiet conservative town in Michigan, with a small population of less than 5,000 people. My mother is pretty old schooled and forced me to stay in school until I graduated. That meant no ‘girlfriends’, no sleepovers, no working. I always had the desire to help her monetarily by getting a job and at least pay the house bills. However she would constantly say to me to just focus on my studies and that would be what would help us in the long run.

My parents are originally from Israel. My mother grew up as Catholic, which was not the usual back then and my father grew up Jewish. They became less religious when they decided to move to the United States, which is where they had my siblings and I. They both lived here as immigrants and I didn’t understand what that meant when I was a child, I just thought we were like any other family living in the US. My father unfortunately passed away from a heart attack when I was 8 years old and it affected me in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine. During his wake, I didn’t cry. It was all so surreal and I felt like he would wake up randomly and claim that everything was a joke. He had a great sense of humor and always managed to make people smile, however his death wasn’t a joke. Once it was time to bury him, I cried as hard as I could since I knew I wouldn’t see him ever again. After that, my mother worked as hard as she could to give my siblings and I what we needed. She could barely afford to pay for the mortgage on the house until my older brothers started working and helping her out with as much as they could. My mother worked two jobs daily to make sure we had food on our table, clothes and a good education. 

It would hurt me to see her stress about providing for us, so eventually I managed to get a scholarship at San Francisco State University. Being the youngest of 4 children gave me a bit of an advantage to enjoy ‘the beauty of freedom’ as we know it now, and not have to struggle about being gay in the 70′s, not that it’s any different now. I mean there are hate crimes all over, shootings that keep getting more common by the minute and discrimination which is still pretty big now. That is one of the reasons why I decided not to come out to my mother, nor anyone in town for that matter. I was already struggling with self-acceptance and I didn’t want to be a burden to my mother. During my senior year of High School I managed to convince my mother to let me work to save up for essential stuff. I began working at a pharmacy and little by little saved up enough money to leave town and follow my dreams in a career I wanted. I wasn’t certain of what my major would be, however it needed to be in the art field. Whether it would be acting, directing, drawing or video editing. I decided to go with the flow and see what would appeal my interest. I wanted to be able to afford a place in ‘The City’, so working at that little pharmacy helped me save up & I also had a job secured so I would be able to help my mother with her expenses from afar. 

It took me a few months but right before spring classes started, I booked the first plane to San Francisco without looking back. My siblings showed up with my mother to the airport. Elijah, the oldest, was a bit of a role model growing up. He got married at 22, had 2 children and joined the police force. Amir, the second to oldest, was always a jokester which he definitely got from my father,  and had a bit of a ‘bad boy’ complex, which is quite the opposite of Elijah. He never got married, which my mother never agreed with, however he did have 3 kids, all with different women. Last but not least, my sister Hadassah, she was only 3 years older than me and I guess you could say we were the closest. Both of us would take care of my mom as much as possible and help her around the house as much as it was possible. She decided to stay in a community college to be closer to my mother and to help her financially as much as she possibly could. I hugged everyone goodbye, but when I got to my mother I couldn’t hold it in much longer. Tears started pouring down my face as I hugged her, but managed to remind her that this wasn’t a goodbye, but a ‘see you later’. I wish I could’ve come out to her, but I was afraid it would devastate her and we might lose the relationship we had built. As cliche as it sounds, she is my best friend, the person I trust the most in this world. I was considering staying as I hugged her. She pulled away and put our foreheads together. 

“You’ll be fine... You’ve got this! And remember einayim sheli, you’re stronger than you think! I’ll be supporting you from afar! Nothing you could do would ever disappoint me”.

“I love you mom. Don’t worry, I’ll send money your way and I’ll be back during the holidays!”

“You better, my dear! Now go, don’t want you to miss your flight”, she said as she hugged me once again.

Her words gave me enough courage to pick up my stuff and board the plane. I turned back once more before heading to the ramp and saw my siblings & her waving at me. Hadassah was hugging my mother and even though she was trying to stay as strong as possible, I saw tears rolling down her face. She noticed that I saw them and immediately wiped them off with a smile. I always admired how strong of a woman she is. She truly is a role model and someone I look up to as to how to live my life. However, I’ve never been as strong so I couldn’t hold back and started crying as I boarded the plane. 

The flight felt eternal and having anxiety didn’t help at all. I quit medication a few months before leaving since I didn’t think I would need it… Boy, was I wrong. I managed to calm myself down by working on some sketches I’ve been doing on my drawing paper pad. Next thing I knew, I was arriving in San Francisco, California; Population: 883,305, well... I guess now it’s 883,306 residents. I wasn’t necessarily going into San Francisco completely helpless, I was moving in with my best friend. I met Marcia in elementary school. Her father Sebastiao works for the government, and that’s as much as I know about him. That and the fact that he had to move to San Francisco due to a “really good job opportunity”.  Her father is originally from Brazil & his wife, Mayra is Mexican-American. Marcia grew up and learned all three languages, English, Spanish & Portuguese so she was able to fit in easier in “The Bay Area” when they left our little town. We would spend hours on the phone after she moved and she would tell me about San Francisco and how she thought I’d love it. She was honestly afraid to be one of those kids whose parents have to move regularly because of their jobs, but lucky for her, she didn’t have to do that. She set up a high bar for me arriving in San Fran and when I did... Well, let’s just say she didn’t disappoint. Her dad bought her an apartment and she was willing to share it with me at no cost, but I already had plans of helping her out with utilities & give her some extra cash to thank her for sharing her apartment with me. She shared her apartment with two puppies, Chuy & Elena, two small pomeranians whom she considered her children since she wasn’t planning on having any kids. When I told her I had gotten a scholarship to SF State, she immediately suggested I should move in with her. I wasn’t too sure of that idea, but it honestly was the best option I had so far.

I finally get my luggage and sit in the lobby to wait for her. I look around and see a lot of people meeting up with their loved one, whether it is their lover, or family. “You just left your family back there. You won’t even make it here nor achieve anything you had your mind set to. This is truly a bad idea. Why are you even doing here? You’re an idiot for leaving! All for some stupid experiment you want to try? Bullshit!”. I close my eyes and take another deep breath. I then feel my phone vibrate with the following text message:

“I see you!”

I looked up and saw her smile. She hadn’t grown much, stood about 5′6, black, curly shoulder-length hair, light skinned, with dorky glasses. People always claimed she was a weirdo, but who am I to judge? I was a bit taller than her, stood about 6′1, a bit of scruff on my face, brown semi clean-cut hair. I was always the weird kid at school, so we managed to click from the very beginning. She was the first person to talk to me in elementary school, and that meant the world to me. I was always a bit of an introvert, however she helped me come out of my shell little by little and when she left, I fell back into it. 

“Marcia! Babe! I’m so happy to see you!”

I ran to her and hugged her. It felt like yesterday that I had said goodbye to her at the airport. 

“Honeeeeey! Ugh, I’m soooo glad to see you! You smell soooo good! Don’t tell me you’re still into buying or should I say, collecting colognes?”

“Guilty!”

“Well then, you just might like what I have for you at home! Let me help you with your bags! I can’t wait for you to FINALLY meet Chuy & Elena! They’re going to LOVE you! My tia is still pretty mad that I named Elena after her, but she should take it as a compliment! It just means I love her! I mean, dogs are your most loyal companions... Not that she was ever loyal to my uncle, but still! I’m telling you, my little Elena is NOTHING like her!” 

I looked at her in disbelief. She still had that smile and a gleam in her eye. She had always had that hopeful gleam in her eye... Something I had lost a long time ago. 

I hated it.

“I’ll kill if I have to, but I’ll regain that hope again, just wait”

[finsterhund]

Plush Dog Scarf - Little Boy Gift

The lockdown here is in full swing. There’s lineups for all the essential stores still open, the post office is giving me special privileges because I’m considered an at-risk individual, and there’s a shortage of the medicine I need to breathe. So it’s been pretty stressful.

Paper Beast has been like, the only thing (alongside Heart of Darkness of course) that’s been keeping my mind active in a constructive way. But due to the fact that I can’t play video games for ten hours a day due to my chronic pain and how long periods of wearing the headset are hard on my eyes, I can’t just entirely retreat into the world of origami critters and never leave until the crisis is over like I’d want to.

You’d think that since my normal daily life is already “stay in your room bored out of your mind, never go out, have nothing to do” that I’d be used to this. And while I’m prepared for this and have a better handle on my anxiety surrounding the pandemic, I am certainly not adequately prepared. It feels like there’s a looming disaster yet also an insurmountable tiredness. It’s also sobering to find out that there are provincial-wide shortages of ventalin and I had to go to a different pharmacy just to get only the rescue inhaler for the time being. That has made me realize just how serious things are getting. It’s weird seeing the general populous as concerned about catching things as me. I’m laughing a lot at these events, but it’s not a humorous laugh. It’s an anxious venting fear laugh.

The point I’m trying to get at is that the lockdown is driving me to the depraved edges of my mind, which generally means writing about the Heart of Darkness deaths (which I have trouble writing in general right now) drawing stupid jokes (which my tablet is currently misplaced due to rearranging my entire room to play Paper Beast) and my weird fixations I get onto hobbies that orbit me like some tiny lopsided moon that show up for months at a time, disappear again, then smack me in the face within the next ten to twelve months.

I designed a fictional version of myself, currently named Cayden (who I have shown already) that I lowkey am thinking to have be a member of Andy’s class or something, who gets to run around having adventures with Spot, wear all the 90s clothes that I can find in vintage children’s catalogs, and get killed by the Master of Darkness. Fun stuff.

At some point I’ve also been retreating into the whole beanie babies thing again, and discovered to my excitement the subject of this post.

Someone made a scarf out of Spot.

And I’ve been memeing it up on twitter because the listing looked like this:

As can already be garnered from the listing, the insistence that this scarf is in fact for a little boy meant that I immediately started joking that it was “the perfect gift for me” and that I needed it because I was “the greatest little boy in all of Canada” both statements of which are true.

I also decided that because in Cayden’s time turning a beanie baby that was valued anywhere between $50 and $200 (yes) USD into a scarf would be such a superfluous flex and spit in the face of collectors that I just had to have him wear it.

And after much descent into madness and deciding that my Andy cosplay bandanna didn’t deserve to be my makeshift facemask as the person who made it for me disappeared off the planet so getting it replaced would be a long and arduous task I decided after seeing so many people wearing scarves in the Costco to finally get the famous Plush Dog Scarf - Little Boy Gift and fulfill the madness-induced prophecy.

This is mine now. When will it arrive? No idea.

I have also been trying to get my friends to buy scarves like these (there are MORE) but it’s a luxury item people can’t afford. I get that. I mostly got it because of the joke and because my old scarf is falling apart (the red one in case you remember it) and because the lockdown has been slowly driving me insane.

Spot’s squeaky steak (or rather one just like it I found on the internet) arrived yesterday but was filled with such an awful permeating aura of ancient mold that I had to clean it or immediately die so I spent much of today cleaning it out with vinegar. I think it works. Now it just hurts my breath because of the smell of vinegar. I held a flashlight to it and there’s no mold inside. Any more tips to kill mold inside a vintage dog toy would be appreciated.

Spot’s squeak steak is also a lot smaller than I expected it to be. Which i shouldn’t be surprised by because if my hands hadn’t grown since I was a toddler there would most certainly be problems. But it is weird. My hands are so big now. Strong.

I also have finally photoshopped my magnificent creation known as Negaspot into digital existence. Negaspot is possible, but requires cutting off Spot’s head and putting it onto the body of another beanie baby which is a bit too insane and deranged for me at this point in time, I would hope that I do not stoop to this level of depravity.

One would morn the loss of a perfectly good Spot if Negaspot were to be brought into existence and made flesh. A headless Spot would be forced to suffer the crimes of an unfeeling god. I don’t think I could live with these consequences after the virus has passed.

Perhaps the headless body of this Spot could be attached to the end of another Spot, creating an eight-legged extra long DoubleSpot. Two crimes against beanie baby god for the price of one! The price of which would be literally under 5 dollars because beanie babies are worth nothing now except for Spot without a spot who mark my words I will get someday. If we are putting two Spots together perhaps we could give Negaspot the tail of the front of DoubleSpot, alleviating the problem of a wasted tail. These are normal things that perfectly healthy and well-adjusted children think about.

If I create Negaspot, send help.

On the topic of spots, I am still very sad I had to postpone the Spot party, as I have gotten her a ton of presents that are now sitting in my room waiting for the party. I did get her a chew rope for the time being as a “sorry we had to cancel your party” gift but it’s not the same man! I want to have that party!

A thought has crossed my mind that when I am in a better state of mind and can therefore judge better if this is a wise use of my time and resources, is that I should commission the creator of Plush Dog Scarf - Little Boy Gift to create a super long, like excessively long, unnecessarily long, Spot Scarf. That was I can give Spot the Plush Dog Scarf - Little Boy Gift and I can have one that is more decidedly an abomination and an affront against the laws of nature.

Since I figure I am providing you all with a lot of unnecessary information, I feel the need to let everybody know that in Paper Beast there is a big plant-serpent looking creature that eats everything that crosses its path called, and I quote, Voraxo.

Just a nice little tidbit of information. Make of it what you will.

[cewfreeland]

Life in the COVID-19 epicenter

We’re on day 14 of staying at home to do our part to prevent the spread of the coronavirus, COVID-19. Everything considered we are doing so well. We’re a family with two teenagers who are finding joy in spending time with each other again. Brian and I alternate between depression and gratitude. Fortunately, we never seem to be in the depression part at the same time. That comes from being so different and also knowing when the other one is starting to spiral into the dark place. The other one rallies - reaches out through the unknown and finds a spark of joy to bring the other one out of the blue fog. 

One of my closest NY friends is recovering from a diagnosed case of COVID-19. He proactively reached out to me this morning to tell me he made it through the night since I have been bugging him every day to see if he was still in his apartment or had needed to get the urgent care that we hear our neighbors needing from the sirens wailing. Another close friend in NY lost her sense of smell and taste but seems to have come out unscathed other than those two symptoms.  I keep wondering if my short bout with fever/chills/cough/fatigue/shortness of breath/diarrhea in early March was COVID-19, followed by the kids having raging headaches several days after my illness.  Brian was in DC for most of my illness so I don’t think he got it. An antibody test cannot come soon enough.

Brian and I both have a remarkable amount of guilt. I think his guilt is centered on the fact that he is still employed while so many other artists and art workers are not. He also sees his industry hemorrhaging and with no end in sight. We watched the depression inspired film Cradle Will Rock about the Workers Progress Administration and the Federal Theater Project last night. He is optimistic that something that transformative will come out of this crisis. I have faith that he can be a part of this recovery.

As for me, the bright side is that people understand what public health is now!  The downside is that I feel like I can’t help. My grad school group chat has a really stark view of what healthcare workers are facing.  One classmate has had his surgical residency all but halted and transitioned to emergency surgery. Two pregnant classmates are still caring for patients - one in pediatric ICU (where she’s not seeing many kids, thankfully) and the other a radiologist (who is volunteering in other ways to relieve the pressure on her colleagues). Another classmate also lost a sense of taste and smell and was back at work 5 days later. She is an OB/GYN and is only delivering COVID-19 positive patients out of fear that she may still be contagious. Still another classmate is a pulmonary critical care physician who has not said much for a while, no doubt because he’s working non-stop. An anesthesiologist at Emory has become a media darling and we all cheer her on when we catch an op-ed in the NYT featuring her or catch her on CNN or MSNBC. I so wish we were celebrating Michelle’s sudden rise to fame for different reasons - her victory as a candidate for the Georgia State Senate, fighting for women’s rights, achieving better healthcare for her constituents. Unfortunately, she’s telling a sadder story right now - the reality of intubating COVID-19 patients as they struggle to breathe - giving them a shot to recover. That every breath the patient makes while she’s doing her work could be exposing her to the virus, and therefore her family, as well as the other healthcare workers. 

One classmate is part of the leadership team for the emergency department for one of the big NYC/Long Island hospital systems and she has been working to set up alternative entrances for urgent cases across their 19 hospitals. A physical therapist is transitioning her entire team from out-patient settings into in-patient settings. She and her colleagues are all being exposed every single day. One day, she’s with a patient with suspected COVID-19 status but not confirmed, the next she hears what she already knew about the status. And this happens each and every day.  They sound weary and calm. The reality of what we hear on the news made even more terrifying by their accounts. They are not dramatic, they are not overstating. They don’t have the time or the energy to add to the fury.  They are simply doing their jobs and the daunting incline on the graph of predicted patients forming ahead of them is simply something for them to climb - one day and one patient at a time. 

And I am working from home - not doing anything glamorous like I might have done if my life had not taken the detour it did 2 1/2 years ago. I am conflicted about how I feel about that. Since grad school ended, I have felt aimless - working full-time has felt very “lame.” I’ve dabbled with consulting, exploring getting my PhD, starting my own business. Being “still” is hard for me. And not being part of the central communications team at this time is hard as well. I am grateful to have moved on from that life and role - I feel like my work is more meaningful now - but there is an element of wanting to be in the drama. But I also think this is a lesson for me - to become comfortable with the long game rather than filling up space with busywork and crises. 

What I am doing is managing my team who has been thrown into unfamiliar territory. We hired these smart, courageous, and caring people to talk with people all day, every day.  And now, they’re at home, having to rely on the phone to connect with our 10,000 participants in the hopes that we didn’t catch them at a bad time. The worry is that maybe someone in their home is unwell and calling about research is not exactly on their minds. Or, perhaps they’ve lost their job and are worried about paying rent on April 1st, and May 1st, and June 1st. The good news is our team is brave and smart and empathetic and they may be just the ear that person needs at that moment. And medical research is something that more people understand now. They get how important it is to contribute to the cause. I started sending out little prompts each day to encourage communication, maybe a little humor, and at least some sense of community. Ironically, I worry more during my sleep about what “prompt” to send them than other things.  On Thursday, my prompt was “share your favorite coronavirus meme.” I sent out one about the Breakfast Club but quickly realized that I was only one of a handful of Gen Xers in the chat and many had not grown up in the U.S. and didn’t appreciate the humor. Epic fail.  

There has been discussion of doing testing on the blood samples given by participants collected in December, January, February and March (until we suspended enrollments) to see if we can see a true understanding of the incidence of the virus in populations across the country. That is VERY exciting to be a part of that possibility - to understand the DENOMINATOR in a more scientific and controlled way.  Additionally, there is some talk of running antibody testing on participants going forward. We have the infrastructure to do that and it would undoubtedly help the individual and the scientific community in ways we can’t even imagine.

- - - 

Brian has brought remarkable order to our unusual new existence. He has all of us up and doing our morning things as well as adding a few new rituals that are starting to feel normal. In addition to getting dressed, making beds, eating breakfast, he also has us taking our temperatures and taking an allergy pill Having allergy symptoms while we’re all very aware that any cough or headache could be a sign of infection is not an option. His parents sent us an extra stash of Zyrtec since we couldn’t get it at our local pharmacy. Amazon is running slow - for which I have no anger about - but it does mean that we are tied to what our local shops have on hand. 

Last week, we heard this woman from the Upper West Side comment on the local news that people were acting like it’s Little House on the Prarie. “People are making soup. They’re eating leftovers.” Lillian’s response was “That is what normal people do.” But our lives are different.  I have found my gatherer urge go into hyperdrive. Maybe it’s because Lillian is so picky or maybe because having what everyone wants at the exact time they want it is a way that I am feeling a sense of control over this insane time. We were almost out of flour, and I became obsessed with getting some. Our regular mail shipment of toilet paper is running low (as in we have about 10 rolls left) and our provider is saying it will be another few weeks before they’re back in stock. I feel this chronic fear that we’re going to run out of Lillian’s macaroni and cheese, the one thing she will consistently eat, and feel this pull to out and get her more. I became obsessed with getting hotdog buns - and we don’t even eat hotdogs normally - but when I found them in stock, I bought two bags.  I understand that hoarding is a bad thing, but I cannot deny the anxiety this situation has brought out in me and manifesting in wanting too many hot dog buns.  

Probably the best personal thing that I’ve done during the past two weeks is that I’m on a quest to achieve my long-term dream of being a runner. I’ve started “Couch to 5K” too many times over the past several years to count. I just started week 2 - I did week 1 two weeks in a row - so I’m finally moving forward further than I’ve ever gone. It feels like my lungs are getting stronger and my sense of accomplishment is getting satisfied. I find great joy in being in the gorgeous Fort Tryon Park, staying away from my neighbors, knowing that I’m investing in myself and my community even if it’s one lonely step at a time.  

[bryndeavour]

Cat drunk & RX for the WIP Title Meme 😄

WIP TITLE MEME (cause this is a long post)

Now, he should have been thinking that Max didn’t have a cat that he knew of, and thus this could not be his cat, but this one seemed very confident and clearly knew what it was about, so Morse leaned into the logic that Max had gotten a cat when he wasn’t looking or, at the very least, had been feeding this one in his free time.

The cat blinked at him and rubbed on the door frame again. 

Morse mustered all of his strength to haul himself out of the chair. Somehow it didn’t seem like a problem for him to try the door. If it was unlocked Max wouldn’t mind him coming in, would he? Then, when the doctor got home, he could lecture him on proper home security. 

But what if he didn’t come home? What if he was off staying with someone else? Or worse, what if he did come home, and he wasn’t alone?

Morse’s fingers were already on the doorknob, already turning it, when he realized that Max could be out with persons unknown. The revelation chilled and tightened the knot in his chest that had appeared when he realized Max was gone, but his body was once again doing what it wanted. As he pondered the unforeseen possibility that the doctor could be on a date, the door handle jostled, half-loose and half-locked, and Morse thumped it with his shoulder in agitation. The wood croaked and the metal in his palm turned too far sideways with a shivering crack, and the kitchen door popped open and swung inwards.

-- in which morse gets miserably weepy drunk, meets a cat that he thinks is very confident, and breaks into max’s house. this is the closest to finished! (i’m working on it as we speak) --- NEXT ONE UNDER THE CUT --

“Good Morning, Officer,” She tucked her hair behind her ear, “Can I get you something?”

Morse hummed a thought and looked up at the board, happy to see the sizes were all usual - small and medium and large - and they offered a standard range of brew selections. Morse appreciated simplicity when nothing more was necessary. 

“Medium black coffee please. Extra sugar,” He drifted to the bakery case, glanced in with a quick flick of the eyes, and then straightened, “Do I smell banana bread?”

“Oh! Yes, it’s cooling. It’s the Scottish Play this week so it’s actually the Death of Banan’quo Bread.” 

Morse actually snorted at that, “What do you mean?”

“Oh, have you never been in before?” She looked very pleased to be able to educate a new patron, “The owner themes everything after a piece of classic literature or a play or an opera or something. Sometimes it’s philosophers.. We do repeats, obviously. And then we do punny names for everything.” She gestured to the case and Morse leaned in for a better look. 

There were Honest Trifles, layered in delicious looking cream and fruit, Tres Leches of Human Kindness, soaking in a sauce of sweetened condensed milk, and Weird Sisters Whip which looked like some sort of delicately fluffed fruit custard. Those, of course, were only the flashier ones. There were muffins and croissants and scones and even a savory shelf with pies and pre-made sandwiches which one could pair, at the lunch hour, with One Fell Soup - which was cream of broccoli today from what he could tell. 

Morse wasn’t sure if he was disturbed or charmed by the entirely thorough branding. All in a coffee shop with the logo of a pharmacy. 

“The shop name-” Morse motioned outside with a finger of his shoulder, “- is it Recipe?”

“Yes!,” She laughed lightly, “From the latin.” 

“To take. Also, obviously a prescription.” 

“Yea,” She plugged something into the register and a price popped up, “That would be the doctor’s sense of humor.” 

“The doctor?” Morse paused, “Oh and, if I could, a slice of the banana bread?”

“Oh, sure. Death of Banan’quo Bread,” She corrected with a smirk and a cut of the eyes. She typed it in and the total popped up, “The doctor owns the shop and does most of the baking.”

Morse fished for his wallet, “Why do you call him The Doctor?” 

She blinked dumbly at him, as if he were missing some very obvious clue, “Because he’s a doctor.”

-- A COFFEE SHOP AU. in which morse is a uniformed sergeant, strange is a detective sergeant already, thursday freshly transfers from london, and max is not home office pathologist for undisclosed reasons and owns a bakery/cafe as a side business to his lecturing at the college :D:D:D  His cafe’s name is Rx --

[puffdragongirl]

On Pillows and Papers

A little fluffy tale written in honor of my friend and best-beta-ever @muselover1901‘s birthday! Happy Birthday Muse! :D

The door to the Ducal office flies open, only saved from crashing loudly against the wall by a strategically placed cushion of fabric. Before the door can even begin its closing swing, Zen stalks into the room, dropping heavily into his chair and planting his face directly onto a pile of accumulated papers waiting for his signature. A miserable groan slips from his lips.

“Is it bad that I’m almost looking forward to a day of signing papers?”

Mitsuhide, following Zen to the room at a more sedate pace, snickers, but humors him, “It will be a nice change of pace from non-stop meetings, at least.”

Kiki, abandoned to doing the actual work during the past week while Zen and Mitsuhide paid glorified social calls to nearly every noble in Wilant, has no patience left for flinging doors or dramatic whining. She drops a folder on his head, ignoring the pitiful groan its weight triggers from the Prince, “Welcome back, Your Highness. Signature, please.”

After being revived by a cup of strong tea a sympathetic Mitsuhide sneaks onto his desk, Zen settles to his task of catching up on a week’s worth of paperwork. A companionable silence settles on the room, broken only by the rustle of pages turning and the soft scratch of quill against paper. He is so focused on the stacks of reports, requests and receipts that he barely notes the passage of time. Before he knows it, the morning is gone, and Kiki is settling a simple lunch of crusty bread and cheese on his desk. Suddenly starved, Zen inhales the food and downs a goblet of water, but gamely returns to the mountain of outpost reports requiring his signature the moment the plate leaves his desk.

The next time Zen looks up, words are starting to blur together in a haze of ink and he wishes this office had an adjoining bedroom like his old one in Wistal. His bleary gaze finds Kiki chatting with an attendant at the door. A few minutes later, the door opens again, and the attendant returns with a steaming kettle of tea and a tray of cakes, cookies and finger sandwiches. Thanking his lucky stars for his wonderful aides, Zen eagerly approaches the kettle, already plotting how he can slip an extra cube of sugar to his tea without anyone noticing, when a knock comes at the door. The attendant returns once more, this time handing off a letter and looking a bit nervous, and his heart sinks when he spies the seal of the Captain of the Guard against the creamy parchment.

Kiki takes one look at his crestfallen expression and sighs, “Shall I look into this, Prince Zen?”

Zen doesn’t even attempt to hide the gratitude in his eyes.

The hot tea (sweetened with an extra cube of sugar and definitely not accompanied by only cake and cookies) does wonders for his energy level, and Zen dives back into his reports. An hour passes, then two, before a concerned noise from Mitsuhide drags his attention from a land dispute claim filed in some of the least legible script he has ever seen. He looks up to find Mitsuhide staring intently at Kiki’s desk.

“Is…something wrong with Kiki’s desk?” he asks, carefully.

“What – Zen, no,” Mitsuhide replies, shaking his head and turning a concerned glance on Zen, “It’s just, Kiki hasn’t returned from speaking to the Captain of the Guard.” He glances at the clock in the corner, “It’s been over two hours; I wonder what could have held her up.”

“You’re right,” Zen scrubs his hands over his face, wondering where the last two hours had even gone before remembering the thirty page report from the Indrian ambassador. “I should really get through this report, but why don’t you go check on her?”

Mitsuhide nods, rising from his chair and stretching before exiting the room. Confident his knights could handle whatever the issue was, and would surely return to his side soon, Zen throws himself back into his work.  

The sky is tinted with the red and gold hues of sunset when Zen realizes neither Mitsuhide nor Kiki have returned to his office. Frowning, he glances at the clock to find he lost two hours to the stack of mind-numbing sentry reports from the outposts surrounding Wilant. Under normal circumstances, an absence of this length wasn’t unusual, but it was concerning that Mitsuhide hadn’t even sent a note to explain whatever was holding them up.

Worried, Zen stands, grimacing a little when his back loudly protests the poor posture he’d adopted during the previous hours. I’d better go track them down, he thinks, stretching the kinks from his back as he exits the office, Someone must have seen them, and I could use a walk anyway…

He flags down a passing guard, “Excuse me, have you seen Sir Mitsuhide or Lady Kiki recently?”

It takes a few tries, but he eventually gets a lead on Mitsuhide, at least.

“I think I saw Sir Rouen heading for the pharmacy, Your Highness,” the maid curtseys, then continues apologetically, “I’m afraid I haven’t seen Lady Seiran, however.”

“The pharmacy?,” he echoes, trying and failing to push back his growing concern. Surely someone would have told him if Kiki, or Gods forbid, both Kiki and Mitsuhide were injured. Wouldn’t they? But he had been absorbed in his work. What if he had missed a knock, or ignored a message sliding under the door? He didn’t remember seeing any papers on the ground, but he also hadn’t looked. And wouldn’t Obi have come to his office if they really needed him? But what if Obi was hurt too? What if the situation was so bad that Shirayuki couldn’t take her attention away from them treating his knights? What if-

“-our Highness? Your Highness?” startled from his spiraling thoughts, Zen finds the maid watching him with concern, “Would you like me to escort you to the pharmacy?”

“No, I know the way,” shaking the dread from his thoughts, he inclines his head slightly at the maid, then turns to head for the pharmacy “Thank you for your assistance.”  

“One…two…three!!”

Zen isn’t certain what he was expecting to find in the pharmacy, but it definitely was not an intricate fabric citadel. Blankets are strung across the bookshelves and desks, transforming the normally staid pharmacy into a wonderland of white. As he watches, Obi and Mitsuhide gently swing Ryuu airborne, and feathers explode into the air when the coltish teen lands in an enormous pile of pillows. The feathers drift down around the room like snow, coating everyone and everything in the room; a perfect accompaniment for the joyous laughter bubbling throughout the room.

“So, this is where my aides disappeared to…” Zen steps further in the room, ducking to avoid the arch of a low-hanging blanket.

“Master!” Obi calls, blowing to dislodge a clump of feathers clinging to his nose, “It’s about time you joined us!” He turns to Mitsuhide with a grin, “See, we told you he would come if we waited long enough!”

Kiki, somehow managing to look intimidating despite the feathers sticking haphazardly from her hair, turns to Mitsuhide and holds out a hand, “Pay up.”

As Mitsuhide tries to wheedle his way from paying up on whatever bet they had made, Zen carefully picks his way around the clumps of pillows strewn throughout the room. As he walks, he admires the artful drape of the blankets, impressed by the cozy feeling the cocoon of fabric lends the room.

Standing amongst his friends, a question slips from his lips before he can think better of asking, “What even is all of this?”

“It’s a blanket fort, silly!” Shirayuki smiles from her place nestled within one of the many clumps of pillows strewn through the room, “We started building them in Lyrais, and now it’s become something of a habit on notebook days.”

Ryuu nods, unearthing himself from his feathery prison, and gesturing towards the notebooks neatly stacked next to some of the smaller piles of pillows, “It’s…nice, to work in a fort.”

“Why Master,” Obi drawls, dancing closer to lean against his shoulder, “It’s almost like you’ve never played in a blanket fort before!”

“Oh no, not you too!” Shirayuki gasps, scandalized, scrambling to her feet, “Please tell me it’s not true, Zen!”

He can’t quite bring himself to verbally shoot down her hopes, so he just shrugs helplessly.  

“Oh Master…” Obi shakes his head sadly, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment, “Even little Ryuu has been in a blanket fort before.”

“Obi!” Shirayuki hisses, then launches a pillow at his face.

“What?” Obi dodges the pillow, but falls dramatically into the mountain of pillows beside Ryuu, sending feathers flying once more, “We may have only started him on blanket forts a year and a half ago, but Ryuu did go in one before Master.”

“Oh, you hush!” sending Obi one last scowl, Shirayuki turns to Zen and extends a tentative hand, “Will you…join us?”

Looking at her earnest expression and outstretched hand, Zen struggles to remember why he should probably return to his office and the dozens of papers waiting for his attention. His gaze drifts to his aides. Kiki’s pauses her bickering with Mitsuhide to offer a nod and an encouraging smile. Mitsuhide grins sheepishly, feeling a bit guilty for allowing the deception to continue, but glad to see the Prince away from his work for once. Obi just winks and ruffles Ryuu’s hair, tangling feathers even deeper to the laughing boy’s dark locks. Really, he never stood a chance against such a tempting and united front.

Reaching out with a smile, Zen sets his hand in hers, and their fingers curl together loosely, “Yes, I will join you, Shirayuki.”

[the-ashla-project-blog]

You Can't Change Your Family History

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[toknowyoumore]

spoiler: it was a terrible idea... but i feel good

I’m gonna try a little something, and this could either be a kinda good or absolutely terrible idea. I need to write something important, but I’m not in a writing mood right now, at least for the topics I need to write about. But I know I’m at least a decent writer when it comes to things I do like writing about. That’s why I’m going to drink a fair amount of alcohol to get my creative juices flowing - and also to get me to sleep earlier than 5 am. I’m probably gonna take this down once I submit the actual thing.

Jameson and Canada Dry on the rocks pls glub glub glub

Okay, let’s start.

Growing up with a single mother wasn’t the easiest thing, especially when I heard her screams of pain in the early morning when I was in fifth grade. My mother was diagnosed with breast and brain cancer. Though I didn’t know at the time, my parents were separated. But I still remember the first time walking into the hospital with my dad and seeing Mom on the hospital bed. I remember her stopping midway during our conversation because she lost the ability to breathe. I remember not being in a panic but rather in confusion when my dad told me to go out and get a nurse to help immediately. And in about a minute, a nurse saw a 11-year-old child asking for help for his mom who wasn’t breathing. I remember seeing my mother in the room again afterwards - except now with some sort of breathing machine. I know now that that machine is called a ventilator.

Living was confusing after that. I didn’t know how to feel. I remember being scared at some points but not deathly afraid. I didn’t entertain the thought of Mom passing because the thought just wasn’t real to me. (Spoiler alert, she didn’t, and she’s still in top condition today despite a number of tumors throughout the years. I promise this won’t be a sappy story.) Or maybe I just didn’t correctly process my thoughts and emotions. Was there even a correct way? Maybe all of this just led to me becoming who I am now?

Fourth wall break - okay, so this was a terrible idea. I’m going so off track, and this whole thing was supposed to highlight my good side, but screw it, I’m gonna keep going with this and see where it leads. Before we continue, another glass pls glub glub glub thank you - fourth wall unbreak.

The purpose of me writing that story was to talk about a childhood experience and an example of how I overcame adversity. But now that I’ve arrived to this part of the page, I can’t really think of how I really overcame adversity here. Sure, I got through a hardship that would be difficult for any child, but I don’t remember ever being in deep anguish. In normal terms, this experience would make one more aware of the tribulations in the world and ultimately become more human. But somehow - thinking back to this moment - I’m being hit from all directions with, “It made you less human.” A human would typically mourn from this. I really didn’t, or at least I don’t think I did.

I got lazy. My grandmother took care of me at that point, but she didn’t force me to go to school. I almost had to repeat fifth grade because I had so many absences.

If someone wrote about this experience in their college essay, you may see something like, “From this, I took responsibility and started taking care of myself, building my time management skills and independence.” Nope, none of that here. I was an 11-year-old only child with a grandmother who struggled to walk up the stairs.

I barely had any actual friends in my elementary school, middle school, and most of high school. By “actual friends,” I mean people who I’d talk or chill with out of school. My only community really was my church. Even though we don’t see each other now as often or we’ve drifted apart, something special still resides in those bonds. Despite how I feel about the church and Christianity now, I know for a fact that the friends I had there made my life worthwhile. It’s what made me more human. It’s what got me through adversity.

It’s not about what I did that lifted me up. There wasn’t some switch that I just activated by myself in my brain that suddenly pushed me to take responsibility, start caring for my family, and being a decent person. It wasn’t me; it was my friends. I would always be inspired by them - their words, their actions, even their humor. I wanted to be like them. And over time, I think I changed for the better. And even today, I’ve been making it a goal - maybe even my top goal - to be a decent human being to others.

Fast forward to senior year of high school, when I’m applying to colleges. The common motif of myself and everybody on the planet - say it with me now, “I want to help people.” Who doesn’t? But how? The medical field was something that, to be honest, never really held my interest much back in high school. Some elements of being a medical doctor were appealing to me, though I just wasn’t very gung-ho about the entire thing. I apply to a local university as a safety because I know all my friends were going there, and in my back of my mind, I knew I was too. The local university allows me to apply to multiple schools of varying professions within itself. I apply to its pharmacy school on a whim. I get wait-listed. I then get accepted. My senior year crush decides to go to the same school. And before life offered me the pros and cons, I was a pharmacy student.

There is one big con I should mention though: I knew nothing about pharmacy. I didn’t care a lick about it. No one in my family is a pharmacist. I didn’t really have a “want” to do it. There was no reason for me to pursue it. The only reason I did have was that I could drop out of the program in two years if I didn’t like it without any repercussions. It was strategically sound.

Two years later, I still wasn’t sure about my decision. But just like the last two years flew by, the next one did. And then the next one. And then the next after that. There was never any love for pharmacy. It was, “study for this exam, take the exam, study for that exam, take that exam, memorize a script for this practical, ace the practical, start joining pharmacy organizations, don’t attend the meetings.” My interests during college were elsewhere. They were in leading worship, learning how to help people with depression, and hanging out with my friends, which were all amazing things. But pharmacy still had little room for passion in my life.

Then one year ago, in January 2018, things started to change. It was my last semester taking classes and exams. My rotation schedule for the next year was arranged. Pharmacy was suddenly starting to become much realer to me. Internal medicine, cardiology, emergency department, transitions of care - it was a lot. But for the first time, it didn’t feel like a drag. Rather, it felt like something I knew I had to do, however daunting it initially felt. And I wanted to excel at it. I asked early for extra projects. I went to networking events, which I never even thought about going to. I did things that were outside of my original scope of simply getting a pharmacy degree. I interviewed for a volunteer position at a clinic, where only two students would get accepted, and got it. I attended a class and got certified for mental health first aid, which literally no one told me to do. I quit my job at CVS. I borrowed a book from a local library to study for a certification exam, which I passed, to help me get a job elsewhere. I applied for jobs, which I didn’t get. I asked on a whim to shadow one of my professors at a behavioral health facility for a day and ended up with another research project on my hands to work on over the weekends. That semester was also the first time I was actually looking forward to a class - two to be exact: “Neuropsychiatric Therapeutics” and “Concepts in Psychiatric Pharmacotherapy.” My interests in mental health and pharmacy were colliding.

To this day, I still don’t know what happened. Maybe it was the rush of sweet change that got me working harder. Or maybe it was the “real world” that was finally looming over the horizon, and I wanted to quickly pack some stuff into my resume. Surely, there were some moments in that semester that I faked passion for pharmacy for the sake of making myself look better. But all of a sudden, pharmacy was starting to become more than just something that consumed my life every day with notes and exams. And for some bizarre reason, I was beginning to enjoy it. 

There was no one who turned on my switch, no one who told me to take initiative - yet I was acting as if some sort of external force was pushing me to take leaps as a student. But there wasn’t.

My interests were finally lining up with what I was studying for about five years, and I was starting to take things into my hands to make it that way even more. Yes, that is why I was, at last, beginning to take hold a new passion for a profession that I never thought of myself being in. The interest in helping people, in being a decent human being, that I’ve built over the years because of my friends, my church - they were becoming tangible. There was no need for someone to flip a switch in my head. Something like this didn’t really need one.

And that’s what I’m hoping I could do. Whether that’d be now as a student or in the future as a pharmacist, I want to inspire others the same way that my friends inspired me in my past, to fuel people’s interests and motivations that they may not even know they have. The truth is, you’re helping people all the time. You don’t just have to be counseling them on a medication. And you don’t just have to be giving them a vaccination. You help people in your everyday actions and conversations. Every word of encouragement, every piece of advice, every lighthearted joke has a way of changing one’s life for the better. And as for yourself, you become a little bit closer to becoming that “decent human being.” Pharmacy is just one path - the path that I’ve taken - to help me to reach that goal.

There are still some things I fake, of course. Besides, I don’t know if this road ahead for me is the best one. But writing all this out - it’s clear I’ve come a long way already. And I know that even if this path doesn’t necessarily work, I’ll still probably learn something. Hopefully, at least. 

Not the most horrible idea. But it’s still terrible because this goes so off-track about the topics I’m supposed to write for my real thing. Nevertheless, I feel pretty good about what I wrote. Also, it’s 5 am. The alcohol didn’t help with that at all.