#fortunately this week has been less busy work-wise for once

[kimtaegis]

hi annie, just thought i’d stop in and say hi <3

we’ve interacted a bit before, but i just adore your blog and your circle of mutuals on here. you create such creative and unique edits, i genuinely enjoy seeing each new one you post and try to not miss any in reblogging.

i know times have been tough for you recently, and i’m hoping that you are doing better and able to continue to see the joy. borahae 💜

hi you!! thank you for this super cute ask, it’s so great to hear such kind and positive words about my blog, that’s all I could ever wish for 🤍 I’m really happy you feel this way, I’m truly lucky to have followers like you, thank you for all support and well wishes 🫂

[theotheroccassionalfanficwriter]

CAN I JUST SAY THAT YOUR WRITING IS AMAZING????? Its so detailed with a great flow and filled with so much emotion I LOVE ITTTT!! You got me lying in bed tossing and turning with “in pursuit of knowledge” 🥰🥰 that’s my favourite one I really hope you continue it!

Can I request one of the upcoming chapter to explore more on how Zhongli and reader first meet and what are the other things they did that made him fall for them more and more each day? Zhongli doesn’t seem to be the kind that falls in love at first sight so I’m interested to see how the reader seems to have slowly crawled her way into his stone heart UGHHH ❤️❤️😩😩 It can be filled with fluff or with smut, up to you! Thank you so much ❤️

Thank you! You can keep on tossing and turning then with this! I also head canon that when it comes to love, Zhongli wouldn't fall in love at first sight but instead he'd be like a snail. The entire time I'm writing this I thought long and hard on how to proceed because I couldn't decide on a satisfactory way Zhongli would meet reader. I already knew that it would be a speed run of Enemies to Friends, and slow burn Friends to Lovers. So I wanted their first meeting to be seemingly unremarkable to Zhongli.

In Pursuit of Duty

Summary: The simplest of things can lead to the greatest moments of our life. Meeting you was Zhongli's greatest fortune.

There were a few mortals in Zhongli’s life, both as an Archon and on the few occasions he mingled with humans, that were able to capture his attention or even his praise. And in all of his life, mortal and divine, no one was able to capture his enmity in the way you did.

“Would it really matter what Rex Lapis thinks if we entered and fucked around the domain in Guyun stone forest?”

Zhongli blinked, aghast at your tone as Childe covered his mouth to stifle his laughter.

“What?” You asked the two of them as if you had not merely suggested tampering with the seals of Guyun Stone Forest.

“The entire place is home to the fallen gods” Zhongli reminded you “a graveyard for those who died in the Archon War”

“It’s been decades, they should be already on the reincarnation wheel at this point” You waved his worries off, sending Childe to another fit of laughter while Zhongli felt indignant “‘sides Rex Lapis is busy doing fuck knows what he probably wouldn’t even notice if one of the seals got messed with unless one of the dead Gods decide to fuck shit up”

Zhongli, who was very much Rex Lapis in disguise, very much noticed it and though he was the one who orchestrated this whole scenario, felt no less than pleased with the attitude you were having.

“The dead still deserve to be respected!” Zhongli insisted as he blocked your hand from reaching towards one of the seals.

“You stick in the mud! You make it sound like I’m defiling their graves or something!” You whined “Besides the Heavens must be willing if they had a stray seal plaster itself on my face!”

“It was a ruined seal. The divine powers had long since dwindled from it. Thus, the Heavens had no hand on it” Zhongli stubbornly insisted as he moved to block your path.

On the side, Childe was still laughing loudly.

“That’s it! Fight me you bastard!” You shouted as you took a few steps back and summoned the elements to form your weapon, a spear.

And really, it was almost funny in hindsight, how you would choose his weapon of all things. The one weapon he was best at among others but right now, in this moment, Zhongli had felt more than annoyed.

“Very well” His spear, dragon’s bane, at his side “I accept your challenge.”

There were a few opponents in his life that gave Zhongli a thrill of the battle. Ever fewer were able to make the gears in his head turn as quickly as it did when facing you, each strike of your spear was clearly aiming for his life, and yet the look in your eyes didn’t carry a single thought of murder.

It was frustrating. It was Confusing. It was, most of all, fascinating.

Fighting you brought him back to the days before the Archon Wars, where the Gods of Liyue were at a semblance of peace. It made him remember the joy of fighting someone your equal, it made his blood rush in a way that it had almost forgotten. And Zhongli was starting to see that beyond your heretical ways, behind your annoying mask of affability, was someone who can walk in the path of the divine.

‘No, you would walk in it for the sake of your knowledge’ Zhongli thought as he blocked your attack and moved his feet to kick you in your stomach.

“This ends here” Zhongli declared as he summoned a steele behind your back.

The sound of your back hitting it rang loudly in the air but the look on your face was something he would never forget in a long while.

You spat out blood, shakily standing up from your position, “You win this round! But I swear on Rex Lapis’ six pack abs I’ll find a way to replicate that fucking seal!”

And then you were gone in a spark of electro.

The peaceful sound of waves remained in the air that somehow hung heavy. Childe had stopped laughing and was looking confused as he mused, “That’s the first time in a long while I’ve seen them look like that.”

Zhongli paid no attention to his words and instead picked up the abandoned seal and returned it to its proper position.

“Interesting” Childe muttered, softly and slightly ominous to Zhongli’s ears.

What he found interesting was something Zhongli wisely decided to not entertain. He really hoped that today would be the last time he’d ever have to be in the presence of Childe’s...friend.

For his part, Childe had no regrets in introducing Zhongli to you, or rather having Zhongli experience the misfortune of knowing you. From the moment Childe had met you again, he knew that his life would be thrown out of whatever carefully calculated plan Pulcinella had made. And it was one he was happy with, if the rumors in Snezhnaya had him part of the chaos then you were chaos incarnate.

It was precisely the reason why Childe had brought Zhongli with him when meeting you in the Guyun Stone Forest.

“A friend of mine, an expert in the ways of the divine and assorted knowledge, would lend us their skills in challenging the...impossible, shall we say” Childe said on the way “Most of their thoughts are heretical, almost, but well no one has ever said it wasn’t effective in reaching the desired result.”

“Ah, a researcher from Sumeru then?” Zhongli had asked, the light in eyes glinting in interest.

“Of sorts” Childe answered because as much as you stayed in Sumeru, most of your knowledge had come from your own experiments and cases from clients seeking answers the divine could not give.

This was why you were almost heretical.

“I must warn you that for them the sacred can be profaned and the profane can be sacred” Childe added as they reached the shores of Guyun Stone Forest, and found you basking under the gentle rays of sunlight in front of the Domain.

Zhongli stared at you, the sight of you head looking up with your eyes closed as it felt the warmth of the sunlight. Geo crystalflies surrounding you as a light breeze had the ends of your hair fluttering in the wind.

“Who is that?” Zhongli asked.

“My friend, the infamous Xiézhihuā Mìngfù of Liyue” Childe answered.

In that exact moment, you slowly opened your eyes, lashes fluttering softly as you blinked. The wind blew and a rain of leaves fell on you, gentle and calm as you stared at them.

--

Like an ill-fated omen, Zhongli began to notice you on the streets of Liyue Harbor. Rumors and words of your deeds would reach his ears, on occasion some of your cases would be told in the tea houses.

“Miracle” a few bystanders would say.

“Heretical” the few devout traditionalists would mutter in hushed tones.

But all agreed that you were a genius. An innovator that brought changes like a storm. You gathered envy and admiration in your wake, foreign nobles and dignitaries seeking you out for consultations or to ask for your help. And yet, for all of your infamy and prestige, Zhongli often found you amidst the crowd of orphans or Liyue’s slum dwellers.

Sometimes, Childe was with you, other times it was Director Hu and her friends, the second young master of the Feiyun Guild and the exorcist. In one memorable moment, Yanfei. But more often than not you were by yourself, answering questions from children with a pleasant smile and mischievous glint in your eyes.

It was such a huge contrast from the one he first met that it made Zhongli pause and observe you from afar. Enough times that those around him would say, “No need for alarm, Mr. Zhongli. Xiézhihuā Mìngfù is honorable.”

It was those words that made him ponder. For all of your borderline heretical actions, miracle works that trespass on the Divine, the entirety of Liyue agreed that you were honorable.

It wasn’t until Childe had asked for his help did he cross paths with you again. Weeks of avoiding you to maintain peace were all for naught when he found himself in your presence once more. A jar of osmanthus wine on your hand and an ingratiating smile on your face, you offered it to him and said, “Osmanthus wine, I’ll give this to you so don’t be a stick in the mud!”

In his youth, he would have immediately brawled with you. But now, Zhongli settled for drinking a cup of tea with contempt as much as the act could convey. Your laughter, melodious, rang in the private room of Liuli Pavillion.

“Aiyo! What a tough crowd!” You said as you sat opposite him and placed the bottle in the center of the table, “Then shall we begin anew? My birth name is a secret, my courtesy name is a secret, my title is Xiézhihuā Mìngfù! Xié for Heretic, zhi for knowledge, and huā for flower!”

“What kind of introduction is that?” Childe teased as he began his battle with chopsticks.

“An unforgettable one!” You replied, sending a wink to Zhongli who merely pursed his lips.

“I am Zhongli, a consultant for the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.”

You smiled and decided to leave the matter at that, somethings could not be forced. So you retreated and decided to just straightforwardly tell him your intentions.

“I’ve heard that Mr. Zhongli is knowledgeable in Liyue’s history.”

Zhongli could sense your sincerity, it placated him a bit, made the dismal first meeting a little bit better. So he tries because he is magnanimous and there was no reason to burn a bridge, “I am merely remembering what others have forgotten.”

He looked at you in the eyes, drawn to the way your eyes burn bright with curiosity. It reminded him of Guizhong so he shakes the thought away because the dead and the living must not be compared. But as the conversation grows long, the topics eventually shift from the job to everything else, Zhongli can’t help but notice your innate desire to help those who are unfortunate.

Somehow it made him understand why you were seen as honorable. It wasn’t until all of you were facing unknown danger did he realize what it truly meant when used on you.

The case you were asking was slightly connected with Childe’s job for you. The case was about the sudden deaths of several brides that were kidnapped and found dead at an abandoned temple. No one had reported it to the Qixing until one of the victims involved was a distant relative of a Qixing who was to be wedded to one of the Szehnayan Merchants.

Childe had taken the chance to offer aide, calling for your help as one of the known detectives of Fontaine. It had surprised Zhongli, and made him respect you but all of it was quickly thrown away when you had given him a cheeky wink and said, “I can even tell how big a man’s dick is.”

“Shameless” He had admonished and yet he was unaware of the small smile he wore on his face.

The investigation led the three of you to a small village in the mountain, with a local shrine that was dedicated to an old god that even Zhongli had never heard of. The three of you had pored over legends passed down by mouth, discussing and comparing with the records found in Liyue’s public library and scholars. Childe, through his seemingly endless funds, had paid for information on every victim so far that wasn’t in the packet given by the millelith. Zhongli, with his seemingly endless connections, had talked to everyone and anyone that had studied Liyue’s countless lores and legends. And you had talked with the family of the victims, investigating the crime scene and connecting everything that could lead to an answer.

That was how Zhongli found you, messed up clothes and tired eyes poring over documents in the middle of discarded papers that laid on the dark wood floor of your secluded residence in Minlin.

“Have you not slept?” Zhongli asked, frowning as he made his way towards you.

“Not yet” You answered as you got up and discarded the paper you were reading to go to your wide cork board that held all the relevant information you had, “I’m close to figuring out what sort of deity or demon we’re going to fight.”

“What about the reason?”

“Solved it ages ago” You answered carelessly, pointing at the left corner of the board.

Zhongli went over and flitted through the papers on that side until he found what he was looking for.

“A vengeful bride?”

“Mn” You replied as you removed a pin and replaced the paper with an old newspaper clipping “There was a record of a previous incident however the Ghost of that time was listed as defeated. The stories all claim that the ghost was of savage rank, and disappeared after letting go of their obsession.”

“Then it returned?” Zhongli turned to you, alarmed and visibly frowning.

“No.”

You sighed and rubbed your aching forehead, “This was a man made disaster that went out of hand, I’m sure that whoever started this is probably dead. Chances are the first death awakened a sealed something” You looked at him, eyes serious “I’m figuring out just how old this thing is and what exactly are we going to face.”

“...The older it is…”

“The harder it would be to defeat it. Liyue’s lands are drenched in blood. Old grudges mixed with new ones from the Archon Wars. With cultivation clans dying out and having a single yaksha around, the karmic cycle of Liyue is already out of balance” You revealed and Zhongli was amazed with your discovery.

“Is there anything Rex Lapis could do?”

“...Fixing the karmic cycle? None. Solving this? His dragon qi would only end up being corrupted or he’d be punished by the Heavenly Dao. Time has changed a lot of things, but the rule that the Gods may not interfere with the mortal realm remains true.”

Both of you remained silent, You stared blankly at your board while Zhongli watched you. The heavy air from your words made your heart heavy, and Zhongli could see it. The fear that lingered in your eyes, the firm determination to save lives.

It left a ripple in the calm waters of his heart. A small unnoticeable ripple.

“Is it worth it?” Zhongli asked “Is it worth betting on your life to save the common people?”

You smiled at him, almost pitying, “To an adeptus like you, the amount of times mortals would bet on their lives to save others must be few, but Zhongli...I am the sort to always think that the common people are worthy.”

At that moment, Guizhong’s words echoed in his mind.

“Let me help you.”

--

A red sedan trudges up the mountain path, intending to pass through the temple. Behind the bridal sedan was a short entourage carrying three chests of dowry. In front of the sedan, were two people beating drums to celebrate the auspicious day.

Zhongli, Baizhu, and the Fatui disguised as locals were on alert as it watched the ominous trees of the mountain road. You sat inside the sedan, meditating in lotus position. Chongyun and Xingqiu were waiting in the temple where the zombified bodies of the previous brides were found. You had advised Ajax to not participate in the inevitable battle. Ensuring the possibility that his abyssal powers would react badly with ancient powers. With all of the preparations, you hoped that the odds would be in your favor.

You sighed softly, eyes opening as you felt the air change. You readied your weapon as soon as you heard the sounds of fighting.

The door opens and you throw out a talisman. In a quick move you stepped out, geo shield forming around you as you began plucking the strings of the Guqin. You looked at your enemy and found your heart easing up.

What stood before you was neither an ancient deity or demon, but rather a ghost on the verge of breaking through the Malice Rank.

“Don’t fear! We can subdue this one!” You informed your party, as you played the Sound of Vanquish.

Vines subdued the ghost, wearing the red robes of a groom. The Fatui began surrounding the ghost. Nine stone pillars acted as the foundation of the seal, pulsing with geo energy.

You felt rather than saw Chongyun come close, allowing you to draw upon his yang energy to balance out the pure yin energy of the ghost. Xingqiu stood on standby ready to recite the incantation for parting in case the seal fails.

The final notes of the song lingered in the air as Zhongli walked towards you, eyes never leaving the ghost, “I thought it was a bride.”

“A minor mistake” You replied as you played Inquiry.

‘Who are you’

The ghost didn’t answer.

‘Who are you’ you repeated the question.

‘Kill me’ it answered.

Your hands stilled in the air. You sighed and looked up from the strings and found yourself staring straight at the eyes of the ghost. Stunned at the mixture of emotions in its eyes.

“...There is no need to surrender to despair, your soul can still be saved.”

The ghost gave a mocking smile, “So what? My Chang’er is gone. We can never meet again in this life or the next.”

Zhongli’s eyes widened at the implication, just as Chongyun let out a small gasp. You felt your heart turn heavy even so you soldiered on, there was a need to find out the cause of this tragedy.

“Then tell me, why did you kill those women?”

“They deserved it!” The ghost screamed in anger, “They killed her! They killed her like she was nothing! Chang’er was innocent! They knew she was innocent and still-”

“You could have reported to the Millelith!” Chongyun said.

Cold mocking laughter rang loudly in the air, in it you could hear the bitterness of defeat and anger.

“Would it have done anything when the person behind this is an official? You’re too naive, boy!”

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath and decided to shield Chongyun from one of the dark sides of Liyue.

“Are you really forsaking salvation?”

“Yes.”

Zhongli watched as you walked towards the ghost and asked its name. He watched as the ghost whispered its name and you nodded before raising your hands, your index and middle finger pointing towards the sky, while the rest were closed.

Light gathered on your finger tips, the air charged with spiritual energy that was not of Celestial origin. It was an ancient divine power that Zhongli used to feel before he ascended to the peak of cultivation as a dragon.

With one downward stroke, the light slashed through the ghost. The light was so blinding that Zhongli had to shield his eyes as he watched the ghost turn into dust, its soul scattering to the wind. Your back stood straight, your hair gently fluttering.

Even though you were expressionless, Zhongli felt the heaviness of your heart. Despite that your eyes remained strong, unyielding as righteousness burned in your eyes. He watched as you strode in Ningguang’s jade chamber, as you reported your findings.

He accompanied you in going back to the village where it all began as you read the Liyue Qixing’s edict. He watched as you went beyond what Childe asked and went to the unmarked grave of Chang’er, offering incense on the blood stained stones of the temple.

He went with you as you sat on the highest mountain peak in Bishui, looking at the horizon with a blank look in your eyes. He didn’t speak and instead poured you a cup of osmanthus wine and silently waited.

“...Sometimes, I wonder if I can remain in the path of righteousness” You spoke, “I can never understand the hearts of humans, how could they easily ruin someone’s reputation, ruin someone’s life because of greed? I can’t understand why there was a need to go as far as scattering the soul?”

You cried without any tears, and Zhongli remained silent, unable to answer something he had always witnessed in his long life.

“Have you changed your answer?” He asked as he stared at his cup of wine.

“No” You replied and Zhongli could hear the self-mockery in your tone, “Even if one day I find myself in unbearable pain, I’ll never stop believing that the common people are worthy of saving.”

You looked at Zhongli, solemn in your bearing as the sun disappeared in the sky “Zhongli, no one has the right to decide on the outcome of human lives. Be it human or adepti.”

Zhongli thought back to the case, the sad story of two lovers who parted eternally because of jealousy and greed. The greediness of an official’s son for a woman who had no affection for him, the jealousy of the ladies over the popular young scholar. The selfish righteousness of the village folk that stoned an innocent woman to death over ruined reputation.

Zhongli thought of his contract. He wondered for a moment what you would say to him if knew that he dared to bet on the safety of Liyue and its people.

He closed his eyes and drank the wine that still tasted as he remembered.

“I pray that your heart remains in paradise.”

You toasted him and smiled softly. Zhongli vowed to never forget how beautiful you looked in that moment, with the slight smile gracing your lips as you drank the osmanthus wine.

The moon was beautiful that night.

--

Zhongli watched from afar as Osial rose. His thoughts echoing to the oath you swore that day in Guyun. A part of his heart felt sad and yet in awe of what you had accomplished.

He watched as the Millelith, Adepti and Fatui worked together to evacuate the civilians. He watched as humans and adepti fought together to bring down Osial once more. He felt proud and relieved at the result, glad at the knowledge that Liyue had no need of him anymore and yet a part of him felt trepidation.

The knowledge that the Age of Archons was drawing to a close. He thought of you, a beloved child of the Heavens, who could boldly declare that the Gods can be wrong. He thought of the words you spoke that night.

He thought of the days he spent with you, the rare times he went along with your tricks and harmless schemes. The easy way the two of you became friends. You were the first person he had easily became friends with, he mused at how quickly his dislike of you melted into fondness.

The way his heart had pinched when you said he wasn’t fun. The elation from being one of the few people you found interesting. He thought all of this as he handed his gnosis, as he kept his reason a secret. He thought of this as he looked around Liyue that had no need of him anymore, he thought of you as his feet automatically walked to where you were.

He stood away from you, watching as you cared for the wounded and then silently left. He spent the aftermath ruminating on his decision, on his actions while silently watching your actions with Childe during the last week of his stay in Liyue.

He waited for you to come to him, and ask him the question he could not answer. He steeled his heart and yet when you came to him, you didn’t ask and instead began talking about your recent adventures, asking him of his days and Zhongli didn’t know what to feel.

He knew that you knew nothing then. That you remained unaware of the truth but he let himself believe that you didn’t mind. So he spent his days with you, silently caring for you, protecting you in his own way.

He let himself bask in your vibrant presence, allowed himself to savor the feeling of watching you walk the path of righteousness. He unknowingly and willingly let you walk inside his heart, step by step, with each moment you spent helping others.

The days spent by your side, knowing the parts of yourself that no one else knew was the closest he felt in being mortal. It was so easy to forget that you remained ignorant when he spent his time worrying about your ability to be where chaos was, when his heart was easily influenced by you.

But now, in the privacy of the Dwelling in the Clouds, Zhongli watched as you grew disappointed. Your soft laughter filled with heartbreak and weariness broke his heart for reasons he couldn’t understand.

He regretted not telling you the truth when he had the chance.

He hated how he had no right to wipe away your tears even though he had spent countless nights and days warming your bed.

“Zhongli, I hate how I can understand why you did it” Your voice was so soft “Really, as an Archon you are undeniably good, you are peerless in that regard.”

He closed his eyes and readied himself for your next words.

“But I can’t call you a good person. Human lives aren’t something you should bet on so easily, no matter how careful you are” Your disappointment, your grief, and your weariness were all visible in your tone and body language.

He remained where he stood, watching as you descended. Each step breaking his heart as he slowly understood what you meant to him. He cried silently as you disappeared below the clouds and slowly sank on the ground.

For the first time in his life, Zhongli didn’t know what to do. There was no one he could turn to. He dreaded going back to a cold empty house devoid of you. He feared going back to the days that were dull, to a time where you did not exist in his life.

Where the sound of your voice was not commonplace, or the comforting scent of your magic that lingered in the space you occupied.

Zhongli laughed, loud and unrestrained, mocking himself for his stupidity. He hated how he didn’t realize it sooner, if he did then perhaps things would not turn out this way. He cried with all of his broken heart as he remembered the loneliness in your eyes.

He drank his sorrows away and as daylight broke through the clouds, he stumbled his way home. To the place that was devoid of you who he loved.

He fell on his bed that still smelled like you and silently cried himself to sleep.

He was already missing you dearly.

--

You stared at Zhongli, eyes distant as he stood in front of your door. A distant part of you wondered if things could be fixed, if the two of you could move forward from this pain.

But the rest of you were waiting for further disappointment, you knew the bone-deep pride of Gods. You understood that there was a bigger chance that Zhongli would cease contact with you, no one can easily put down years of habit and thought as a god so easily.

And yet as Zhongli stood beneath you, looking up to you. You couldn’t help but hope.

“...I can’t apologize for what I did” Zhongli began, “I don’t regret doing it the way I planned but I regret that I didn’t think of another way to test my people.”

You remained silent.

“I asked you once if the common people are worthy, the truth is I don’t know whether I find them worthy or not...but with you…” Zhongli trailed off, he felt that his next words were heavy.

He was afraid of laying his heart bare to you. The deepest parts of him that he didn’t fully understand, “I know that your life alone is worthy. I am a being born from rock, gaining humanity through cultivation. My heart is made of stone, softened by the dust. I don’t know if I would ever understand what being human means and everything it entails…”

You stared at him, unmoving, silently and patiently hearing him out.

“But I know that the only way I can keep on being with you is by changing this stone heart. So please, let me walk by your side, protecting you and your belief.”

Zhongli bent his waist, solemnly asking for your forgiveness and acceptance. He heard your footsteps coming closer and swore to himself to accept whatever the outcome would be.

“Stand straight.”

He stood and then he found himself in your embrace, your familiar scent filled his nose and Zhongli gently and firmly hugged you back. He held you fearing that all of it was an illusion.

“Let me learn how to be good while staying by your side” He whispered.

“I was afraid” You replied “of how easily you can decide on the outcome of your people’s life and death.”

You hugged him tighter, “I know that you still have secrets that you can’t tell. That even as you live as a mortal, the consequences of your actions as an Archon is something you would live with for the rest of your life. So I won’t judge you for that but Zhongli, I can’t be with someone who can easily bet on other’s life.”

“I understand.”

He thought of your words in Qingyun Peak, your confession that night in Minlin. He thought of the day he met you. He thought of the words he said in that temple ruin.

Zhongli understood what it meant to walk by your side, to take the same path as you did. He knew that from this moment onwards he would never be able to untangle himself from you.There was no room for anything else in his heart that was filled with you. It would always remain with you even if one day his entire being ends up in the abyss.

‘As long as your heart remains in paradise, I don’t mind letting myself fall into the abyss.

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

Roommates - Theo x Reader

(gif source)

Summary: y/n’s landlord is increasing her rent once her lease is up. She has two options: move out or find a roommate. Theo, coincidentally, is looking for a new apartment.

Word count: 2105

Warnings: cursing, theo being a total house husband

a/n: and they were roommates

master list

“So then he finds out that Leia is his sister and- y/n, are you even listening?” Stiles cut himself off and looked over to where the y/h/c was nervously bouncing her leg. y/n’s head snapped up when she heard her name, nearly dropping her phone in the process.

“Uh, yeah, of course! I just um, keep going, I’m listening,” she replied unconvincingly. Her odd behavior caught the attention of the rest of the pack - not that they were really paying much attention to Stiles’s retelling of Star Wars: Return of the Jedi - causing the previous conversation to be forgotten.

“Okay, spill. There’s a handful of mostly human polygraphs in here and you’re a terrible liar. What’s up?” Malia grilled, looking at y/n expectantly. 

“It’s really nothing, everything’s fine,” y/n squeaked out, her ability to lie getting worse and worse with each word. After receiving another pointed look from Malia, she finally cracked. “Ugh, fine. I just got an email from my landlord that he’s bumping up the rent when my lease is up and I can’t afford to stay there by myself anymore,” y/n ranted. The group, minus y/n, glanced around at each other with frowns. Each and every one of them would drop everything to help y/n, but it just so happened that they were all already stuck in leases or didn’t have any extra rooms at their homes. After a few moments of silence, Theo piped up.

“I could be your roommate and split the rent if you want,” he offered nonchalantly. Stiles looked between Theo and y/n as if they’d both grown two heads. Before y/n could decline the offer, Theo continued. “My lease is almost up and your place is much nicer anyways. It’s a win win,” Theo pointed out casually and leaned back deeper into the cushions. 

An awkward silence hung in the air for a moment as y/n mulled it over. It wasn’t a horrible idea. Having a chimera as a roommate was basically like having a top-of-the-line security system. Plus, between being a full-time student and working part-time, y/n was hardly home so it didn’t really matter who her roommate was, just as long as they did their fair share of chores.

“Sure, why not,” y/n replied warmly.

It had been about a month since Theo moved in. Aside from sleeping, y/n had spent very little time at their now shared apartment. If she wasn’t at school or working, she was spending time with the pack, which felt like a full time job in and of itself. Too bad they weren’t getting paid to keep the whole damn city safe. For what felt like the first time in months, y/n finally had an entire weekend off. No looming deadlines from her classes. No long and grueling shifts for work. No supernatural threats. 

When she got home that Friday night she dropped her purse by the door, toed her shoes off halfway through the room, and unceremoniously flopped down onto the couch, sighing loudly as she did so. 

“Well hello to you too,” Theo called as he entered the room stealthily. y/n jumped, startled by his presence.

“Jesus, I didn’t even know you were home. What are you, a ninja?” y/n asked, chest heaving slightly.

“Something like that,” Theo smirked, earning an unimpressed eye-roll from y/n. Theo moved to sit down on the couch next to her, making sure to leave a respectful distance between their bodies, and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. “So, you’ve been busy,” Theo began, striking up a light conversation. y/n snorted and leaned her head back into the cushions.

“You’ve got that right,” y/n groaned, running a hand through her tousled hair. The last thing y/n expected when Theo moved in was for him to be willing to hear her vent about school and work, but he actually seemed to enjoy the conversation and company. She told him about her lazy group project members and the sleazy old men who came to the diner she waitressed at. She told him how poetic justice had been served when one particularly disgruntled customer slipped and fell on the drink that he’d intentionally spilled when a waitress wouldn’t give him her number. Theo actually laughed in response to that story, his gleeful chuckle brought a warm smile to y/n’s face. 

“I didn’t mean to unload on you, thanks for listening though,” y/n finished shyly. Theo brushed off her comment.

“That was entertaining, thank you,” Theo replied with his signature grin. y/n felt heat rise to her cheeks but turned away before Theo could notice.

“Anyways… as much as I’d love to not move from this couch for the next 48 hours, I should probably clean up a bit. I’ve been a pretty shitty roommate,” y/n grimaced as she forced herself off of the couch. Theo gave her a puzzled look and patted the spot next to him on the couch, rolling his eyes when she seemed unwilling to sit back down.

“You’ve hardly been here since I moved in. I don’t think you’ve eaten a meal here, much less made a mess. Except for maybe your shoes in the middle of the floor,” he pointed out, gesturing towards her anti-slip waitressing sneakers. y/n’s face continued to burn as she moved to kick the shoes towards the shoe rack by the door. Naturally, she turned to sarcasm as a defense mechanism.

“What shoes? I don’t see any shoes,” y/n quipped slyly, waltzing back across the room to once again sink into the couch. Theo chuckled wordlessly at her antics and tore his eyes away from her to look at the TV.

“Friends or The Office?”

As luck would have it, y/n’s free weekend was short lived and the following Monday she was back to her never ending stream of school work and back-to-back work shifts. Fortunately, she was able to run home during her lunch break and wisely chose to use the time for a well-deserved nap. As she pulled out her keys to open the apartment door, she heard mechanical humming coming from inside. Truth be told, she had yet to figure out what kind of roommate Theo was, much less come close to understanding the walking enigma, so she had no idea what she was about to walk into. Was he building something? Did he figure out a way to bring the dread doctors back? Was he doing something unspeakable with a lady friend that would surely scar y/n for years to come?

As y/n mentally prepared herself for the horror movie that she was expecting to walk into, she inserted her keys in the lock. I need a fucking nap, whatever weird shit going on behind this door be damned. She pushed the door open with tense shoulders and hesitantly peered into the apartment. There stood Theo. Not holding any tools, not actively in cahoots with the nightmarish scientists that occupied part of their high school days, and (thank God) fully clothed...

But vacuuming.

Her murderous, half-human, former dirt bag roommate was vacuuming. Like a bona fide house husband. 

Theo heard the door softly close shut behind y/n and he turned to face her, unplugging the vacuum machine in the process.

“What’s with all of this?” y/n asked hesitantly, gesturing vaguely to the vacuum cleaner and the various cleaning supplies set out on the coffee table. Theo glanced at the area around him, proud of his work.

“I had some time to kill so I figured I’d clean up a bit. I’m pretty much done now so I shouldn’t bother you if you’re studying or…” he trailed off, giving y/n an opportunity to fill in the blank.

“Ha, I probably should, but no. I will be dead asleep for the next thirty minutes and then I have to head to the diner for a double shift,” she groaned and shrugged off her jacket as she made her way towards her room. Considering the fact that it was only noon on a Monday, y/n seemed far too tired. Theo frowned for a moment and genuinely considered going to have nice civilized chats with her manager and professors. That’s probably a bad idea though. Unless...

For some reason unbeknownst to y/n, her professors had begun to show some mercy in the number of papers and projects they assigned. Her manager at the diner even offered to decrease the hours she worked each week if she was feeling overwhelmed. Theo wore a knowing grin when a joyful y/n came home one day and explained this all to him. If y/n caught his mischievous smirk, she certainly didn’t call him out on it. With all of her newfound free time, y/n decided that she wanted to host a pack movie night at their apartment.

“Alright, the pizza is on the way and Scott is bringing snacks. We should probably get the movie set up before Stiles gets here and somehow convinces us all to watch Star Wars again,” y/n rattled off while she paced the apartment to make sure everything was in order. “I washed a bunch of blankets earlier, could you take them out of the dryer and put them on the couch?” y/n requested as she anxiously walked to the kitchen and began pulling out plates and cups. Theo nodded gently as he popped into the kitchen to check things out.

“Don’t stress too much. As long as there’s people and pizza, everyone will be happy,” Theo said, attempting to ease her anxiety. y/n smiled lightly at his words and took a deep breath. Lately he seemed to have some magical ability to calm her down. Theo left the kitchen to take care of the blankets while y/n put together a makeshift snack bar, complete with plates, bowls for snacks, and beer. The pizza and most of the pack arrived just as y/n and Theo were finishing up with their respective jobs. The pizza delivery boy seemed a little scared by the tall, muscled men and tiny but mighty women surrounding him so she gave him a decent tip and rolled her eyes at her friends’ naturally intimidating nature. After y/n ushered them all inside and set the pizza down on the kitchen counter, she joined the rest of the pack in the living room. To her surprise, the blankets had been neatly set out around the room and folded with expert precision. She sent Theo an impressed smile and winked when she thought no one was looking.

Stiles was the last to arrive and much to his disappointment Ghostbusters had already been set up on the TV. It didn’t take long for everyone to grab food and get situated around the living room, so by the time y/n was done buzzing around the apartment like a madwoman to get everything situated there was only one spot left on the couch. y/n knew that her friends - aside from Stiles - weren’t actively trying to hurt Theo’s feelings, but seeing him tucked into the corner of the couch distanced away from everyone pained her more than she’d admit.

So, she did what any good friend would do. Not only did she gladly take the spot on the couch next to him, but she also casually tossed her legs over his and covered the two of them with a blanket. The action definitely earned her a few raised eyebrows, including from Theo, but no one dared to call them out. y/n was able to easily ignore the sideways glances they earned throughout the course of the movie, mostly because she had fallen asleep about 15 minutes in. By the end of the movie her head had fallen to lazily rest on Theo's shoulder and he had subconsciously pulled her in closer to his side.

After the movie finished and they spent some time catching up, the rest of the pack began to trickle out of y/n and Theo’s apartment. Lydia was the last to leave so she offered to lock the door behind her so that Theo wouldn’t have to move and wake y/n. Lydia tossed out a few stray cups on her way out the door, and because she was never one to tell secrets, she definitely didn’t send the girls a picture of Theo and y/n now both passed out and cuddling on the couch.

a/n: this seemed like a great idea in the shower and now i’m not sure i even like it but i hope you enjoyed :)

edit: enjoy my best friend’s live reaction to this fic

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[sorcerersofnyc]

The Last Thing Left (Zemo x F!Reader) 8/9

If it wasn’t so painfully ironic (and hilarious to watch,) Helmut would find the relationship between Sam and James a little sad.

Ghosts weren’t enough to hold two people together.

While they wait for Torres to locate Donya Madani, Zemo brings Sam and Bucky to the home he once shared with you.

You reunite and he reflects upon his relationship with you (his wife's friend and his friend's wife) and your journey from being people with mutual friends to partners.

Part Eight: Zemo has to say goodbye.

Suicidal ideation, Angst, various mentions of death & mourning, Zemo's wife's name is Heike because of comics.  I use Serbian Cyrillic as a stand-in for Sokovian. The reader likes waffles (this is a non-negotiable fact).

Note: Main Character is neutral in most regards, but the story was written with my own cultural background in mind. (In other words, I won't say what she looks like but I envision her as being black.)

First Chapter | Previous

***

He doesn’t know how to tell you goodbye. He doesn’t want to tell you goodbye. So lingers at the doorframe of his bedroom with a heavy heart and troubled eyes.

Your spot on the bed is empty, the blankets still unmade as steam from the shower hovers thinly in the air.

The sound of running water stops just before he passes the archway that leads into the master bath. The glass door opens and shuts on the other side. He hears you shuffle around and, after a moment, sees you peek around the wall.

You gasp.

Drops of water slide down your shoulders, vanishing beneath the fluffy towel wrapped around your breasts.

"Helmut!" You retreat behind the wall quickly. “I thought you were still downstairs!”

“My apologies,” He smirks. “I had no intention of intruding.” Helmut turns around for the sake of your modesty.

You hesitate for just a moment before approaching him, your footsteps growing closer, more confident as you near him from behind.

“You should have woke me,” you scold, entering his periphery. He twists his neck just enough to watch you bend over and take something from the drawer.

“I felt it would be wise to let you sleep.”

He watches you disappear behind the wall once more, curious to see what it was you took from his drawer. Was it an article of clothing? Did he have anything that suited you? He ponders every possibility.

So when you finally return, Helmut drinks in the sight of you, checking you out from head to toe.

“Stop staring at me like that.” There’s a slight waver in your voice as you look at him, as you take notice of the wicked smile on his face.

“My apologies again, Драга,” he places special emphasizes the word, “I was merely enjoying the view.” Your clothing is your own, except for the socks.

“We shouldn’t linger,” Helmut imagines you fighting back a blush as you ignore his words. “The last thing I want is those two running around my house. What if they find all Anežka’s guns?” You move to step around him, to walk out into the hall, but Helmut takes your hand into his own and pulls you into his arms.

“Wait,” he instructs you, his voice leveled and controlled. You look up at him, confused—perhaps a little intrigued—by the sudden force of his actions. You brace your hands against his chest.

“Yes?” You still, but gaze shifts from his eyes to his mouth, down his jaw, and back up again.

Cрањеg, he thinks, because it would be so easy to kiss you, so easy to do anything with you as Sam and James wait downstairs. (They could take notes if they heard them.)

He pulls you in a little closer, lessening the space between your chests. It would have been so easy—but Helmut won’t start something he can’t finish. He has to leave and he could never leave you wanting him, not when he knows he’ll never see you again.

“There’s something I must tell you first,” he insists, breaking your intimate gaze.

“What is it?” Your voice is a breathless whisper, so sweet he nearly falters.

“I’m sorry but I must leave you again.”

“Oh.” The simple phrase hung in the air.

“I'm truly sorry, I believed—”

“No, it’s—I mean, we both knew we wouldn’t have much time together…” The world grew quiet around him, as though all the birds and the sun in the sky shared in his agony. “When will you leave?”

“We have but a few hours left together.”

“Where are you going?”

“Riga.” He brings a hand to the curve of your cheek.

“We have a place there, right?” You take a step backward, releasing yourself from his hold, and brush past him quickly. “I’ll call someone to have it ready for you.”

He wants to call you back to him, hold you in his arms, memorize your every curve and feature—but instead, he watches you go.

***

Before enacting his ‘diabolical scheme,’ as the media so kindly put it, he arranged for Oeznik to send regular updates about you.

The first broke his heart completely.

When Oeznik tried to deliver the paperwork he had for you, you sent him back with a very colorful message detailing exactly what Helmut could do with his money. You didn’t want it. In fact, you found the idea to be insulting.

“If he wanted me to be his partner, he should have stayed instead of treating our relationship like some sort of business transaction!”

Unwilling to stay in the Italian estate for any longer than strictly necessary, you called a taxi in the middle of the night and made the arduous journey to the nearest city. Eventually, you arrived in Venice where you stayed an entire week.

You booked travel west and spent another few days in Milan.

Oeznik had an easy time monitoring you, and Helmut suspected he enjoyed the chance to visit a few quiet cities with little urgency. But it seemed two weeks was where his patience ran thin.

After another few days of meandering, Oeznik, who you had been more than a little surprised to see, managed to sit you down and convince you to overlook the paperwork.

Helmut wasn’t sure what he could have said to make you agree—likely something to do with taking the money, if only out of spite or something more sentimental, invoking your fondness for Carl and Heike—but you agreed.

When you finally returned home and Oeznik reported you intended to remain there, Helmut hired Anežka, Oeznik’s great-niece, to keep you company. She was a sweet-tempered young woman who once shot a bullet between the eyes of a rampaging boar somewhere east of Siberia—allegedly.

Nevertheless, he trusted her to watch over you and focused fully on his mission.

*

News of the Avengers causing havoc in Lagos broke out and you weren’t there to discuss the headline or the harsher implications of their actions. (‘Think about the demographics of the area,’ he imagined you would say. ‘Of course they think they can just waltz in and do what they want. It’s like Johannesburg all over again.’)

He found Vasily Karpov in a sleepy suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, and traveled there to find him. You weren't there to greet him upon his return.

He booked a room in Vienna. You weren't there to eat breakfast beside him.

He enacted his scheme. You weren't there to intervene.

*

When it was over and he was caught, the joint terrorism task force transferred Helmut to a high-security prison in Berlin, where he toiled in boredom and misery.

He deserved it, of course, but the hell of sitting with his memories and reflecting on his regrets was unbelievably tiring.

He’d been in prison for nearly a week before he received any communication from the world outside.

It was a money transfer notice.

Eigengeld, the notice said, showing that the money was transferred to a private funds account.

He received the same notification two weeks later.

Helmut used his money to purchase books, deciding to brush up on his Russian by reading classic poetry. He then obtained a small radio and other odds and ends meant to make his cell more accommodating.

Every two weeks he received the same notice, nothing more and nothing less.

Every month he received a letter from Oeznik, though they functioned more as simple reports about your welling, the status of his assets, observations on the world, and such.

Then, after about a month and a half of imprisonment, he received a parcel in the mail; a thick book sent directly from a local seller about Anger and Grief.

He recognized the title; you had the same book, albeit an earlier edition, on your desk in your bedroom. It was easy for him to imagine you there, sitting on your bed, doing the work to unpack all your feelings—you wanted him to do the work too.

You hadn’t given up on him; you didn’t think he was too far gone.

He opened up to the table of contents.

*

He received a second parcel three weeks later.

This time you sent him a treatise on Contemporary Arts and a book about Rococo Architecture.

He understood the intent of the first one well enough; you wanted him to develop a greater appreciation for contemporary art. But the second? You were clearly just teasing him. He hated Rococo Architecture.

A third parcel came three weeks after that and it contained a book more aligned with his tastes, Fortuna ist ein reissender Fluß, Fortune is a River. He assumed it was an apology for the two before.

And so it went on; every few weeks he received something new—but then one day you sent him a letter:

‘Dear Helmut,’

Oeznik, Anežka, and I visited the Sokovian memorial together. I laid flowers for you, Carl, Heike, and Heinrich. I laid them right beside the flowers I brought for Dominik and my father-in-law...’

You told him that the land was set to be divided by neighboring countries, cannibalized before it was even clear of rubble. You mentioned donating money to charity, visiting his other estates at Oeznik’s behest, and working on art.

You drew a sketch of the memorial on the back of the letter but never mentioned what happened between you, only that you're well and wished for him the same.

He wrote you back, thanking you for laying flowers for his family, and didn’t expect to hear from you again.

So when the next parcel you sent was accompanied by another letter.

You asked about the books and his thoughts about them.

Your tone was perfectly cordial, perfectly polite, but there was clearly a sense of distance there. You told him of a book you read by a man named Garth Risk Hallberg. You complained it was about 400 pages too long but something about it stuck out to you, a quotes:

'And why love things you were destined to lose? Why let yourself feel things if the feelings were doomed to die?'

Helmut was far too smart to trick himself into believing your words weren’t meant to stir something within his heart, that they weren’t a clever admission of your true feelings. However, he was also too cautious to remark recklessly.

So in his reply, he mentioned a book as well, Il Principe, and he quoted Machiavelli's view of love:

‘...love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage.’

You shouldn't love him, he thought, not after he broke your heart to achieve his own ends. You disagreed.

"Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom." You wrote, followed by a snippy, 'Shakespeare had a better view of love than Machiavelli.’

The quote was from Sonnet 116. (You sent him a book of sonnets shortly after that.)

The sonnet spoke of what love was, what it meant to love a partner for who they were, accepting their changes and their flaws, and welcoming all the obstacles of love.

Helmut wasn't presumptuous enough to believe you could ever come to love him so fully, but wasn't love at all a start?

Neither of you wrote 'I love you,' at least not directly. Had he said it, he knew something, that thing inside of him, that thing that always held him back from you, would finally break.

But little by little you opened up to him again, using your shared love of literature to express your true feelings.

Oeznik continued to send his reports as well—one every month—to check up and keep him informed.

*

Roughly two years after his sentencing, something changed. News reported some sort of invasion in New York City, then another similar incident over Wakandan Airspace. And then, suddenly, there was a panic in the prison. People turned to dust and vanish all over the world.

And he worried.

Mail delivery was in complete and utter disarray. It took about eight weeks to receive word from you. For eight weeks he was alone, trapped in a vicious cycle of fear and doubt, just like the days he spent digging for his family in the rubble of his father’s home.

He contemplated an escape, planned for every contingency, and wondered what he'd do if he found your house cold and empty. Could he handle that pain? Could he stand to lose whatever shred of hope he had left?

And what if you came looking for him? What if you came, and he wasn’t there?

He contemplated all of those things and as he did so, your letters came.

When the guard appeared before his cell, they handed him a bundle of them, each more desperate and hasty than the last.

You survived the decimation. You were alright. But Anežka and Oeznik were gone. You were so sorry, so scared.

Captain America made a speech on television that assured everyone that no one else would disappear, but you didn’t believe him. You didn’t even know if your letters would reach him; you didn’t know if he was gone too but you would keep writing until someone told you otherwise.

You attempted to call the prison; you visited the gate; you did everything in your power to see him and the moment you received news that he, too, had survived, you cried.

The emotions he felt were bittersweet.

You were alive and well; he hadn’t lost you—but Oeznik was gone.

He wasn't misguided, Helmut knew that it would come to happen eventually, but he never expected it to be so sudden, didn’t expect it to happen like this. The old man had plenty of years left in him—he should have lived to reach 100 at least.

But with him gone, he’d lost his most loyal companion and confidant. With him gone, you were truly all he had left in the world.

As his next of kin, you tried to make an appeal for him to attend a memorial, but apparently, the death of 'a butler,’ as the officials described, wasn't an adequate reason to allow for prison leave.

He was simply too dangerous a criminal.

You shared a little poem with him in one of your letters, something about being still and staying in place. You didn’t want him to escape his prison cell. With the world in such disarray, so many places descended into martial law. If anyone saw him, they’d likely shoot on sight. You didn’t want to risk that, and he wouldn’t make you worry.

You encouraged him to open up about his feelings, so in his grief, he turned to you.

*

Time passed.

*

Time passed.

*

Time passed.

*

All his time alone gave him the chance to work through his grief, come to peace with what happened to his family, and reconcile his feelings. The rage was still there. It hadn’t gone away, but it was less of a bullet and more of an ache.

He still worried for you, of course, but life moved on and you coped; You wanted to help, wanted to ease the devastation left in the decimation’s wake.

‘I feel like nothing I do is enough,’ You wrote. And you felt as though you were living through the fall of Sokovia all over again. He suggested you try a change of scenery, to go somewhere new to gain a better understanding of how the world was now shaped.

So you visited New York City. Your letters took more time to arrive when you were away, but you mentioned having met a young journalist there, a man with an interest in art. He had a friend who you claimed looked exactly like him.

'If you grew a beard,' you wrote, 'you'd be twins.' He highly doubted that.

Despite your insistence that he was simply a friendly acquaintance, Helmut assumed you developed a liking toward the man.

He tried not to let the idea bother him—you deserved to live a life of happiness, a life not shackled to him—but he loved you, and you loved him.

He may not have had a name for what you were to each other, but when you reported having returned home without incident (or new romantic prospects) he felt relieved.

*

Years went by.

Your bond grew stronger.

And then the world changed once again one day.

You were making tea in the kitchen when Anežka appeared right before your eyes.

'It was as though her body pieced itself back together.' You described. 'She doesn't remember what happened, neither does Oeznik. It's like time didn't pass for them at all.’

They called what happened ‘The Blip’ to describe the experience. Helmut thought it was a ridiculous name.

But the sudden reappearance of the people that vanished threw the world into chaos once again. There was so much chaos, in fact, that James Buchanan Barnes appeared before him a few much later.

(Apparently, he thought with some resentment, those affiliated with the Avengers could visit him but not his next-of-kin.)

*

Helmut’s last letter wasn't quite a letter at all.

He arranged for a parcel to be sent to you: waffles and a bouquet of your favorite flowers. He then asked Oeznik to send you a message.

He was coming home to see you, to be with you at last.

***

When Oeznik calls to tell him that the car is ready, you’re standing in the kitchen engrossed in a lively conversation with Sam.

You decided it would be nice to send them off with snacks, which somehow lead to a deeper conversation about your love of Beignets, the connection between food and culture, and the ingredients needed for Crawfish Étouffée.

Helmut isn’t sure he likes how funny you think Sam is, but he ignores that part of himself as he stands beside you, tracing circles into the palm of your hand.

James stands behind Sam, looking as sullen as a cat in the rain, but Helmut made the conscious choice to ignore that as well.

“It seems our car has arrived,” he cuts in, gently squeezing your hand. James stands at full attention and Sam nods his head. They’re ready to return to the mission.

“Helmut,” you turn your attention to him fully, “Could you hang back a minute. I promise it won’t take long.” You look between Sam and James. “I just need to give him something.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, gesturing James toward the door. “Thanks for everything and hey—if ever you’re in the neighborhood come down to the restaurant, we’ll set you up straight.”

You wave him off with a smile, agreeing to do just that as James gives you a polite nod of acknowledgment

“Thanks.”

“Adiós,” you call to them, waiting for the two to shut the door.

“I’m almost sad to see them leave…”

“Really?” He raised a brow.

“Almost,” you repeat, taking both his hands in yours. “But I’m glad I got to see you again, Helmut — even if it was just for a while.”

“As am I.” You stare at each other, allowing the moment to settle around you. There was so much left to say and so little time to say it.

"I...I have something for you. Not...not a present but something I want you to keep." You slide your hands away from his take a folded envelope from your pocket. The paper inside is worn, but the letter is addressed to him, dating back to the spring of 2016.

"It's the first letter I was going to send to you but...I couldn’t. But I want you to have it now—just don't read it until you're gone."

"Thank you," He says after a moment. "I'll treasure it." And he would. He’d keep your words close to his heart.

"I wanted you to know I understood what you thought you had to do...that I forgave you and…" Your voice waivers but you continue, desperately trying to hold yourself together. "I just wish we had more time."

"I know." Helmut wrapped you in his arms and you remained there, your face buried in his shoulder.

“I must go now,” he tells you. You don’t let him go. You won’t.

Helmut presses a kiss to the top of your head with a chuckle. “Come now драга, it’ll be alright.” He pulls you back by the shoulders, looks into your eyes. “You’ve been so wonderful to me. I can’t envision a better friend.” Helmut leans forward, presses his forehead against your own, and enjoys one last moment of tender affection. It was a moment where words felt insufficient, where nothing else needed to be said except for maybe, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You whisper, and your words fill his heart with a strange new light.

But then someone—probably James—knocks on the door three times. A muffled argument between his companions begins outside the door, and Helmut sighs.

It’ll be a long trip to Latvia.

“Take care of yourself,” you tell him, “and don’t make any more trouble.”

“Trouble?” He asks innocently enough, as though he would never dream of doing such a thing. You roll your eyes and follow him to the door.

For a moment he considers running. Of taking your hand and leading you out through the back door. He could run away with you—but then he would never achieve his mission. And he couldn’t allow Super Soldiers to exist.

So he steeled his resolve and reached toward the door.

“Wait!” You reach for his hand.

He didn’t want to make this harder than it had to be, but he needed to listen to what you had to say.

“What is it?”

You take a breath as if to prepare yourself for something. “... Can I... Can we... Can I kiss you?” His heart aches. Helmut struggles to find an answer. But perhaps he was simply overthinking it. Perhaps there was nothing left to say.

So he nods. You take a step closer.

You move as though you’ve thought of this before; you place your hands on his chest, tilt your face upward, and press your lips against his gently.

It was a chaste kiss, a quick one that evoked the feeling of finding shelter in the rain.

You pull away, no doubt prepared to say something, but Helmut takes hold of your waist and pulls your body against him. The love between you grows into a burning flame as he kisses you, again and again, to help quench it.

Your lips part, your tongues meet, you run your fingers through his hair, but it only makes him hotter, hungrier, burning for something more. “Thank you for taking care of me, Helmut.” Your breath is heavy, and it mingles with his own when you part from him.

“I want you to be happy, драга,” Helmut confesses, voice low, accent thicker. “I am sorry to have caused you distress-”

“Stop it.” You cup his face between your hands. “You gave me everything you could.”

He kisses you again, and it’s fervent and zealous, it’s desperate in the way all final things are.

Another knock sounds unkindly at the door.

There’s no more time to be together—but you share another kiss anyway.

“Goodbye, my love.” He whispers on your lips because he knows that this is the end, that he may never see you again.

“Goodbye.” You step back, releasing your hold at last.

You open the door and he steps outside.

“Gentleman,” Helmut greets the others nonchalantly, as though he weren’t moments away from delaying the mission in favor of sharing something even more personal with you.

The sun is high in the sky, but the weather is deceptively chilly.

“What were you doing in there?” James asks, his voice full of unfounded accusations.

“Come on, Buck.” Sam shakes his head. He lets out a loud, exasperated sigh and starts toward the car.

“What?” James follows Sam toward the car, annoyed he must defend himself from some implied accusation.

“I was merely bidding farewell to my dear companion, of course,” Helmut answers truthfully, sending a mischievous little wink your way.

"Cuídate!" You call after them. Take care.

Helmut takes a last look at the home you once shared, one last look at you as you watch him from the doorway.

He loves you, which is the reason he has to leave. He would put an end to Karli and her acolytes to make the world a safer place. No one, not the Avengers or these ‘Flag Smashers’ endanger the world once again. He would put a bullet to each of them himself if it meant keeping you safe.

[paulinedorchester]

London, July 1943: Excerpt from a work in progress

After nearly twenty minutes, Foyle decides that he might as well walk.

A cab pulls up at the entrance to the Victoria Coach Station every few minutes, but the drivers favour passengers in uniform. Difficult to resent that in wartime, but it quickly becomes clear that they’re really looking for the Americans – ready, willing and able to pay twice the normal fare. There are throngs of them in London: on leave, newly returned from North Africa, giddy with the success of the Sicily landings. Foyle keeps looking for familiar faces but sees none.

It’s barely a mile to Charles and Pamela’s place, if he recalls correctly, and it’s a fine day. After almost three hours cooped up in the coach it’ll do him good to stretch his legs. He hasn’t brought much with him and his suitcase is easy to lift. He picks it up and sets out.

Travel remains slow and uncomfortable, as it has been for the past few years. The discomfort is as much psychological as physical. Posters with such inscriptions as Must you travel? and Is your journey really necessary? are still displayed at every station, and Foyle had weathered a few cold stares from passers-by as he entered the coach stop at Hastings.

But it’s Charles and Pamela’s twentieth wedding anniversary on Saturday, and it had been kind of them to invite him. He really doesn’t feel the need for a change of scene, as they seem to feel he must, but he is curious to know what London looks and feels like with no official duties to discharge, even in the midst of the war.

And the war is everywhere he looks. Westminster has been spared neither bombing nor the depredations of the war effort. The railings have been removed from the familiar public garden he passes as he walks north along Buckingham Palace Road, and the garden has been cut up into allotments.

Buckingham Palace itself, he recalls as he makes his way past it, was hit repeatedly in 1940; it’s hardly a moldering ruin, but clearly only stopgap repairs have been carried out, the King and Queen waiting out the shortage of manpower and materials along with the rest of the country.

And as he walks across the Green Park he sees that it’s the public garden writ large: stripped of ironwork, much of the land being used to grow food.

At length – it’s a longer walk than he’d remembered, after all – he reaches Arlington Street and the drive in front of Arlington House. In 1936 Charles and Pamela had given up the fine Georgian house in Highgate that they’d taken before their son Alan was born and moved into a large flat in this mansion block, just completed at the time in the height of modern style. The move was a practical one, they had said: the place was and is an easy walk from the Admiralty, where Charles’ duties were demanding increasingly long days, and their daughter Averill’s school – now evacuated to Yorkshire – was also fairly close by.

Arlington House still stands, but it’s sandbagged and most of its metal ornament is gone. Some windows on the lower storeys, Foyle observes, have been blown out and boarded up.

‘My name is Christopher Foyle – I’m here to visit Commander and Mrs Howard,’ Foyle tells the elderly porter, who looks him up and down in an appraising way.

‘Yes, sir. They’re expecting someone by that name,’ the porter concedes, sounding a bit skeptical. At once he adds, ‘May I see your identity card, please?’

Foyle had suspected, and still suspects, that Pamela was privately relieved at the end of the Howards’ conventional existence in the suburbs. As he waits for the lift he reflects, not for the first time, that it’s hard to decide which seems more unlikely: her decision to leave her earlier life of vaguely Bohemian gentility for marriage to a Naval officer, or Charles’ choice of her as his wife.

Not that they aren’t well suited. They were both born into well-to-do families whose fortunes had been made during the previous century from the more refined aspects of trade: fine printing and engraving in the Howards’ case, textiles for the Fourniers. Pamela’s parents, though tolerant of their daughter’s artistic inclinations, had put the kibosh on her youthful ambition to become a ballet dancer.

Of age by the time the last war began, she had joined the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, driving an ambulance between Calais and a point that was often unnervingly close to the front. After the war she’d been one of the countless women to whom marriage had seemed an unlikely prospect, if only given the small number of surviving men. Although she had no real need to earn her own living she’d found a position at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, as a Deputy Company Manager, the first woman ever to fill that role.

And then, one evening in 1922, she’d somewhat reluctantly accompanied her father to a banquet at Drapers’ Hall. There she had been seated to the left of 1st Lt Charles Howard, R.N., a junior executive officer in attendance to represent the office that supplied Naval uniforms, still a bachelor at nearly thirty-two. (Foyle has never been entirely clear about how old Pamela is.) They were married nine months later. The wedding was a spectacular business in a Regency chapel of ease in St John’s Wood; Andrew, five years old and saucer-eyed throughout his first visit to London, had been a pageboy.

The brevity of their courtship had caused some talk, according to Rosalind. Still, it was a conventionally appropriate match – but also, Foyle knows, a very happy one. Pamela found Charles bright, witty and kind as well as quite handsome. His determination to remain in the Navy – in the teeth of his family’s expectation that, as the only surviving son, he would return to civilian life and enter the family business – had struck a chord with her, even as the novelty of life as a mildly rebellious bachelor girl with a toe in the demi-monde was beginning to wear off. Charles’ sense of duty was counterbalanced, and his own long-neglected aesthetic interests reawakened, by Pamela’s creative impulses and artistic connections.

It is Pamela herself who answers the door of the flat and laughs gently when her brother-in-law is unable to conceal his surprise.

‘Jill was called up,’ she explains, ‘and there’s really no hope of replacing her. They’ve all been called up! Not to worry, though — I haven’t yet taken over the kitchen. Mrs Ellis is still with us, bless her, so we won’t starve! It’s awfully good to see you, Christopher, and I’m very glad you’ve come. It means a great deal to Charles, as it does to me.’

Rosalind and Pamela had taken to each other at once, and became quite firm friends, Foyle recalls.

Mrs Ellis brings in tea, apologises for its meagerness and withdraws to the kitchen.

‘Would you care for something a bit stronger than mere tea?’ Pamela enquires. ‘I can imagine that you might need it, after travelling in this day and age. There’s no whiskey of any description, I’m afraid, but we do have a bottle of rather good Portuguese sherry.’

‘Well, um, perhaps a very small glass. Thank you.’

Sounding less facetious, she asks after Andrew.

‘He’s, um, he’s well,’ Christopher replies. ‘Not that it’s easy on him – not that I wouldn’t prefer to see him in some sort of nice, safe job at a desk – but he holds up all right on the whole. How’s Alan?’

‘Happy as the day is long — adores the Royal Naval College, talks constantly about the Painted Hall, and is quite convinced that we’ll win the day just as soon as he’s on active service!’

‘That’ll be, um, another two years, won’t it?’

‘Quite right,’ Pamela says dryly. ‘A bit long to wait, in my opinion. He has a chit for the week-end. He’s asked after you.’

‘It’ll be very good to see him. What about Averill?’

‘I’m afraid not — she won’t be here, I mean. Keighly’s a long way off, fifteen’s a bit young for such a long journey on one’s own — as I see it, at any rate — and they’re keeping those girls busy year ’round there. We haven’t seen her since Easter — and we went there. Quite a trek in these conditions! But there’s some good news on that score — the school’s coming back to London in September. I don’t know that I was meant to tell you that,’ she adds, ‘but there it is.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘Charles and I have had a few conversations about that, I can tell you! But Keighly’s not all that far from either Bradford or Leeds, and they’ve both been Blitzed. I suppose that the governors think that they may as well take their chances! In any case the decision’s been made — and it’ll be marvelous to have her home.’

‘Of course. I understand you have a new job,’ Christopher adds.

‘Yes. I’m afraid I wasn’t much good at making Sten guns — they showed me the door, Christopher, to be perfectly honest! — so I’ve joined CEMA as a sort of manager-at-large.’

Christopher frowns, puzzled.

‘Seema?’ he asks. ‘Oh, the Committee, um... ’

‘Or the Council, as it is now, for the Encouragement of Music and Arts.’

‘That part of the Government?’

‘No, not as such. It was run strictly on private funds at first, but Parliament has awarded us a hundred thousand pounds per annum — and Mr Bevin absolutely loathes us!’ Pamela adds with great glee. ‘Some of the people we’ve reached,’ she continues, sounding more serious now, ‘have never seen a live performance of anything before — they’ve simply never had the opportunity — unless it was the village amateur dramatic society, I suppose. It’s truly wonderful, Christopher — we’ve had letters from people who tell us that we’ve opened up whole new worlds for them! War does break down barriers — as dreadful as it is to think of it doing anything beneficial!’

‘I’ve often heard – um, the young woman who was my driver – I’ve often heard her say much the same thing.’

‘Would that be Miss Stewart?’

‘Oh – yes.’

‘We’ve heard some very encouraging things about her.’ Pamela smiles and sips her tea. ‘As it happens, CEMA is looking for a regional officer for the Hastings area. We have someone in Brighton, but she has her hands full with that region — and she’s expecting a baby in January.’

‘This a paying position?’

‘Oh, of course! Not lavishly, I’ll admit — two guineas per week to start with, plus travel expenses.’

‘That isn’t too bad,’ Christopher considers. ‘If I can think of a likely candidate I’ll let you know.’

‘I’d be quite grateful for that.’

Modern as the flat may be, it has a hearth and a mantel, with a clock sitting atop the latter that now strikes the hour.

‘Charles promised to come home at a reasonable time today,’ Pamela notes. ‘Christopher, I ought to tell you that he left here this morning in — I was about to say “in a foul mood,” but “in a highly unsettled state” might be a better way of describing it.’

‘What about?’ her brother-in-law asks, trying and failing to picture this.

‘I don’t know! I can tell you what brought it on, though — a letter that arrived in the morning post. But I didn’t see it — not the letter itself, I mean — and Charles didn’t tell me what was it said. All I know is that it seemed to agitate him a good deal. He took it away with him. Well, when I say that I didn’t see it, what I mean is that I didn’t read it,’ she goes on. ‘Of course I didn’t. But I did see that it was typed — on rather better paper than one is accustomed to seeing nowadays, and that the paper was marked.’

Christopher smiles dimly.

‘I’m no longer with the police, Pamela,’ he reminds her.

‘Well, no. I know that, of course. But isn’t it interesting, nonetheless?’

‘Depends on what’s in it.’

When the door to the flat opens a few minutes later; Pamela excuses herself and goes into the hall to greet her husband. Foyle hears both of them saying his name, and Charles using the words apologise and upset. After a few moments the Howards return to the sitting room.

‘Christopher! Wonderful to see you! Thank you so very much for joining us,’ Charles begins, shaking his brother-in-law’s hand. ‘How was your journey up? We’ve been hearing the most terrible stories,’ he goes on. On the surface he’s the same as ever, but something has changed behind his kind eyes. Something has rattled him.

‘Oh, can’t complain,’ Christopher replies.

Charles asks after Andrew and – with a vagueness that seems almost deliberate, as though the subject were slightly too indelicate to bring up – enquires as to whether Christopher is keeping himself satisfactorily occupied these days. These subjects having been discussed, there is a short silence during which he looks first pensive, then determined.

‘Pamela tells me that she’s put you in the picture about my... well, my loss of an even keel this morning.’

‘Well, um, she told me that it occurred,’ Christopher replies.

‘Mm. There was a letter in the morning post that gave me quite a shock. As the day went on, though, it dawned on me that it concerns both of you as well,’ Charles continues, glancing at Pamela and then back to Christopher. ‘Please correct me if I’m wrong, Christopher, but I don’t believe that you ever met my brother – and of course I know that you never did, Pamela.’

‘Knew him only by reputation,’ Christopher affirms. Captain Nicholas Howard, 4th Battalion, Royal Surrey Regiment, had been killed in action on the first day of the Battle of the Somme and was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross.

‘Yes. Well. It seems that there was at least one thing about him that I didn’t know either.’ Charles falls silent again, looking perplexed. He reaches inside his jacket, brings out an envelope and removes its contents, which he offers to his wife and brother-in-law. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you both simply read this.’

He watches for a moment as Pamela and Christopher stand side by side, each holding an edge of the letter paper, taking in its contents. Then he looks out of a window.

[divineluce]

The Champs || Frank & Luce

Timing: Flashback to August

Location: Soul on the Rocks & Al’s

Tagging: @frankmulloy & @divineluce

Description: New to the job, Frank gets to know one of the regulars. Luce is as charming as ever.

Warnings: Alcoholism

There was nothing particularly distinguishing about being one of many of White Crest’s bartenders, but Frank has learned that being one who knew how to handle Soul’s more rambunctious crowds afforded him a degree of influence, and that was even without the use of his pheromones. He also learned that Soul’s patrons would sooner bend under a firm fist than a kind word--of course a kind word from him was a force within its own right, so it was just as well that he was just as competent in wielding the former. Unfortunately for Frank, he liked the use of neither, and the result was a bartender who mostly communicated through monosyllabic grunts, and lost more fights than won them. But he kept coming back for his shift the following night with no complaints and no apparent scrapes or bruises and while his pacifist method served him ill in a brawl, he always got the troublemakers out, so they kept him on. As long as they kept paying him, Frank was happy to stay on. 

It was Frank’s second week into the job, but as far as anyone was concerned he was a regular fixture in the beer-soaked tapestry of Soul on the Rocks. In return Frank was also starting to recognise common faces; who was there for a drink, who was there for a fight, and who wasn’t meant to be there at all, then there was Creepy-Joe, and finally coming to the conclusion that Jake was a massive tool. His first memory of one, Luce, was not what she looked like, but of heat. Literally. And Frank, perpetually cold, was like a moth to  flame, conscious of his distance and yet unable to help himself all the same-- heat, and the stink of cheap tequila. He put another shot glass down in front of her, which was an anomaly in itself considering Frank never got near enough to anyone to actually put their order down in front of them, but rather slid it to them across the bar top from a safe distance of at least 6 feet. “Your fifth shot...or is it your seventh? Who’s keeping count.” He wiped his hands down on the towel that was draped over his shoulder. “You sure that’s wise?”

Like so many other nights before her, Luce had been looking to get fucked up the night she’d walked into Soul. After all the shit she’d been through, with the Ring, with Remmy and Erin and Adam and her sister… The horrible, terrifying fucking conversation she’d had with Nadia, or rather, whoever was controlling Nadia’s body. And, as the final garbage cherry on top of it all, they’d been excommunicated. The threat of death at the hands of some of the women she trusted most, at the hands of her mother? It had shaken her up. Their mother had done… so fucking little to keep them safe. She’d abandoned them, banished them, went along with the whims of the goddamn council. And, on top of it all, there was all the normal shit. She was hauling ass all day, every day, trying to stay afloat. Bills had been coming in non stop and it was all she could do to keep her head afloat. After getting out of a particularly long session of tattooing, Luce had headed straight for Soul on the Rocks. She needed alcohol. Lots and lots of fucking alcohol.

Waving a hand at the bartender-- a new guy, she’d seen him around a few times, but never paid much attention to him-- Luce took the shot with a nod. But, his question made her pause and Luce stared at him over the rim of the small glass. Glancing at him blearily, she stared at the shot glass full of tequila. Fifth or seventh was a good question. But fuck him for asking. “Not me.” She said, tipping the liquid down her throat. It hardly burned, but alcohol never really did. Perks of being a fire witch. Swallowing, she set the empty glass back on the bar and stared at him. “Do they pay you to ask if people’s drinking habits are wise?” She replied. 

He met her drunken gaze with his own measured one, undaunted and undeterred. Yet there was a softness that blunted the edge; the good intention behind a stern word, though Frank was never great at dishing out the latter either. He answered her blunt edge in the way he did with most harsh words: an untiring patience and sometimes even a smile. This time, it was a slight upward tilt to the corner of his mouth, as he relieved her of the empty shot glass. “No. They pay me to kick people out when they’ve had one too many, but I like to give them the courtesy of asking before I start lugging bodies out.” Well that sounded horrifically ominous. “Alive bodies. Obviously. Just unconscious--most of them are passed out by the time I get them into a cab.” Frank said with some good-humour, a trace of a chuckle on each word in the hopes of easing the slip of the tongue that was more menacing than he meant. “It’s a lot easier for everyone concerned if I just walk them out instead of carrying them, and it helps the driver find the right building when they’re awake enough to give the right address.”

Frank had his head tilted to one side, quietly observing the woman that sat in front of him. He recognised her to be a regular, he also noted that she seemed off today. Albeit an easy conclusion to make for anyone that used Soul as their regular haunt. Tonight she looked like she brought a history with her and it was etched across her brow, and in her eyes, in a silent language he was not versed in reading. The temptation was to ask if she was alright, but at the risk of making himself over-familiar, he said instead, “should I be getting a cab ready?”

Rubbing the back of her neck, Luce let out a long sigh. Her fucking neck hurt from spending so long hunched over at the table. The piece had turned out great, just like all her work, but christ. It’d been five long hours of nothing but tattooing. So, a drink or five was what she’d wanted. Not some random bartender getting up in her business. “Lugging bodies, huh? Did I step into the funeral home on accident? This tequila or formaldehyde you’re pouring?” She joked, her words running together just a bit as she spoke. Shrugging, she sighed. Either way, it didn’t really matter much to her. She just wanted to get the fuck out of her head, at least for a little bit. And, with Nadia definitely not an option and Remmy… even less of one, Luce had gone for the old stand by. Alcohol. “Fair. Probably works out for the uber driver too.”

At his words, Luce shook her head. “I’m good.” She said, stubbornness apparent in her voice. She wasn’t dumb enough to drive-- she wasn’t interested in wrapping her 4x4 around a tree and having to deal with more fucking bills. But, she wasn’t ready to go back to Bea’s house just yet. Bea was never there anymore and Nell… who the fuck knew where Nell was most nights. Which meant that Luce would be alone. No, she wasn’t interested in going back to that place, the house that felt more like mausoleum than a home. 

“A funeral home is probably a lot cleaner for one,” Frank said, wiping a spill off the bar top as he does. In fairness, you need only step inside of the pub and he was sure that his point was made on first impression, and she seemed comfortable enough in her seat to suggest that she was a frequent patron of the establishment (that information alone had a whole story to itself). He was asked once why he bothered to clean the place up after the close if it was just going to end up being exactly as it was the following night. His answer was something along the lines of: he was more concerned with what the place might look like if he didn’t clean it up at all. “And if you can’t smell the difference between tequila and formaldehyde, let alone taste it, you are a lot more drunk than I thought.” There was a pause. “I mean...not that I would know what formaldehyde tastes like but I would imagine that it is significantly worse than tequila. Like, cancer-level bad. I would assume.” And this is where you shut up Frank. And fortunately for everyone, he does. Her reply hinted at a stubbornness that was both inherent and unyielding, and Frank’s been in enough fight to recognise those that he wasn’t going to win. Of course, that never stopped him from trying either.

 “Look,” he began, the single phrase intermingling with his exhalation until they became one, “I don’t know you. Obviously. So you do whatever you want. But I’m just saying, I’ve served people enough tequila shots to know that the solution to your problem—whatever that is—isn’t going to be found at the bottom of the fifth or seventh or fifteenth shot.” He concluded by collecting any abandoned and empty glasses, loading them onto a plastic tub to be brought out to the kitchen. “But like I said, you do whatever you want.” 

Snorting at the man’s joke, Luce’s expression sobered slightly at the thought of Erin. She didn’t know the funeral home attendant well, but she was very aware of the last conversation they’d had. Fuck. “I’d hope so.” She gestured to the stains on the bartop, the familiar wear on the wood grain, the slightly ripped and faded stools next to her. “Can you imagine a fucking wake in here?” She said with a slight curl of her lip. As the man continued to talk, she quirked an eyebrow. “Uh huh. Sure you haven’t.” She replied before running a hand through her hair. She fucking… didn’t want to deal with the world outside the doors of Soul. For now, she could just sit and pretend like nothing was happening. She could joke and drink and push aside all the stupid fucking feelings and responsibilities that weighed down on her.

But, this shitty fucking bartender just kept talking. Talked about how drinking wasn’t gonna help her-- like Luce didn’t already know that. It wasn’t about helping her, or finding answers. It was about forgetting. Glaring at him, she drummed her tattooed fingers on the wooden bartop, her skin burning hot with simmering anger. “Yeah, you don’t know me,” She paused, the alcohol flowing through her system making her head spin slightly. Squinting at him, she shook her head. “Who the fuck even are you? Shit, I’d rather deal with Creepy Joe instead of some Pop Psychology bro.” She said with a grimace.

Frank took in her anger with a calm appraisal as he continued to dry the newly cleaned glasses with practiced efficiency. While most would reasonably shrink from the fire, he was almost somehow more drawn to it. Like moth to flame—quite literally, it felt as if heat was just pouring out of her in waves. He could not pinpoint exactly when this happened but his 6 foot rule had been abandoned and Frank was now standing close enough that he could touch her. He just needed to take his hand away from the glass, reach out across the bar, and touch her. Boy did he want to, and he almost did, but then she shook her head. Frank found himself almost doing the same as his attention was snapped back into reality and his focus was drawn back to the intensity of her glare. He took a conscious step back and realised with overwhelming awareness how much he did not want to. “Fair enough.” He resigned with a nod. He looked around. A quiet spell had settled over the bar, and the threat of a brawl was distant enough that if he was quick he could probably get away with ducking out the side door for a couple of minutes. He grabbed the towel from the shoulder and tossed it aside, from his jacket pocket he produced a small white cigarette packet.

“Keep drinking then, see if that helps you, I’m sure Joe wouldn’t mind the company. I’m going for some air.” An invitation could be heard in there somewhere; Frank was seldom ever cordial enough to properly extend the invitation…or any invitation. “Do whatever the fuck you want. You’re right. I don’t know you.”

What the fuck was up with this guy? He was leaning across the bar and, maybe the alcohol was messing with her depth perception, but he seemed way too close. Luce pushed back in her seat, just to get a bit of space between her and the bartender. But, he seemed to realize that he was being a fucking creep and backed off himself. Good, she didn’t feel like throwing hands with someone tonight. For one, she wasn’t sure how well she’d be able to do, the alcohol clouding her vision and loosening her hold on the fire magic that dwelled within her. For another, she’d had… enough of fucking fighting lately. She just wanted to drink and sit and not think about all the shit that’d been going on in her life.

“Yeah, you don’t fucking know me.” Luce repeated. The bar wasn’t as busy as it usually was, but her anger had her blood boiling in a literal way. It was too goddamn hot in here. And fuck it, if this guy was going to be bartending at Soul, she might as well try and talk to him. Even if he was weird. The same could be said of most people in the bar, and of her too. Sliding off the barstool, Luce steadied herself on the bar for a moment has her vision swam. “But air sounds like a smart idea.” She said, more to herself than to him. Walking out of the bar, the cool night air washed over her. Thank fuck summer was over and done with. “Need a light?” She asked, leaning against the brick wall of the bar.

It seemed Frank’s entire existence was damned to fight his most basic instincts: to hand his customers their drinks, to close his distance when he was with friends (to have friends), to help steady a stranger who has had one too many drinks and was maybe not as steady on her feet as she first thought. Even as she swayed Frank did not so much as stir, even as every part of him itched to. He let her out first, following behind at a measured distance. “Look at that, a solution to your problem that isn’t alcohol.” He grinned around the stick of cigarette as he brought it to his mouth, “but what the fuck do I know.”  

The air was cool, and with the door closed behind him he was acutely aware of how warm she felt, even at his distance. He made home against a wall a little ways down from her, shaking his head at her offer with a polite thanks, “I’m good,” and he had to be. Mostly because if he wasn’t, that was an invitation for her to come closer, to hand him the lighter, and then for him to hand it back, and that was altogether too many hands for comfort. Frank didn’t smoke for the taste. He didn’t care much for the nicotine either. Like the alcohol, it never lingered long enough in his system to become a proper addiction, but with every inhalation of the hot smoke that was a few more precious moments between him and the undeniable hunger to feed, whether it was happiness or heat. Prolonging the inevitable, as he liked to call it. Not that he ever told anyone why he smoked, most of them were more interested in telling him why he should stop. Frank wasn’t interested in doing either. “So what is your problem?” He said finally, turning to face his new smoking companion, “you were downing your seventh tequila shot in a span of less than an hour in one of the biggest shit-holes in town. That could not have been an inspiring journey.”

“My solution to my problems so far,” Luce let out sigh, her breath coming out in visible trails in the mild fall night, “Have been paying the bills for you. So…. you should be thanking me.” She muttered as she pressed her back against the wall a bit more firmly. Her legs felt like jelly under her, courtesy of the tequila that ran through her system, as well as the run she’d taken earlier that morning. Running. She’d always liked running, but it felt like that was all she was doing now. Wake up, run, work, drink, and then collapse into bed, to try and snag a few fitful hours of sleep if she was lucky. And if she wasn’t lucky, she’d run and run and run until she was too tired to do anything else.

At his question, Luce glanced over at the man for a long minute before shaking her head. “Oh you know. The usual.” Being kicked out of her coven for resurrecting her sister from beyond the grave, nearly dying herself. “Family drama.” The fact that one of the women she’d been sleeping with had been possessed by a ghost, hell-bent on keeping her body. The fact that the other was a zombie who just kept getting themselves in fucking trouble? “Some people I care about have a knack for getting into trouble.” How she was so goddamn tired all the time? Well, that one she didn’t have to lie about. “Insomnia. Take your pick. All of them are good reasons to drink in the biggest shithole in this town.” She corrected. The Ritz Soul was not. 

“Right,” Frank’s mouth shaped into a smirk. A gesture accompanied by a faint laugh that almost, to perceptive ears at least, sounded like a scoff, “yours and everyone else’s in that damn bar.” The solution to most of Soul’s patrons, it seemed, was found either at the bottom of a glass or at the end of a fist, the former was usually a lot less messy. Neither seemed to make anyone any happier come day light. It was a temporary salve to a much deeper wound, and they come back the next night, and the ritual repeats itself again. Frank was no stranger to this particular practice and so, it seemed, was she.

Frank gave the woman a long, appraising look, as she proceeded to divulge the source of her problems. It was as vague as it was short, its details hidden by their unfamiliarity. He didn’t blame her, and a part of him wondered whether it was in his best interest to find out. Probably not. Distance, advised caution. He took a long drag of his cigarette, comforted by the warmth, and eased of his awareness of hers. She looked so tired—more than that, she felt tired. There was plenty of heat (strangely) but with his own cravings temporarily satisfied by the cigarette, there was not much happiness to be attempted by. He could feel the ache in her bones, the very weight of. He recognised it in himself. “Hmm,” his eyes returned to hers, attentive and empathetic. Oh he tried so hard to be hard, but he was always very bad at it, and worse at following his own advice. “You want a burger or something?”  He said very suddenly. “You look like you could use a burger.”

“Well, means business is booming for you.” Luce said glancing back into the bar through the dirty windows, her head listing as her body tilted just a bit more than she expected. Stumbling slightly, she caught herself on the wall. Her elbow smacked into her side, and she let out an involuntary yelp, “Siktir, motherfucker…” She mumbled, rubbing her side. Fuck, her head was spinning, the wall felt like it was shifting behind her back. And unless there was some new kind of fucked up wall monster that was going to… what, absorb her into the wall? No, she’d just drank too much. Again. It seemed like more mornings than not, she’d woken up with a foul taste in her mouth and started the morning with a few aspirin. Christ.

As the man looked over at her, Luce felt her lips tighten into a thin line. There was something she didn’t like about the way he looked at her. It felt like the way that people had talked to her when she’d revealed that Bea had died. Something halfway between pity and judgement, was what she would guess. And she didn’t really fucking want either. But, at the mention of food, her stomach growled loudly. Her stomach didn’t have the same reservations, apparently. “You know what? Sure. Why the fuck not, it’d be a quick walk. Al’s isn’t far from here.” She said, before remembering. Al’s. Celeste, she’d worked there before... Remmy, they’d had that conversation where they told her what they were in a booth tucked in the corner of the diner. Fuck. Maybe not Al’s. That’s what she wanted to say, but now her lips remained stubbornly shut. 

“Al’s it is.” Frank smiled. It was pleasant. Amicable. It was a smile that might have come paired with an offer of a hand to shake or an equally pleasant gesture, but since it didn’t (it never does) Frank had become practiced in making it so that a smile was just enough. Not that he got much use out of this particular skill. Most people couldn’t even get the slightest hint of an upward lift let alone a fully realised smile. Maybe it was his off day. Maybe because when he looked at how tired she looked he saw a reflection of himself. Whatever it was, it remained there as he pushed himself off the wall, extinguishing the last of his cigarette under his boot. Kindness was in short supply in a place like Soul, and this served as a good reminder that Frank was not the place he worked at. Which reminded him—“oh and by the way, when you say business is booming for me, you do realise that just because I serve the drinks there, doesn’t mean I actually run the place, right?”

The walk, as she remarked, was blissfully short, and quiet. This served Frank just fine considering he wasn’t much of a conversationalist, even if his previous insistence might suggest otherwise. She also seemed absent, as if occupied by distant memories, he didn’t need to see the downward tilt of her mouth to know that they weren’t pleasant, he could sense it. He could also sense that no talking, at least on his part, was going to make anything better, although some carbs to soak up some of the seven tequila shots she’d knocked back in the few short hours might. Thankfully Al’s didn’t host a great many customers in the early hours of the morning. “Get a booth,” he told her, which shouldn’t be any hardship considering only one or two were currently occupied, “and get whatever you want. You look like you could use it...no offense.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m familiar with the dickhead who owns Soul.” Luce replied as she made her way down the sidewalk, her feet stumbling slightly as she walked. It was fine. This was fine. The way the world was rotating around her, the way the pavement seemed to rise and fall like cresting waves? Totally fucking fine. She was good. So fucking good. Just another fucking day. “You’re a bartender. Tips. More people, more tips. I know half the guys in that bar and they tip just fine when I work on them.” She said, the words coming out in more of an innuendo than she intended. “Tattoos.” She explained, gesturing to the dark ink that covered both of her arms. “I do tattoos.”

As they entered the diner, Luce looked around at the place-- it wasn’t all that busy, which was good in its own way. “Don’t tell me what to do.” She growled before deliberately walking over to the counter and settling down there. Across the way, Luce heard a startled cough and, before she knew what was going on, a young man had tossed a twenty on the counter and was hurrying out of the door. She spun around in the plastic seat, scrutinizing the man as he hurried away. The light of the diner caught on his face as he opened the door of his car and Luce’s stomach lurched. Will. One of the members of the coven-- her mom’s coven, the coven that had… “Fuck.” She muttered, shaking her head doggedly. She wished she was back at the bar. As the waitress cast a skeptical look at her, Luce quirked a crooked smile. “I’d like a number five. Extra fries. And a large water, please.” As the bartender sat next to her, Luce cast him a long look. “I’m paying for this myself.” She didn’t need his charity.

Frank grinned, but his laughter remained stifled, the only hint of its existence was in the silent vibration of his entire frame. Tips. At Soul on the Rocks. Now that was a joke. “Right, see…Soul is known for a lot of things, but never for their generosity, especially when it comes to tipping their bartenders.” This was not entirely fair. Of course Frank could, as she did, work on them. Being what he was, he could have probably completed the task with even greater success, and with the profits to prove it. Alas, that was never Frank’s style. In his short time working there, he had already created an image of himself as the grumpy new bartender that would sooner bite your hand off than shake it. This was not an accurate assessment of his character by half, though it had more truth in it than Frank pretending to be pleasant and charming. He was bad at it, and he didn’t have the taste for it to try and be better. He turned to her arm as she gestured toward it. “It looks nice.”

Her sharp demand elicited an amused grin as she pushed past him toward the counter. He might have said something, a smart ass reply already half way formed on his tongue, were it not for another stealing his attention. A young man, his plate and drink unfinished, tossed some notes on the counter and hurried out. Strange. More interesting still was the woman’s reaction. They knew each other, more than that, there was a history there. Very strange.  Alas, Frank said nothing on this, but noted it quietly as he pulled up a seat next to her (respectably distanced, of course). “She’s paying for herself, and I’ll have a black coffee. Thank you.” He said, handing over what he owed. The waitress accepted it with a very pretty smile. Frank acknowledged this with a single nod and did not notice the string of numbers scribbled on the back of the receipt, and what was most likely her name followed by the letter ‘x’. The coffee was the first to arrive, blissfully hot. He took a ginger sip, not because he was bothered by the heat, but normal humans weren’t usually as tolerant to scalding hot coffee as he was. “Odd reaction,” he murmured around the rim of the cup. His head tilted ever so slightly in the direction of the waitress who was just now collecting the bill left behind by the mysterious man. Or perhaps not so mysterious if the woman’s reaction was anything to go by, “a friend of yours?” He paused for a moment, “or maybe not so friendly?”

As the man explained his situation, Luce nodded in thanks as the waitress set a large glass of water in front of her. Forgoing the straw, she took a long drink of ice water, the temperature soberingly cold. Well, not sobering, she thought to herself as she regarded the slightly slanting walls of the diner. “You could always go for the ‘grin and bear it’ tactic.” She said, pressing her finger into her cheek and twisting it, offering a fake smile she reserved for her mother and particularly stupid clients. “You could try asking the boss-man to throw on a “Hey, if I’m gonna be an extra bouncer, pay me like one” bonus. Or don’t, whatever. It’s your wallet on the line.” At his comment about her tattoos, she nodded. “I know. I designed them.” It wasn’t a brag, not really, just statement of fact. She did her own shit and she was good at it. That was her whole MO, right? She stayed in her lane and did what she was good at.

Watching the way the girl cast a bright, beaming smile, Luce rolled her eyes. Did this guy think he was some kind of player? But, if he was, he didn’t comment on the receipt. He didn’t even really talk about it. Instead, he gestured towards the seat the Will had previously been sitting at. Scowling at the ice cubes in her glass, Luce’s knuckles flexed around the glass. “Family friend. Bit of a shit, but that’s how it goes.” She muttered, thinking back to August. He’d been a family friend, before he’d decided to come for her sisters. And now, he wasn’t much of anything at all. She could still remember the way he’d fallen to his knees, how he’d willingly submitted himself to Lydia’s commands. A shudder ran down her spine and she took another drink from her glass. “What’s your deal, huh? You like being some kinda… bartender Superman or something?” She asked, glancing over at him.

The twisted smile that warped around her mouth, strangely enough, inspired a more genuine one to shape around his own. “Yeah, the whole fake-it-till-you-make-it thing isn’t really my m-o.” Sure he could be reserved and withdrawn—cold and severe were a few more of the choice descriptors that people often had assigned to Frank. He could be a lot of bad things but one could never say that Frank was ever disingenuous. As much as he might speak ill of his work, which he does when he was ever in the rare position of wanting to speak at all, he’d rather it be him than another person who might be more liberal in using the end of their own knuckles to finish a fist fight. Even, as she rightfully pointed out, if it was his wallet on the line.

Her knuckles tightened around the glass, and her words bit into an old memory—an old wound. A small gesture, a small shift in tone, but neither went past Frank’s notice. Probably best if he kept that particular observation to himself, and he does. “Right. That’s how it goes.” Translation: sore subjection, duly noted. She sought comfort in her glass of water, and he continued to nurse the heat out of his cup of coffee, looking up only when she spoke again. An amused smile flitted across his lips, half hidden by the mug as he lifted it to his mouth, as he mentally traded his wings for a red cape, and his jacket for a blue costume with a giant S on it. He looked fucking ridiculous. “I don’t like being anything, I just want to do my job, get paid, and get the fuck home. Frankly if your standard for Superman is breaking up drunk bar fights, then it is tragically low. Besides,” he took another drink of his coffee and put it back down. It formed a wet brown ring around the receipt, he noticed for the first time black ink stains peering through the damp ring, but didn't bother investigating further, instead returned to the thought at hand, “you’re the one sitting next to me, what does that say about you?”

“You do you. Like I said, it’s your paycheck.” Luce shrugged. She didn’t give a shit, it was this guy’s loss either way. Didn’t affect her any, as long as he kept pouring her drinks. And, given how many she’d had at Soul, he didn’t seem to have a problem with that. The waitress slid her plate in front of her, a large burger with a mountain of fries on the side. “Thanks. Could I get more water, please? ‘preciate it.” Luce said before taking a large bite from her burger. As fucked up as she was, she wasn’t gonna be a fucking dick to people who were just trying to do their job. Which meant the waitress. But, Superman here? Different story. He at least had the sense to drop the fucking topic of Will. “Mhm.”

Glancing over at him, she raised an eyebrow. Swallowing her mouthful of food, Luce replied thickly, “That’s bullshit if I’ve ever heard it.” She pointed at him with a fry. “You just wanna do your job and go home? Unless you’re working double shifts between here and Soul, this,” She gestured to the two of them, “seems pretty fucking off the clock to me.” Luce said before popping the fry in her mouth.  Lifting her now full glass of water to her lips, she shook her head. “It says I’m drunk on a Wednesday night and I need more carbs. Needed.” She deflected, looking at her already half-empty plate. “I guess you were right about the burger.” 

Frank took a sip from his coffee, his eyebrow cocked up from behind the mug in a silent answer to her accusation. He didn’t say anything for a moment, mostly because he wasn’t sure how to, which probably meant that to a certain degree, she was right. Of course, just because he knew she was right, didn’t mean that he also knew the answer to why he did the things he did. Why he warned her against that seventh shot, why he invited her out for a smoke, why he would’ve probably paid for her burger too had she let him. Whatever it was, he wasn’t about to find answers tonight. That was what he paid his shrink to figure out and then tell him about it so he could ignore it completely. Because caring for someone else was just too fucking hard sometimes. Caring for himself infinitely so. “Mhm.” Another sip from his coffee.

“I know.” She had positively tore through her burger. Frank exhaled a short, barely formed, chuckle. “I’m really good at my job.” She was also not the first drunk he’s had to deal with. Although, speaking of jobs, he also had his actual job to return to. Someone was bound to have noticed his absence by now…or not. It was Soul they were talking about after all. He finished the last of his coffee, scrunched up the napkin with the receipt and then dropped it into the now empty mug. He took out his phone from his pocket, pushed it across the space between them and drew his hand back. “Do yourself a favour, call a cab. Spare yourself that eighth shot and call it a night. If you’re lucky you might even hate yourself a little less in the morning.”

“Sounds like it.” Luce said as her eating began to slow, picking at her fries. Grudgingly, she had to admit that this guy had a point. He’d called her out on how fucked up she was. And, though the room still shifted around her, was still fuzzy at the edges, it was better than it had been. The water and food was making all the difference. As the waitress left her receipt on the counter, Luce glanced over at the tall bartender. Soul wasn’t a nametag kind of establishment and she hadn’t bothered to ask his name when she’d rolled up to the bar and ordered shot after shot. “What’s your name, anyways? I’m Luce.” She said, sticking out her hand. At his advice, Luce let out a small snort. A cab? What, and go back to Bea’s house? The house her sister hardly even stayed in any more? With all of it’s baggage and it’s memories and quiet, cold stillness? No fucking thanks. She was gonna crash on the couch at Ink Inc and call it a night there. But, Mr. Superman Bartender Bro didn’t need to know that. “You’re not wrong about calling it a night. Jury's still out on the hating myself bit.” She mused, the last sentence coming out of her mouth without her intending to.

“Frank.” He said, but didn’t take her hand. He almost did. The smoke and the coffee had offered some relief but it did little to distract from the fact that she was still very very warm, and never once did the awareness of her heat escape his notice. His hand hung awkwardly for a split second, unable to touch her but unwilling to pull away. He let his hand fall in the end, but by then the split second was a split second too long, though he managed to cover it by pushing the phone further toward her, as if he was meant to do that all along. He drew his hand back very quickly, and wrapped it around his coffee mug, clinging to any heat that may still be lingering. Jesus H, he always fucking hungry.

Frank could sense that her thoughts were not meant to have formed into words, and even as she said them, it didn’t look as if she realised that she did. That the guard that she had maintained through harsh words and sarcasm had cracks in them, and tender thoughts were slipping through, and she didn’t notice. Perhaps she was more drunk than he thought. Alternatively, maybe she was sobering up, and sobriety was a tiring thing to have to deal with. Frank doesn’t say anything, but he noticed. And now, she wasn’t just some drunk woman he would have sent home on a cab and forgotten about until the next night she came stumbling back into Soul (the way she spoke about it, it was obvious that she was a regular), she had a name. Names were powerful things, and terribly intimate. Frank squeezed his eyes shut, ran a hand over his face. “Or…I could drop you off. If you would like.”

“Frank.” Luce repeated. The name suited him. Short, to the point, and… well, frank. For a second, he left her hanging, as though he didn’t want to touch her hand but then seemed to think better of it. He nudged his phone closer to her which was fucking… Weird. He couldn’t just hand it to her like a normal fucking person. Shaking her head, she pulled her hand back from his and pushed it into her jacket pocket, pulling out her own phone. “It’s not the 90’s, I’ve got a phone of my own. I don’t need you to call anyone.” She growled, though the words lacked their usual bite. At this point, she was just tired. Tired of this town, tired of the well-intentioned people who kept trying to help her, and tired of the fact that she couldn’t do anything to change any of that. As he offered to drop her off, Luce scowled at him as she tossed a bill onto the counter. He really was trying to play that “Knight in shining armor” card, wasn’t he? First his phone, now a ride? 

Shoving her phone back into her pocket, Luce stood up from the counter. “I think the fuck not. Listen, you seem like a decent enough guy, which is why I’m just gonna say, you’re barking up the wrong tree here.” She said, shaking her head. “Trust me, this is nicer treatment than what Jake got when he made a move on me the first time.”

Luce’s reaction was not an uncommon one. The registering of rejection as they realised he would not answer their offer of a handshake with his own, the confusion that inevitably followed because what person was that much of a dick to refuse a simple handshake? Sometimes even outright offence because who the fuck does he think he is? The corner of Frank’s mouth twitched. Perhaps he should attempt an encouraging smile. Jesus H. He had done this a hundred times before yet it never became any less tedious. For his efforts it seemed, rather predictably if her prior behaviour around him was of any indication, she seemed to follow the ‘outright offense’ route as she growled her reply. He thought it wisest to not add acid to fire and opted to silently pocket his phone instead, wondering all the while why he even tried in the first place. Why he kept trying.

She stood up. Very suddenly. He’d thought he was being kind, but clearly Frank wasn’t very good at it. He was silent at first and then, with a start, the weight of what she’d said came flying back to him. “Oh! Ohhh…no. I mean—” He stifled a laugh and it came out as a choked cough. Frank pressed a hand to his face and shook his head, a smile visible between his fingers as his shoulders quivered through a silent laugh. He should be offended that she had made the comparison with him to Jake of all people, but it seemed fatigue had imbued the whole misunderstanding with a strange sort of amusement where there usually wouldn’t be any. “Yes ma'am,” he said once he had recovered some degree of solemnity, “duly noted.”

[sabineelectricheart]

A Stroll in a Dark Forest

Summary: Childbirth is like a stroll in a dark forest. You never know what comes on the other side.

Rating: T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.

Explicit depiction of non-violent adult and child character death. Reader discretion is advised.

Words: 2650

Notes: I don’t have mommy issues, I swear! Anyways, enjoy.

It was February 16th, 1927, and Dante could not believe it had been a year already.

Life had a way of speeding things up and slowing them down in such a thrilling and tricky way. This past year had gone by so fast, compared to how slow days had gone by in the Winter of 1925 until Summer of 1926.

Each day they spent together was a blessing.

The weeks flew by them. Lili was getting more and more excited each passing day. They learned she was pregnant in mid-December, and Dante was happy and Lili was thrilled. Children, continuing the bloodline, has always been a looming reality for the mob boss, and he never felt particularly strong about it.

When he was younger, dread wrapped its bony hands around his neck, when he considered that he would have to marry and, ahem, impregnate someone, someday, and it would not be the woman he loved. He consoled himself with the thought that Nicola could very well take over that particular duty for him, and so it would not matter in the end.

As their circumstances changed, as he finally was blessed with what he wanted the most, children still were not the most important thing in his mind. He would be happy if he found himself as a father, do not misunderstand, but he would be perfectly satisfied barren, too.

Nevertheless, Dante was happy that his wife was happy, and that is what mattered the most.

With pregnancy, his usually vivacious and energic wife grew tired easily, and would often take naps during the day and fall asleep as soon as she retired at night.

In the dark, Dante liked to rest his hand on her stomach, feeling the stirrings of life and the future.

Despite feeling achy and tired, Liliana was unbelievably happy. She anxiously counted off the days and months.

"Only four more months until we meet the baby!" The blonde woman would say, a smile bright on her face and a hand covering the bump on her stomach lovingly, and he would feel a protective instinct rise on his heart.

Increasingly limited in her daily activities, Lili spent her time embroidering, knitting, or doing some other dainty kind of work preparing for the child. She was infectious to all, her face alight. She shed happiness and good fortune around her, thanking God for her blessings.

Dante watched in astonishment as his beloved wife turned more into mother with each passing day. She spread love like perfume, and he loved her right back all the more. He could not have predicted how his feelings for her would have deepened, but deepen they had.

As spring came, Lili's spirits increased with the temperature. Flowers grew, and she would spend hours in the garden looking at them. She was eating well, and her midwife said that Lili was perfectly healthy, and this pregnancy was developing quite well. The baby was expected to be healthy.

She did everything in whatever manner she was supposed to. She slept well, ate all the right foods, declined alcohol, did nothing strenuous. All the while she waited for her child to come.

"Dante," she whispered once in March, late at night. She took his hand and held it to her stomach.

He felt something push up against his hand. Lili sighed. Was she in pain?

"Lili? Are you alright?" He asked, anxiety raising in his voice.

"I'm fine, I’m fine!” She said, her eyes overflowing with tears. “Dante, you just felt the baby. He just moved!"

It hit him then. This baby was alive, and coming soon. In a matter of months, it would not be just the two of them anymore.

Against his worst expectations, he already felt a profound connection to the little being living inside Lili. This child seemed to underline their connection to each other. They were no longer just in love, or simply a husband and wife, but they were to raise a child together.

Or two, or three... Dante could not say what the future held for them, but it looked good.

In June, the midwife moved into one of the guest bedrooms and they prepared a room for Lili to give birth in. On June 30th, and right on time, Lili sat up, gasping in pain and clutching her swollen stomach.

"Dante." She whispered, too quietly to wake him up. "Dante!"

His blue eyes fluttered open as a particularly painful shock ran through her, causing her to gasp.

Everything had been prepared. The midwife was woken, and Lili was transferred into the room next door. After she was settled into the bed, Dante sat down right next to her, but the midwife shook her head.

"I'm sorry, signore, but rules are rules." The midwife said, sternly, hushing him out of the room.

Dante decided he did not like this woman. How could he trust her with his wife when she was in labour? It was obviously best was that they stayed together, and she was not doing what was best.

"Let him stay!" Lili cried. "Please."

"You need to relax, Signora." The midwife said. “It will not do if you are excited or anxious.”

“No!” Lili shook her head emphatically, in tears because of the pain and because of her agitation. “I can't do this without him! I need him! I need him here!"

"Signora…" Dante said, gathering himself to argue with the healer. "May I stay just for a while? The baby surely is not coming for another few hours, is he?"

She sighed. It was not wise to argue against the mafia.

"Very well, but as soon as I have to really work, you need to leave. We cannot have you getting in the way." She replied, in tone of resignation. "I'm going to go get some cloth and cold water for signora's head. It will bring her some relief."

Lili breathed a sigh of relief as she and Dante were left alone.

"I'm so excited." Lili said, resting her hands on her stomach eagerly. The pain had subsided a little for now, and she was able to fully realize that the baby was finally coming. "Do you think it'll be a boy or a girl?"

"I have no idea." He responded, feeling faint.

Throughout the pregnancy, Lili had referred to the baby as both 'he' and 'she,' trying to see which one felt better. She had not come to any solid conclusions, though.

He sighed, thoughtful. "I just cannot believe how everything is going to change after tonight."

"Ah!" Lili cried, reaching for his hand and gripping it so tightly he thought his fingers would break.

He did not know what to do. His pulse picked up speed, and he looked around for someone to help. Tears poured out of her green, wide eyes, and he felt desperation.

She breathed deeply, trying to steady herself in spite of her whimpering in great pain. A few sobs broke through her tense disposition, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

She surely should not be in this much pain. Was something wrong? Was the baby coming to fast? It was supposed to hurt, but Lili looked as though she was dying. He could not take it.

The midwife came back then.

"Should she be in this much pain?" Dante asked anxiously. "This does not seem normal!"

"Signore, I have seen more pregnancies than you can imagine, and this is absolutely normal.” The woman responds with little patience. “It is called a contraction, and yes, they hurt. Her body is trying to push the baby out, and it takes a lot of energy."

He glared, but said nothing in retort. Lili seemed to be recovering a bit, in any case. Her grip on his hand was less painful, and her breathing was not as frantic and erratic.

Nevertheless, these contractions did not seem to be working, or so Dante thought. Two hours later, Lili was still scrunched in pain, whimpering and gasping, but the midwife still insisted they were making progress.

"Signore, it has come the time for you to leave." She insisted brusquely.

Dante found it hard to take orders from someone with their head between his wife's legs, but complied anyway, kissing Lili goodbye.

"I love you." He said, but she was too concentrated to reply.

Outside the room, he paced for hours. He thought he was going crazy, waiting like this. All he wanted was for Lili's pain to be over, so she could finally hold their baby in her arms like she wanted to.

He could only imagine the look of bliss that would be on her face as she held their child, he could almost see it. The triumphant smile, the pride, her arms at once protective and caring holding the tiny being.

Noises constantly came from inside the room. Lili was gasping, and he heard the midwife muttering things, sounding soothing and encouraging. He wished he could help, knowing Lili was in pain and suffering just made him agitated. He did not like any bit knowing she was uncomfortable and knowing he could do nothing to help.

At three in the morning, he was sitting on the ground, his eyes sliding in and out of focus as he stared at the pattern of the wallpaper. He was exhausted. He did become aware, however, that there was silence from inside the room. Then a scream, much worse than any of the cries he had heard before.

"Lili!" He cried in desperation.

Without any thinking, Dante threw open the door and ran inside. He hurried to the bed, but the midwife held out a hand, stopping him from coming any closer to his wife.

"No. This is an emergency!" She barked, but that sloppy statement certainly did nothing to ease his mind.

"This is my wife you are talking about! What's going on?" He cried. His voice was coming out strained from his closed throat.

"I have to get the baby out." The midwife said, business-like, focused on her goal.

Dante's heart seemed to stop beating. The woman released her grip on him, and he fell to his knees next to Lili on the bed, reaching for her hand.

"Lili?" He called for her, without response.

Her eyes were closed. Was she in pain? What was happening with his wife?

"Lili, I'm here." The man whispers once again, trying to coax a reaction out of her to no avail.

Her hand was limp. He turned to look at the midwife in desperation.

"What's going on?" He turned back to Lili, shaking her shoulder. "Lili? Lili! Wake up! Wake up!"

Yet, the blonde woman did not move as he shook her. He shouted over and over for her to wake up, but she did not reply. Eventually, his cries turned to sobs, and he dropped his head onto her stomach, crying into her body.

"Signore…" The midwife whispered. He looked up, and saw what she was holding. Not who, but what. His child, their child, platinum hair and blue eyes, was resting in her arms, covered in blood. Underneath the blood, however, was a grey and pallid complexion that even Dante knew meant the worst.

"I'm so, so…"

"No. Don't say anything to me." Dante cut her off coldly. "You have done enough. Just... leave. Leave me alone!"

Tears were pouring down her face, it was seldom that both the mother and the child died, and she had never seen a scene this pitiful. She wrapped the child in a blanket and handed it to Signore Falzone.

Dante took the child with shaking arms, his tears making the room blurry. He realized then that he did not have to be quiet or strong, and he clutched the child to his heart while he sobbed for the loss of his family.

He looked down, and saw Lili's face. Her beautiful eyes were forever closed, and her forehead was smooth and peaceful. He smoothed her hair back, moved her legs down. He straightened her nightgown, and tucked her hands around herself the way she liked to sleep.

They had had less than two years together. He had spoken to her for the first time just over two years ago, after waiting and hoping and looking on the outside in for so much time, and here she lay next to him, dead.

Curse his impetuousness, curse his desires, curse his seed, curse his blood. If he had done what was best from the start, his beloved wife would still be alive and well.

He knew childbirth could be dangerous, but he had not let himself think of the worst...

He hated himself. He had done this to her. If he had known this would have happened, he never would have touched her. He would have been perfectly happy just waking next to her every morning, the world of the flesh left unexplored.

The man knew that opening that door led to sin and danger, that he would be the damnation of hers, he knew what the Church expected of him. Yes, it had brought pleasure as well, but had it been worth it? No. Here, his beloved wife lay dead next to him. His heart felt like cold stone in his chest.

As he looked at their child in his arms, he realized he did not know what it was. He was reluctant to pull back the blankets, for even though he knew it was dead, the little body in his arms was so small. He did not want it to get cold.

Finally, Dante managed to look. In his arms, he held a little boy. His son lay in his arms, dead. That was not where he belonged.

What Dante did next to him seemed the most natural thing to do. He opened Lili's arms again, and, as gently as he could, he settled the little boy into his wife's arms. For she was a mother now. She never got to meet her child, but she had been a mother from the moment she realized they were to have a child together.

In Heaven, the two could be together. Lili could live there with her lost family and their son, and he would be left alone.

He did not know how he could face the coming hour, let alone the rest of his life. Here he was, twenty-five and a widower. His one and only love lay unmoving next to him. She had been so full of life, dreams, love and sweetness that he could not imagine her ever leaving the earth. She was spring, she was flowers, she was light.

How could those things exist without her now?

He had no answer. He was alone now, as he had been for the first twenty-two years of his life. She had come forth like a stray sunbeam, enchanting his life with music and Heaven for two short years, then dancing off back to God.

You always knew she was an angel, Dante thought. Now she's back home.

He hoped Lili was with their son. He hoped they were together, and he hoped to see her again soon.

Soon, unfortunately for the mob boss, was not now, and for the moment, he lay next to his family, wrapping an arm around them both and burying his face into Lili's still-warm shoulder, inhaling the scent of her hair, which still lingered.

The lack of a blush on her cheeks was the only indication of her present state.

When he closed his eyes, he could almost hear her breathing as he had every night for the past year.

He lay next to Lili and their son who she held in her arms. They were not protective or proud the way he had imagined. He would never see her look of triumph.

For one last moment, he could be with his family.

*_*_*_*_*

Piofiore Masterlist

[teaspoon-of-salt]

(full article under cut:)

The scariest day of Maria Del Carmen’s life started with a phone call that initially cheered her up.

A native of Mexico, she has spent the last 24 years as a housekeeper in Philadelphia and had a dozen regular clients before the pandemic began. By April, she had three. Food banks became essential to feeding herself and her three children. To earn extra money, she started selling face masks stitched on her sewing machine.

So in mid-August, when a once-regular client — a pair of professors from the University of Pennsylvania and their children — asked her to come and clean, she was delighted. No one was home when she arrived, which seemed like a wise precaution, given social distancing guidelines. What struck her as odd were the three bottles of Lysol on the dining room table. She had a routine at every home, and it had never involved disinfectant.

Ms. Del Carmen started scrubbing, doing laundry and ironing. After a few hours, she stepped outside to throw away some garbage. A neighbor spotted her and all but shrieked: “Maria, what are you doing here?!” The professors and their children, the neighbor said, had all contracted the coronavirus.

“I was terrified,” Ms. Del Carmen recalled. “I started crying. Then I went home, took off all of my clothing, showered, got in bed, and for the next night and the next day, I waited for the coronavirus.”

She never got sick, but she still is livid. At 58 and, by her account, overweight, she considers herself at high risk. That is why she never took off her mask while cleaning that day — diligence she thinks might have saved her life.

“There are a lot of people who don’t want to disinfect their own homes,” she said, “so they call a housekeeper.”

The pandemic has had devastating consequences for a wide variety of occupations, but housekeepers have been among the hardest hit. Seventy-two percent of them reported that they had lost all of their clients by the first week of April, according to a survey by the National Domestic Workers Alliance. The fortunate had employers who continued to pay them. The unlucky called or texted their employers and heard nothing back. They weren’t laid off so much as ghosted, en masse.

Since July, hours have started picking up, though far short of pre-pandemic levels, and often for lower wages.

“We plateaued at about 40 percent employment in our surveys of members,” said Ai-jen Poo, executive director of the alliance. “And because most of these people are undocumented, they have not received any kind of government relief. We’re talking about a full-blown humanitarian crisis, a Depression-level situation for this work force.”

The ordeal of housekeepers is a case study in the wildly unequal ways that the pandemic has inflicted suffering. Their pay dwindled, in many cases, because employers left for vacation homes or because those employers could work from home and didn’t want visitors. Few housekeepers have much in the way of savings, let alone shares of stock, which means they are scrabbling for dollars as the wealthiest of their clients are prospering courtesy of the recent bull market.

In a dozen interviews, housekeepers in a handful of cities across the country described their feelings of fear and desperation over the last six months. A few said the pain had been alleviated by acts of generosity, mostly advances for future work. Far more said they were suspended, or perhaps fired, without so much as a conversation.

Scrubbing a fluffy little dog named Bobby

One of them is Vicenta, a 42-year-old native of Mexico who lives in Los Angeles, and who, like many contacted for this article, did not want her last name used because she is undocumented.

For 10 years, she had earned $2,000 a month cleaning two opulent homes in gated communities in Malibu, Calif. This included several exhausting weeks in 2018, when fires raged close enough to cover both homes in ash. Three times a week, she would visit both houses and scrub ash off floors, windows, walls and, for one family, a fluffy little dog named Bobby.

Vicenta received nothing extra for the added time it took to scour those houses during the fires. She would have settled for a glass of water, she said, but neither family offered one.

“It was incredibly hot, and my mouth and throat were really sore,” she recalled. “I should have seen a doctor, but we don’t have health insurance.”

If Vicenta thought her years of service had banked some good will, she was wrong. Early in May, both families called and left a message with her 16-year-old son, explaining that for the time being, she could not visit and clean. There was some vague talk about eventually asking her to return, but messages she left with the families for clarification went unreturned.

“Mostly, I feel really sad,” Vicenta said. “My children were born here, so they get coupons for food, but my husband lost his job as a prep cook in a restaurant last year and we are three months behind on rent. I don’t know what will happen next.”

Housekeepers have long had a uniquely precarious foothold in the U.S. labor market. Many people still refer to them as “the help,” which makes the job sound like something far less than an occupation. The Economic Policy Institute found that the country’s 2.2 million domestic workers — a group that includes housekeepers, child care workers and home health care aides — earn an average of $12.01 an hour and are three times as likely to live in poverty than other hourly workers. Few have benefits that are common in the American work force, like sick leave, health insurance, formal contracts or protection against unfair dismissal.

‘A treadmill life’

This underclass status can be traced as far back as the 1800s, historians say, and is squarely rooted in racism. Domestic work was then one of the few ways that Black women could earn money, and well into the 20th century, most of those women lived in the South. During the Jim Crow era, they were powerless and exploited. Far from the happy “mammy” found in popular culture like “Gone With the Wind,” these women were mistreated and overworked. In 1912, a publication called The Independent ran an essay by a woman identified only as a “Negro Nurse,” who described 14-hour workdays, seven days a week, for $10 a month.

“I live a treadmill life,” she wrote. “I see my own children only when they happen to see me on the streets.”

In 1935, the federal government all but codified the grim conditions of domestic work with the passage of the Social Security Act. The law was the crowning achievement of the New Deal, providing retirement benefits as well as the country’s first national unemployment compensation program — a safety net that was invaluable during the Depression. But the act excluded two categories of employment: domestic workers and agricultural laborers, jobs that were most essential to Black women and Black men, respectively.

The few Black people invited to weigh in on the bill pointed out the obvious. In February 1935, Charles Hamilton Houston, then special counsel to the N.A.A.C.P., testified before the Senate Finance Committee and said that from the viewpoint of Black people, the bill “looks like a sieve with the holes just big enough for the majority of Negroes to fall through.”

The historian Mary Poole, author of “The Segregated Origins of Social Security,” sifted through notes, diaries and transcripts created during the passage of the act and found that Black people were excluded not because white Southerners in control of Congress at the time insisted on it. The truth was more troubling, and more nuanced. Members of Franklin D. Roosevelt’s administration — most notably, the Treasury secretary, Henry Morgenthau Jr. — persuaded congressional leaders that the law would be far simpler to administer, and therefore far more likely to succeed, if the two occupations were left out of the bill.

In the years that followed, Black domestic workers were consistently at the mercy of white employers. In cities like New York, African-American women lined up at spots along certain streets, carrying a paper bag filled with work clothes, waiting for white housewives to offer them work, often for an hour or two, sometimes for the day. A reporter, Marvel Cooke, and an activist, Ella Baker, wrote a series of articles in 1935 for The Crisis, the journal of the N.A.A.C.P., describing life in what they called New York City’s “slave markets.”

The markets’ popularity diminished in the ’40s after Mayor Fiorello La Guardia opened hiring halls, where contracts were signed laying out terms for day labor arrangements. But in early 1950, Ms. Cooke found the markets in New York City were bustling again. In a series of first-person dispatches, she joined the “paper bag brigades” and went undercover to describe life for the Black women who stood in front of the Woolworths on 170th Street.

“That is the Bronx Slave Market,” she wrote in The Daily Compass in January 1950, “where Negro women wait, in rain or shine, in bitter cold or under broiling sun, to be hired by local housewives looking for bargains in human labor.”

That same year, domestic work was finally added to the Social Security Act, and by the 1970s it had been added to federal legislation intended to protect laborers, including the Fair Labor Standards Act. African-American women had won many of those protections by organizing, though by the 1980s, they had moved into other occupations and were largely replaced by women from South and Central America as well as the Caribbean.

A total lack of leverage

Today, many housekeepers are undocumented and either don’t know about their rights or are afraid to assert them. The sort of grass-roots organizations that tried to eradicate New York City’s “slave markets” are lobbying for state laws to protect domestic work. Nine states have domestic workers’ rights laws on the book. Last summer, Senator Kamala Harris introduced the Domestic Workers Bill of Rights, which would guarantee a minimum wage and overtime pay, along with protections against racial discrimination. The bill has yet to pass, and if it did, labor advocates and historians say it would merely be a beginning.

“It’s important to get a federal bill, but it leaves unanswered the question of enforcement,” said Premilla Nadasen, the author of “Household Workers Unite” and a professor of history at Barnard College. “The Department of Labor is overextended and it tends not to check up on individual employers. The imbalance of power between employer and employee has been magnified by the pandemic because millions of people are now looking for work. And xenophobic rhetoric has made women more fearful of being deported.”

The pandemic has laid bare not just the vulnerability of housekeepers to economic shocks but their total lack of leverage. Several workers said they had clients who would not let anyone clean who has had Covid-19; others know clients who will hire only Covid survivors, on the theory that after their recovery, they pose no health risk. Housekeepers are often given strict instructions about how they can commute, and are quizzed about whether and how much they interact with others. But they have no idea whether their employers are taking similar precautions. Nor, in many cases, are they accorded the simple decencies that are part of formal employment.

“It would be nice to have at least two days’ notice when someone cancels on you, either to let you know or compensate you for your time,” said Magdalena Zylinska, a housekeeper in Chicago who helped lobby for a domestic workers’ rights bill that passed in Illinois in 2017. “I think a lot of people don’t realize that if I don’t work, I don’t get paid and I still have to buy food, pay bills, utilities.”

Ms. Zylinska emigrated from Poland more than 20 years ago and has yet to get a week of paid vacation. The closest she came was in 1997, when a couple handed her $900 in cash, all at once — for work she’d just finished, work she would soon do, plus a holiday bonus.

“The couple said, ‘Merry Christmas, Maggie,’” she said. “I remember counting that money four times.”

[ma-serannas-vhenan]

Bio: Witcher Abel

Fandom: The Witcher.

Full Name: Abel.

Nickname: None.

Title: Cat witcher, Feline, the Feline of Fox Hollow.

Sexuality: Bisexual.

Pronouns: He/Him.

Ethnicity/Race: Aen Seidhe elf.

Backstory and Early Life

In the year 1179, Abel was born in the village of Fox Hollow in Toussaint, a vassal state of Nilfgaard. Since his mother died shortly after giving birth, he was raised by his father on a farm on the outskirts of the village. Nightmares plagued him as a child, nearly every night he woke covered in sweat and screaming. Visions of blood and death, inhuman howling and the cold black of loneliness. It would be decades before he learned that he had prophetic dreams, though he would never learn how to truly read them, as they were far too muddled.

1188. At age nine, his father went out to hunt. No more than half of an hour passed before a scream ripped through the air, and next he knew Abel was sprinting into the trees with empty hands. He found his father laying in a small clearing, covered in blood and ripped from claws, bone exposed yet still breathing. Running to him and falling to his knees, he was too stunned to do anything other than stare and gasp, fragments of his previous nightmares flashing through his mind.

Hearing the rustle of leaves he came face to face with his father's killer, a creature he would later learn to be a fiend. It was large, larger than most, a set of long scars covering one side of its face and rendering an eye useless. When his father's hand gripped his arm and he told him to run, Abel did so. Without hesitation he turned and fled, the monster's roar following after him along with the pound of feet. He did manage to escape, though only barely, the beast giving up its chase once Abel broke from the trees. However, the memory would forever live stark in his mind and in the scars that would form on his back.

He didn't stop running until he reached his home, though that place was far from safe either. It was burning, razed from a candle that he had carelessly dropped in his haste to find the source of the scream. Part of him didn't realize that tears stained his cheeks, part of him didn't care. No one tried to help and he could do nothing, so by the time the fire died and the ashes settled there was nothing left.

After the death of his father and the burning of his home, Abel traveled to Beauclair, the capital city of Toussaint, surrounding the Palace of Beauclair. Since he couldn't find anyone who was kind enough to give him a ride, he walked, somehow managing to get there without being attacked.

For five years, he lived on the streets and slept in the back alleys of Beauclair. Making his living any way he could, by working for whoever would hire him, he often found himself with less than desirable jobs. He quickly grew into a striking lad, however, and learned how to have a tongue to match. It worked to his advantage, as he often found himself needing to charm someone into giving him a place to rest, or to talk a young rebellious noble out of their wits so that he could make away with their coin. His nightmares never left him, and was plagued with the same one for over five years. Every night he dreamt of pain gnawing at his bones, the smell of vomit and sickness heavy on his senses, hoarse screaming and the clash of metal meeting metal.

At age fifteen his fortune took yet another drastic turn. Upon finding a trio of human men cornering an elven woman behind an inn when he stepped out, he couldn't bring himself to ignore it. Because of this decision, he soon had a knife in his hand and blood on his knuckles, his lip split, and three men at his feet either unconscious or gasping. The woman had fled during the fight, and what greeted Abel when he caught his breath was a pair of glowing eyes in the darkness. The cat eyes of a witcher he soon learned, and one who wanted to recruit him, seeing potential in his fighting abilities.

After learning what they do, he was quick to agree, setting off early the next morning with the man who would become his mentor. At the time, the idea of slaying monsters was preferable to spending his days cleaning floors and stealing, or hanging from the noose. The thought of killing the thing that murdered his father also had a heavy weigh in his decision.

1194. Thus began his training as a witcher at the School of the Cat at Stygga Castle, and indeed what grueling training it was. Compared to his fellow witchers-in-training, however, he stuck out. Not only was he the only elf there, he did not have the same penchant for aggression as they did. He was charming, engaging, sharp as a whip, and a flirt. But he did indeed have a bitterness to him, one that came from his childhood and the way he had been forced to live.

Despite how difficult and dangerous the training was, Abel was a prodigy, learning the unique swordplay and countless monster types with surprising speed. He wished to keep people safe, but determination and revenge drove him above all else. By the time he was twenty he was deemed ready to take on the Trail of the Grasses. Looking back on it now, it wasn't a wise decision. Rather it was rushed, his training and studying not truly complete.

The Trail of the Grasses nearly kills any who undertake it, and when it came to this Abel was no exception. In fact, it affected him more harshly than any in his group, though he was one of only two that survived. He was given the alchemical formula that intensified his emotions rather than suppressing them, and his memories of both the Trail and the Changes are things he prefers never to think of.

Much like everyone, Abel came out of the experiments changed. He didn't have time to properly adjust, however, as only a couple of days after he recovered an army marched onto the grounds of the School of the Cat with the intent to kill them. He was one of the few Felines to escape Stygga Castle, and for the first few months was a part of the Dyn Marv Caravan. But he realized soon that he did not agree with the way the Cats sold their swords, and split from the caravan and his Feline siblings.

1200. The first thing he did was travel back to Fox Hollow in Toussaint, back to where he was born, for he had unfinished business. Like riding a horse, he never forgot the path to his home and upon arriving he saw his prey on the notice board, as if by a stroke of Destiny. And so he rested from his journey, spoke with the contractor about the beast, oiled his silver sword, and stepped into the trees where his father was killed. In the same clearing that his father died, Abel fought and slew the fiend with the scarred eye. It was a rough battle, his first large contract, but once all was done a resolved peace settled on his shoulders, the death of his father avenged and the people of Fox Hollow safe.

After that he traveled as all witchers do, from Nilfgaard to Mahakam to Skellige, taking contracts and coin. And quite often, he walked away with hearts as well. Adopting a strict code and a neutral stance as he walked the Path, he avoided politics, refused gold for use of his steel blade, and kept a solitary life save for those who warmed his bed. He did not involve himself in the Witcher Tournament and the blood that was spilled there, nor did he share a hatred of the Wolf School that snapped at other Cat witchers' heels. Winter was a toll on one who had no warm place to spend it, but he managed to survive that alone as well, refusing to stay with the Dyn Marv Caravan.

Every night he dreamt of warmth and the color of gold, soft skin and the smell of linen. It would be decades, however, before the future showed what this dream meant.

1221. While on a rather strange contract in Vengerberg involving a red ribbon, a pitcher of fine wine, and a psychopathic higher vampire, he met Vissoma Vil Anvaze. Another higher vampire, framed for her kindred's wrongs, and one that Abel nearly killed out of said misunderstanding. It took him later saving her life for her to forgive him, and after a friendly conversation and some fine wine they became fast friends, and remain so to this day.

1255. A little over half a century into his life as a witcher, Abel took on a contract from a noble in Toussaint. The noble, Vren van Lwur, claimed that there was a monster taking up residence at his country estate, and had offered such a high price to be rid of it that Abel didn't hesitate to speak to the man. Upon traveling to the estate with the noble and his son, at their insistence, and further investigation into the mystery, the Feline learned that the monster was a cockatrice. The beast had tried to surprise him, but when that tactic failed it went after his employers. While Vren van Lwur managed to flee out of range, his son was not so lucky, and Abel was only just fast enough to save him. Once he has the cockatrice's attention and was able to steer it away from the other two, he made quick work of the beast.

So grateful was Vren van Lwur to the witcher for ridding him of the monster and saving his son, that he offered Abel free board for the winter, along with the coin promised beforehand. As the colder months were fast approaching and a witcher never turns away free board, he accepted. Thus began his stay at the van Lwur country estate.

Francis, the esteemed van Lwur's son, had taken a shining to the Feline and often spent time in his company. He was fascinated by Abel's tales of contracts and of monsters, and the elf would often gladly indulge him. Only three weeks into his stay, the two became involved in what started as a dalliance. Once it began Abel's dreams came anew, strange flashes of white hair and green light, blossoming pain and moonlight bathed in old ache. Francis did what he could to help the Feline rest peacefully, but no amount of tea or massages could ease them.

Alas, their dalliance only lasted the winter, as Francis was placed in an arranged marriage. He wished to give it all away to be with the witcher, to run with him, but Abel refused to let him ruin his life in such a way. The four month stay transformed their dalliance into an affair steeped in feelings and half unsaid love. It was a sad goodbye, one that would haunt both of them for years.

From then on Abel kept a careful distance from people, returning to his solitary life on the Path with conviction, his heart scarred once again. His dreaming continued, the same visions that he could make no sense of. After a few years he once again began to bed other people, but he never took another lover, nor did he have friends aside from Vissoma Vil Anvaze. He traveled far and wide to take contracts, learning lands and people, and coming to understand what his dreams truly were. There was even a time he met a strange pale woman, golden branches tattooed across her face, and assisted her. However, never did he let the Path lead him across the border of Toussaint.

1272. Thus was how he walked his life until his destiny was intertwined with another, bringing happenings that he dreamed of and yet could not understand until they came to pass.

Age: 93 in 1272.

Day of Birth: May 12th, 1179.

Height: 5'11".

Physical Description: He had the build of a nimble fighter; agile, flexible, and littered with the occasional scar from both claw and blade. A handsome and clean face that turned the head of many, his ebony hair windswept and his eyes a bright yellow, nearly glowing around the trademark slit pupils of all witchers. Pointed ears showed his elven blood, as did his lithe form and large eyes. A well-healed scar traveled from the underside of his jaw and down his neck to his collarbone, pale pink against his cream skin.

Fighting Style: As a Cat school witcher, his fighting style is based and focused around speed, precision, and agility. Where he doesn't land heavy and raw damage, he makes due with well placed hits to vital areas that are almost always deadly. A smooth and near silent fighter thanks to years of grueling training and the witcher mutations, he is a dangerous man to cross blades with.

Clothing Style: By extension of his fighting style, his armor and gear were designed to maximize flexibility and provide the best possible range of motion. Light armor made of dark blue and black leather, his chest piece often sleeveless though not always, silver buckles clasping everything in place. His casual wear consisted of an open white shirt resembling that of a pirate's and a pair of black leather trousers. Knee-high boots accompanied both his armor and his casual wear, made of dark and durable leather.

Weapon of Choice: His silver and steel swords.

Special Skills: Singing, he has a strong talent for magic, has prophetic dreams.

Family: His mother died shortly after giving birth to him, his father was killed by a fiend when he was nine years old. He has no siblings.

Love Interest: Francis van Lwur (briefly), Cirilla Riannon.

Closest Friend: Vissoma Vil Anvaze.

Biggest Fear: Helplessness.

Guilty Pleasure: Wine from Toussaint.

Hobbies: Whittling.

[amplesalty]

Halloween 2020 - Day 1 - The Stand (1994) - Episode 1 The Plague

Gee, an epic post-apocalyptic story about an out of control pandemic. Never heard that one before.

Much as we like to tie the Halloween season to the Christmas one by opening up with a festive horror movie, why not link back to the TV binging that provided some content to this blog earlier in the year by partaking in this mini series? We’re only covering part one here today as this is like four feature length episodes. In a worst case scenario, the rest will serve as backups that I can plug in if I’m having an off day so to help me from falling behind. But ideally they’ll go up once a week on the same day as a standard movie post. You manage to go back to actually doing 31 entries for the first time in donkeys years and it all goes to your head and you suddenly think you can do 34!

This has actually been on my list for quite a while now, we do love a good (or bad) Stephen King adaptation around here and I have a distinct memory of seeing this on TV when I was a kid. I’m guessing it must have played over a few nights over here at some point or maybe over a bank holiday or something? Not that I really remember much in the way of details, just the cornfields and a creepy face which we’ll get on to.

It’s something that’s stuck with me over all these years, I actually got a copy of the book at one point in what must have been the early to mid 2000’s. Still have it actually, I dug it out for the sake of this entry. Seems it’s a version from 1980 from it’s first run as a paperback in the UK. Seems to have a page or two missing near the start in amongst all the copywright business but otherwise it’s in okay shape.

Even has some writing on the first page that I can only make out in parts, one section seems to read ‘an old man beats a mule’. Or perhaps, more pertinently to this story, a mute...

Cover seems a bit dull and non descript compared to the various other ones that have come out over the years. There’s something interesting to this original version with the two figures fighting, very much a literal take on the good versus evil nature of the story with one figure dressed in light colours and the other dark. The dark figure is wielding a scythe which is obviously closely associated with the Grim Reaper. Seems to have some form of beak sticking out of its hood too and the robes and shoes seem to be almost harlequin or jester type clothes?

I wasn’t really expecting much going into it, especially based on the 1990 mini-series of It. I think because of the nature of It being partly set in the 60’s, as well the contemporary portion which just looks very 80’s, gives it this image in my head of being very dated. Outside of a few actors like Tim Curry, John Ritter and Seth Green, there’s not really any notable stars in it either and even though, Green’s notably arguably came much later on. The Stand though? This thing has some names, even if the bigger ones are just small cameos. Amongst the main cast you’ve got Gary Sinise, Molly Ringwald and Rob Lowe. Obviously Ringwald isn’t a massive star or anything and is only really known for that string of John Hughes movies in the 80’s but around this time was peak Sinise. He’s not long removed from starring in Of Mice and Men (...and men....and men...) and would have roles in Forrest Gump, Apollo 13 and Ransom in the following years. Plus that big stretch in CSI:NY in the 00’s. But then you’ve got people like Ed Harris and Kathy Bates showing up, albeit briefly but these guys have some clout. I mean, Bates had just won the Academy Award a few years prior for her role in Misery so maybe she felt compelled to do more work under the King umbrella. Even the more minor roles seem like a roll call of ‘hey, it’s you!’ with Ken Jenkins (AKA Bob Kelso from Scrubs), Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and the proprietor of Joe Bob’s Drive In, Joe Bob Briggs.

The landscape of TV feels very different today with actors much more willing to work in the field as it’s taken on much more artistic integrity. The greater availability of shows after they’ve aired, be it through DVR, home media or streaming, has enabled people to watch in far greater numbers. There was a time when the big break was deemed to be making it to Hollywood and starring in motion picture epics but it seems more and more that story tellers are moving away from the relatively cramped 2 hour-ish format of the silver screen to having their vision play out over a long form story and the big name actors are following suit. I feel like things would have been very different back in the early 90’s so to have these names attached.

Seems for a long time there were plans to turn this into a movie, it’s even referred to during a ‘making of’ feature on the blu-ray (pretty much the only feature on there I might add) as a ‘motion picture epic’ but this must have been done way into production so either they were confused or trying to mislead viewers for some reason? Apparently in the early 80’s the idea was for the success of Creepshow to finance production of The Stand but took until the early 90’s for everyone to finally settle on the miniseries.

Very much a big budget affair too for a TV Show, $6m per episode. And it’s needed given the scale of the story, taking place in all these different locations, the special effetcs and with so many characters involved with over 125 speaking roles across the series. It’s definitely a jump up from It, even though that had the two different time periods, it only had a budget of $12m across its two parts compared to the $24m here across four parts.

But to finally address the massive elephant in the room, this story centers around an outbreak of a strain of influenza seemingly created in some shadowy government facility. After something goes awry in the lab, a doomed insider pleads with the guy watching the main gate to seal the facility but he instead piss bolts for his nearby house and hurriedly bundles his wife and child into their car as they make their escape. Everyone else is not nearly as fortunate though as the camera pans the facility, lifeless corpses strewn throughout that have seemingly dropped dead in the middle of their everyday activities, there’s even one guy doubled over on a ping pong table. All of this is set to the sounds of BOC’s Don’t Fear the Reaper and culminates with the image of a crow picking at a doll dropped by the child in the rush out of the front gate. The crow features prominently on the front cover of the blu-ray I have, perched atop of a skull. Though, I know they’re going for the whole post-apocalyptic vibe but what about the superflu is causing the road to burn up and crack like that? The bird also shows up a fair bit throughout the episode, I was going to talk about it being a raven and how such birds are linked with ill omen and death but it’s a crow apparently. Who knew? Not me, I’m no ornithologist. It also seems to be very closely linked with a mysterious figure that is alluded to throughout, a ‘dark man’ or monster.

When the original carrier of the disease makes his way into Arnette, Texas, and crashes into the gas station that Sinise’s character Stu Redman is working at, his dying words are of his efforts to escape from a dark man that was chasing him and that no one can out run him. Maybe in that moment you’d think this is just a state of delirium and he’s speaking oddly poetically about trying to outrun Death himself but as the show goes on, more and more people speak of this dark man, almost as if everyone in the grip of this disease comes to share this vision.

And speaking of visions, we can’t forget Mother Abigail and her cornfields. Both Lowe and Sinise’s characters are whisked away in their dreams to the middle of nowhere where a centurion on her porch warns of them of an ominous future. Think Mama Murphy from Fallout 4 only with much less chem addiction. The only thing Mama Abigail needs is her bread. What is it with King and fields anyway? You’ve got In the Tall Grass, plus the corn fields here and in Children of the Corn. There’s probably more I’m forgetting too. It’s either cornfields, writers in distress or killer ‘whatever I can see in front of me whilst I’m pitching this story’ with this guy.

In a way though it’s good that the show takes this supernatural turn because otherwise this would be a little too on the nose to be watching in this current climate. It’s very eerie to see such similar events play out on screen, starting with the widespread rumours and misinformation. It starts out innocently enough with talk of this so called superflu being downplayed, covered up by the government as an anthrax attack or outbreak of swineflu. I remember back to those more innocent times at the start of the year when COVID was naively dismissed as little more than another flavour of the month disease like the swineflu, sars or ebola that would be here today and gone tomorrow. But then you’ve got things like the sense of paranoia suddenly surrounding a simple cough or sneeze, talks of quarantines, social distancing, the implementation of masks (which one reporter describes as not being able to stop a flu germ with a hangover) to the more disturbing scene of lethal force being used against a TV news crew who refuse to surrender footage they’ve shot of army troops disposing of bodies. Granted, we never got anywhere near that level, I think the worst we had was that guy from CNN getting arrested or that Aussie reporter being pushed over.

They even managed to mirror how universal a pandemic like this is, from the common man to the height of celebrity. One of the characters we’re introduced to is a singer who, whilst he seems to be one of the few lucky to have some immunity, still sees his mother succumb to the virus. Just like we saw with the likes of BoJo or Tom Hanks, it really is a great leveller and, as a wise man once said, ‘You might be a King or a little street sweeper but sooner or later you dance with the Reaper!’. I guess we can take solice that we haven’t quite had the societal collapse that this show manages to pull off in less than a week, with Times Square on fire and a guy running around shooting people like he’s in Falling Down. That’s not to say we wont get there, we seem to be hovering more around general civil disobedience right now with the growing frustration of lockdown and PPE spilling out into protests.

It makes for compelling viewing to see how quickly things break down from simply a man having the sniffles to people being rounded up from their homes and ushered into army vehicles. There’s a lot to take in as the show has to establish the events taking place and introducing it’s multitude of characters so there’s not really much room to breathe. Hopefully episode 2 can relax a little now and give the cast some time to grow. There’s still some standout performances though such as Redman’s growing frustration at being cooped up in a test facility, lashing out at the doctors and nurses coming in in their hazmat suits, prodding and poking him. It would have been nice to see more scenes with him and Dr. Dietz. They have one argument where they nearly come to blows before having a big showdown by the end, with the Doc being one of the last staff members left alive, seemingly crazed by their inability to find any answers in Redman’s tests and he threatens to take his frustrations out on Redman by shooting him. He might be immune to the virus but I bet he’s not immune to a bullet. Dietz starts out with this complete lack of empathy, almost to the point of having a rather cheery deposition considering the circumstances, as he finds some fascination in the speed at which the virus causes death. But he becomes more and more short tempered and threatening as the days wear on and it would have been good to see a more gradual descent.

The aforementioned Ed Harris plays General Starkey overseeing the initial bioweapon project and the fallout of it’s outbreak, perhaps overseeing to a fault as it becomes pretty clear from his ever increasing five o’clock shadow, dishevelled clothing and massive bags under his eyes that he’s slept very sparingly since the initial breach in containment. I think for the entire time we see him, his screen never changes from a shot of one of the cooks at the base of the initial outbreak slumped over, face down in the meal he was preparing. It makes a bit of a change to go from the quite verbal exchanges of Redman and Dietz to Starkey’s physical appearance and facial expressions putting across his mood.

[content-to-convert]

VIDEO DIDN’T KILL THE RADIO STAR...

VIDEO DIDN’T KILL THE RADIO STAR it just made him dress nicer 

By Pat Mellon 

Speaking of your brand evolving, PODCASTS are now a wise bullet to have in the arsenal of promotional weapons. In the early 2000's, for instance, you didn't have the option to record and distribute a PODCAST. The technology didn't exist to even IDENTIFY, much less create one- if you typed PODCAST into an email in 2002, it would have been flagged as a misspelling. 

But now, thanks to Audioblogging, re-branded as PODCASTING thanks to the iPOD, you can reach a targeted captive audience in a car on a long commute, with content that they've actually sought out. It's essentially a radio infomercial for the lifestyle of your product, without the PAID-PROGRAMMING aftertaste. Plenty of people have been slow to warm to the idea of such self-promotion and have waited to see if the technology and its effectiveness sustained or if it waned, the way QR codes did, or video discs did until the invention of the DVD. It can be an amazingly powerful part of your brand. 

Many rejected podcasting, as I did initially, as a waste of energy. In fairness, early on when there were no networks for podcasting and its business model was less focused than now, it smacked of self-congratulatory volunteer work. I saw it as an infringement on my profession. I have 15 years of radio hosting experience. I saw podcasts as competition. In my short-sighted view then, I didn't see the full potential of a podcast. I just saw it as people wanting my job. But as time went on, I began to see the ways, at least in terms of in-car entertainment, that podcasting was the future. And like the cryptic fortune cookie says, "Kill Your Darlings". Or maybe go with the less-confusing, "Reinvent Your Business Constantly. The End Goal May Be The Same But The Tools and Methods Evolve Constantly" which is a Ken Tucker quote I saw on a Snapple Cap. Or even the more direct, "You Have To Reinvent To Stay Fresh and In The Game" which Madonna said once. 

But early on, I saw it as the enemy - the way news journalists must have felt when FREELANCERS started getting a lot of the work in the late 90's. I thought, "If all you need to broadcast is a computer and an opinion, why the hell did I major in Broadcasting? It's like everyone becoming a Youtuber or a Social Media Influencer (seriously, that is NOT a good name. It's just saying what you're doing. It lacks creativity, like naming the glass thing you drink out of a "glass". Or the room with the bed a "bedroom". Or the thing you swing on a "swing". Or the... Sorry-I'll move on.) Anybody can become a Social Media Influencer these days, (and if they're under 14 and haven't been trying for half their lives then you might want to make sure they're breathing) and that means fame, sometimes money, but more important: LIKES. I overheard my 8 year-old playing with her friends and they were pretending there was a genie or something granting wishes and one girl asked for a pony, and another asked for a house of chocolate, and my daughter asked for a million LIKES on her video. LIKES are currency for pre-teen popularity. And LIKES or even merely PAGE VIEWS can be currency in the grown-up world of business. My point is that anyone with a computer and a camera can make money on Youtube if they hustle. It's simply the new normal. It's great, if not dangerous. We've yet to see the fallout of a generation raised on Youtubing, unless, of course, you count cautionary tales like Logan Paul or Jo Jo Siwa, both of whom are rich. It's simply another entertainment option for kids. I kinda thought podcasting was that, but for adults who only wanted quasi-fame; to show-off. But it's bigger than that.

If you're a plumber, for instance, and you want to maximize business, you probably want a decent social media footprint, some solid YELP reviews, and maybe even a podcast. Toilet clogged? Click here for an interview with master plumbers from all over. It's not the ONLY thing you should do. It's ONE of the things you should do.

On the consumer side, you have to realize that traffic, especially the bumper-to-bumper kind, is GOLD to a radio talk show host. People listen the most in their cars, so DJ's in New York and Los Angeles, the #1 and #2 radio markets depending on who you ask*, for instance, who entertain on the radio, are always on their toes to stay funny and relevant because it's so easy to push a button and change the station.

Then suddenly there was a new game in town. People were bypassing the radio altogether and plugging external sources into car sound systems, removing the commercials and unwanted Morning Zoo shenanigans, and rendering my entire college education and training void. My only hope was wishing death to the podcast movement, which I think I did a couple of times on the radio accompanied by a sound effect of a toilet flushing (Take THAT, Podcasting!). It didn't work. I kept hearing the word. Podcast. (eerie voice) PODD CAAAST! My head was in the sand. People would say to me, "you should do a podcast" and I'd cringe and wildly swing fists at imaginary ghosts who were accusing me of "Resting on your laurels" and "Holding on too tight.”

It took a while, but I get the appeal and, more importantly, the power of the Podcast. It's like a book-on-tape for the 21st century- 10 times as cool, though, because it's technologically relevant, and can be different every time you listen. So we agree that podcasts are real. And we acknowledge that there is room for many things on the dashboard of a car, be them outlets, or additional buttons. And we agree that the the way we do business is always changing and we have to adapt to some degree. So why all the hub bub? Because we can't have an intelligent conversation about the delicate existence of Podcasts without talking about Shane Gillis, the comedian who was hired and fired by Saturday Night Live in the same week last year. We need to understand the power of what it was that torpedoed his streetcar (tune into Mixed Metaphors with Pat Mellon Tuesdays on The Podd Couple, right after Poddamnit at 8, and Pod of Thunder with Gene Simmons at 8:17) He and a buddy do this show, this podcast, it's like a radio show but you don't listen to it on your grandpa's Victrola, you tether your MP3 player to the radio inside grandpa's Camry, and there's bad language, which there never is on traditional, boring old dumb talk radio, so right away, it's awesome (honestly, the only difference between Howard Stern on radio and Howard Stern on satellite is the F word) and the internet allows curses and take that, Mr. Suit and Tie, and this is going to be amazing. And on one particular show from 2018, Gillis said "chink" when describing someone in Chinatown. Not a huge scandal, but I guess you'd have to ask Roseanne Barr if the internet can get you into to any kind of trouble. She was exiled from the the entire US for a social media post that mentioned race and monkeys. And the same new normal that allows John Q. Anybody to do a podcast ALSO watches everything you do online and will sink you if it sees something it does not like. America can be confusing that way. Freedom of speech and freedom of complaining about freedom of speech are always at each other's throats, it seems. And you can't have it both ways. The guy who alerted the world to Bill Cosby's dating rituals online is loved by many but is also shunned by others, but that guy knows what he did and he knows not to complain about the ones who, well, complain. It's the price you pay.

The point is, you need to constantly be hustling and using all of technology’s modern tools to get your product out (they’re not burning DVD’s anymore) and maybe one of those avenues is a podcast with salty language, and maybe that podcast exists among your body of work that clients can enjoy whenever they want.

But we live in a new age of retroactive outrage. Eddie Murphy was on SNL and is arguably the most talented person the show has produced. He did a stand-up special in which he explores “What if Mr. T were a Faggot?” It was inflammatory and it was insensitive and it was homophobic (though that buzzword was still a decade from conception) because the premise of the joke- the attribution of homosexual behavior to a big, strong, black man being marginalized as solely predatory sodomy - crossed the line. When I spell it out like that it looks horrible. But it’s a simple comedic device: assigning unlikely behavior to someone for comedic purposes. It’s the fish-out-of-water gag. It’s why we had Mork, and Alf, and Balkie from Perfect Strangers. It’s Freaky Friday. It’s why The Rock playing a babysitter or a tooth fairy is funny. Murphy did this AFTER he was on SNL. But if has been released before he auditioned, do you think he’d have been hired? 

  Of course he would have. Because the Mr. T thing was a small part of that special (though, I recall, an extremely quotable part) and the people who didn’t like or appreciate the language didn’t have the bionic megaphone of the internet so they could get their outrage all over your conscience. The point is that your podcast is a reflection of your brand. You have to weigh your desire to speak freely and loosely with your desire to keep the Cancel Culture at bay. At a MINIMUM, though, you should keep things clean for your clients, listeners, and most importantly, your potential customers. Shane Gillis missed out of being on SNL and fame, instead on infamy because he broke one of society's biggest rules:he said something controversial out loud. Granted, it was in bad taste, but if that were a crime half of us would be in jail. It's just important to remember that your language on a work-based podcast should be professional, which I realize cannot be defined easily, but maybe stay away from slang and cursing. Just because you CAN doesn't mean you SHOULD.

[starspatter]

Heroes and Thieves, Ch. 14

Title: Heroes and Thieves Fandom/Universe: BTAS, pre/post-RotJ flashback

Summary: A story about second chances, healing, and having hope.

Rating: PG-13, for references to character death, child psychological torture and trauma.

Genre: Romance/Family/Friendship/Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2,526 Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

Also on ff.net and AO3.

Lies, lies, lying little beast Lying little man on the corner of the street Singing "Why, I can't come out to play Can't come out and say that I'm afraid of what they'll say"

-Run River North, "Lying Beast"

————————–

Then.

Stephanie walked purposefully down the dormitory hallway towards her destination, which she had learned of through Cass after the other had shockingly announced she was now… “involved” with someone and asked point-blank for her advice.  Steph had been surprised (not to mention maybe a tad jealous) that she had been granted visitation rights before her – especially when she herself wasn’t even sure if she had reached an official “dating” stage yet with her suitor- er, tutor (although they had undergone several “study sessions” together by this point) – but nevertheless was happy for her roommate.  …Besides, her profile’s “single” status would hopefully change today.

Checking her hair and outfit, she nervously fixed and fidgeted a little in front of the doorway, before taking a deep breath and knocking on the entry.  After a moment, it slowly creaked open a crack to reveal a rather confused-looking Tim.

“Steph?  What are you doing here?”

“Hey!  I just came to ask you something quick, if you’re not too busy.”  She beamed her best and brightest.

Tim’s eyes darted anxiously aside as he swallowed.

“Uh, now’s not really a great time…”

“Who’s that, Tim?  A friend of yours?”

Stephanie blinked as a stunningly beautiful woman unexpectedly emerged from behind Tim, ravishing red locks and coquettish lips smiling cordially.

“Ah, you must be Stephanie! Tim’s told me a lot about you.”

Steph’s gaze shifted suspiciously to Tim, who looked like his world had just come crashing down around him.

“…Has he now?”

The stranger grinned widely as she extended her slender palm, revealing twin rows of perfect pearl teeth.

“I’m Barbara Gordon. Pleasure to meet you.”

Tentatively, Steph took it.

“...Nice to meet you. Wait, ‘Gordon’ – as in the new Police Commissioner?”

The woman nodded.

“Bingo, you’re looking at her.”  Her voice abruptly took on an authoritative tone.  “I’m here on official police business, conducting a top-secret investigation.  You wouldn’t happen to have seen any suspicious individuals around, would you?”

“Babs,” Tim cut in sharply as Steph started to sweat and panic.  “That’s enough.  Quit frightening her.”  (Although rather than relieve her apprehension, it only increased further at such informal address.)

…On a first-name basis?

“Kidding, kidding. I’m giving a guest lecture on Criminology over in the West Wing.  Speaking of which,” Barbara glanced at her wristwatch, “I should probably get going. Class starts in 10 minutes.  I just came by to say ‘hi’ to Tim.”

She began to gather up her things, bustling out the exit with a wink to Tim on the way, who only winced and shrank further in response.

“I’ll leave you two kids alone.  Take care, Tim.  I’ll stop by again some other time.”

Steph watched her figure’s wake until it was gone, silently envying sophisticated style and… mature body shape as it sashayed away.

“She’s awfully pretty,” she mused aloud, suddenly feeling even more self-conscious.  “What exactly is your relationship with her?”

Don’t tell me he’s actually into older women.  There’s no way I can compete with that.

Tim rolled his eyes with a sigh.

“It’s not what you think. She’s like an older sister.”

“…Seriously?”

How strangely ‘convenient’ all his supposed ‘relatives’ seem to be gorgeous supermodels.

“Trust me, there’s nothing like that between us.”

She gauged his earnest expression, before accepting assurance.

“All right, I believe you.” Her smile returned as she relaxed. “In that case…”

She fished around in her pocket, pulling out two tickets she won at the Theta-Kapa-Gamma Harvest Festival last week.

“Ta da~!  Tickets to see the monster movie marathon at the old Monarch Theater on Saturday!  You are free, aren’t you?”

Tim blinked as she practically shoved the tiny pieces of perforated paper in his face, fanning gleefully in invitation.  Temptation.

“I am, but…”

He gulped, hesitating as he seemed to desperately search for an excuse.

“I’m… not really a fan of old films…”

He mumbled lamely, appearing extremely uneasy for some reason.

Oh crap.  Don’t tell me I screwed up again.

Steph’s confidence sank in disappointment, recalling how she had once enthusiastically tried to engage Tim in a spontaneous water pistol fight going on in the campus courtyard (despite the season being somewhat ill-suited for the sport), having snuck up on him whilst the victim was reading unawares underneath the shade of a nearby tree, hitting him with a lighthearted squirt.  He had sat there, stunned, as he stared at the childish toy weapon in her hand, before wiping his soaked cheek with the back of his sleeve.  Slamming his book shut, he stated with such startlingly quiet, intense anger it took her aback:

“I don’t like guns.”

…Before standing up and stalking off in silence.

Still, she had hoped this would make up for it, that it could be something they’d both enjoy, spend some real quality time doing together (besides studying anyway, which she was starting to get sick and tired of as tests approached).  Who didn’t care for a good old-fashioned camp scare around Halloween?  …Maybe he just needed to give it a chance.

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it.  Have you ever even seen Dracula or Frankenstein?”

He shook his head.

“Whaaat, you’re missing out on some classics!  Come on, it’ll be fun.  We’ve both been working so hard, we deserve a break.  Cass has a pair of passes too, so she and Conner are going to be there as well.  We can totes double together.”  (Incidentally, it had been a little odd how her partner had been so fortunate as to receive the exact same prize at the booth’s trivia guessing game right after her, but she’d learned not to question Cassandra’s keen – if sometimes creepily uncanny – sense of intuition.)

Tim bit his lip, but acquiesced at her pleading puppy eyes, which shone with eager stars of anticipation.

“…Okay.”

“Great!  It’s a date then.”  She exclaimed excitedly as she handed him his half of the voucher.

“A… date.”

He repeated robotically, surveying the stub as if in disbelief.

“I’ll see you on Saturday then.”

She waved as she skipped off, emboldened by sweet success.  In her jubilee, she accidentally ran straight into Conner as he coincidentally came round the corner, heading back to his room as well.

“Whoa, watch it there!”

He caught her just before she fell (unlike before, this sturdy target was obviously a lot harder to knock over), and she blushed a tinge as she felt his huge, strong arms wrap around her shoulder.

Man, what is it with me and bumping into hot guys recently?  …Not that I’m complaining, mind.

She wasn’t sure whether to be overjoyed or embarrassed by this recurring situation, but settled for leaning towards the former.  Conner, on the other hand, seemed a little less thrilled upon realizing the person in his grasp.

“Oh, it’s you. …Actually, good timing.  I want to talk to you about Tim.”

He raised her up, but kept a firm grip on her collar as he drew her back round the bend.  …It was almost a little painful, the amount of pressure his paw was putting on her petite stature.  His countenance was severely solemn as he stooped forward to meet her level.

“…Look, I’m just gonna come right out and say it so you don’t get the wrong idea.  Tim’s… ‘delicate’.  I mean, really delicate.”  He frowned, icy blue irises flaring dangerously as his dense, digging fingers deepened into the folds of her blouse, contracting and contacting to the bone.  “You need to watch what you say and do around him.  I swear, if you ever do anything intentionally to hurt him, I will never forgive you.  You got that?”

She recoiled, reasoning he was likely referring to the gun stunt.

Is he… making a genuine threat?

Steph was somewhat scared now as his shadow loomed over her, backing her against the wall.  She nodded meekly.

“U- understood.”

“Good.”

He released her, and she rubbed at the sore spot on her skin, wondering if it was going to leave a bruise. She was also starting to wonder what the heck Cass saw in this big dumb brute.  He was admittedly attractive, sure, but personality-wise he was Tim’s complete opposite: loud, brash, obnoxious – not to mention arrogant – basically your stereotypical jock.  And yet…

“You really care a lot about Tim, don’t you?”

Conner sniffed.  “Of course I do.  He’s my best friend.”

…’Friend’, huh?

The way he behaved seemed to go far beyond mere “friendship” though.  He was almost acting like an overprotective guardian.  …Or a possessive one.

“Could it be that you’re… jealous?”

“Me?  Jealous? Of you?”  Conner scoffed.  “Why on earth would I be jealous?  Just because you’re the one getting him to finally open up and trust you, participate in a bunch of social activities he never normally would, even though I’ve tried so hard to motivate him to be more outgoing over these past few years? To convince him to talk to me about his problems?  To be the kind of stupid-ass cliché you huma- people find so damn popular just so no one else would dare to mess with him?”

He laughed like a bark, though it sounded slightly strained.  Pained. Stephanie softened at such a display of devotion.

…Maybe he’s not such an oaf after all.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’ve done a lot more for him than you give yourself credit for.  I’m sure he appreciates having you as a pal.”

She cautioned a comforting pat on his broad muscle.

“Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m trying to steal him away from you or anything.  Besides, you’re doing the same thing for Cass, aren’t you? Trying to help her break out of her shell?  Heck, I’ve noticed she’s been a lot more vocal ever since you two started seeing each other.”

Conner rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“You think?  I mean, I guess you could say that.  I dunno, it feels like I’m not really right for her…  She’s so serious and deep, and – and next to her I feel like a total doofus most of the time…”

Stephanie couldn’t help but sympathize.  They were a weird couple, to be sure, but then the same could easily be said about her and Tim.

“Hey, far be it from me to judge, but even if it doesn’t seem like you’re made for each other off the bat, I think you owe it to yourselves to try and explore those feelings at least. You never know, maybe it will work out.”

…It might’ve been her imagination, but the margins of his mouth seemed to twitch a bit at the word “made”.  He coughed as he replied contritely though.

“Thanks.  And, uh, sorry about being rough earlier.”

“It’s all right.”  She smirked.  “You were just defending your ‘delicate’ flower’s honor.”

A humiliated flush crept onto his visage.

“Oi, despite what you may have heard, it’s not like that.”

“It’s okay,” she giggled in understanding.  “I feel the same way about Cass.  …I suppose you could consider it even then?”

“Um… I suppose.”  He looked confounded by the straightforward confession, but shrugged, not wanting to think too hard about it anymore, lest things get overly complicated.  “So… We good then?”

She smiled.

“Yeah.  We’re good.”

…

When the weekend rolled around, Stephanie dragged Cassandra clothes shopping before the big day, insisting on doing her hair and makeup as well.  By the time they arrived at the cinema, the boys were already there waiting, checking their watches out in the cold.  While she sheepishly apologized on both behalves for being “fashionably late”, Steph figured it was worth it when she saw their slack jaws at how much fashion had transformed them.  The guys were dressed decently to impress as well, both sporting smart leather jackets (although Tim’s looked a size too big for him, and Conner still had on that ruddy black Superman T-shirt underneath that seemed like it came from a little kid’s closet).

She took the initiative in lining up with Tim to order snacks and soda, in the meantime telling the other two to go find four seats together.  Luckily they didn’t have to wait long, as there didn’t seem to be many customers despite it being a Saturday.  (To be fair those tickets were probably pretty cheap and undesirable to given away free at some college fest.) Although she kept chatting cheerfully to try and pass the time, her other company seemed even more uncomfortable than usual in the lightly crowded lobby, hardly able to carry a conversation – let alone the food – all the way to the viewing room.  She began to worry if this had been a mistake to bring him here, and prayed the darkness and drama onscreen would at least be able to distract him enough to loosen up a little.

Cass and Conner had saved them two seats near the edge, and she sidled in next to her girlfriend (for moral support) while Tim took the one closest to the aisle.  He kept glimpsing tensely around though, still just as jumpy as before.

“Hey, chill out a bit, will ya?  What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he muttered. “It’s just, in my experience, this is usually the part where the place catches fire, or some punks try to rob the box office, or…”

She stared at him, shaking her head.

“You fret too much.  Just try to relax and enjoy, okay?  Here, have some popcorn.”

He passed on the salted kernels though, and she pouted as she popped one in her mouth, chewing over whether she’d made the right decision after all. He looked almost claustrophobic, stressed.  In distress.

Things didn’t improve much as the motion picture started to play.  The first feature presentation in the lineup was indeed Frankenstein, and although Tim managed to remain relatively calm enough throughout the monochrome, monotone introduction, he started to stiffen at the famous “awakening” sequence.

“Quite a good scene, isn’t it? One man crazy, three very sane spectators.”

Out of the crook of her eye, Steph sensed her companion cringe every time there was a thunderclap, as lights flashed and machinery sparked with mounting electricity, while the movie madman merrily turned the wheel to “adjust the batteries”.  Together, he and his assistant unrolled the cloth covering the table to expose a humanlike form strapped to it, albeit with limbs limp and lifeless.  Tim’s claw clutched at his armrest as the stretcher was gradually lifted up through a hole in the ceiling towards the stormy sky, where pulses of galvanizing lightning presumably struck the subject repeatedly.

Stephanie divided concentration back and forth between the increasingly agitated boy beside her and the big screen in growing alarm as his breathing accelerated, gasping and wheezing audibly as he bent forward and put his hyperventilating head between his knees.  Cass and Conner were casting concerned looks as well, while other annoyed audience members revolved around and shushed to keep it down.  As her attention was arrested by the scientist maniacally screaming “It’s alive!” over and over again, she turned back one last time to ask if Tim was all right in a worried whisper – but there was no answer.

Tim was gone.

————————–

Oh Lord, whatever did I say? Whatever made me think that this was all okay? No one held me to the flame The hell if I could take the dark from my face

[okimargarvez]

YOUR HAPPINESS, MY PAIN

Original title: La tua felicità, il mio dolore.

Prompt: After an accident, Luke loses his memories and believes that he is still with Lisa and not with Penelope.

Warning: a bit of paranormal.

Genre: dramatic, romantic, angst, family, paranormal.

Characters: Luke Alvez, Penelope Garcia, Lisa Douglas, BAU team (especially Jennifer Jareau and Matt Simmons).

Pairing: Garvez (slight LukexLisa).

Note: oneshot 59 in Garvez collection.

Legend: 💏😘🔦👨‍👩‍👧‍👦🎵.

Song mentioned: Sere nere, Tiziano Ferro.

GARVEZ STORIES

Note: I written this story ispired by an episode of Braceface, when Alden believes he is still with Sharon and not with Mario, ans Sharon starts to feel again something for him, but she has to leave him free when he gest his memory back.

I used Stephen King’ style for the sentence between the brackets and in bold as thoughts come out from a mysterious area of human’ mind.

YOUR HAPPYNESS, MY PAIN

 -Matt? - despite appearing to be in a healing phase, the man's voice, who is lying in a bed and with a third of his body wrapped in bandages, resounds weak and shuffling. The other one is however able to hear him and approaches him, thus avoiding that he could strain uselessly.

-Yes, man?- he asks, resting his hand on the edge of the sheet.

The injured person tries to sit up, not bearing the idea of having to conduct yet another conversation from that position. -Why is Garcia no longer coming to see me?- he goes straight to the point, instead. Agent Simmons, on the other hand, says nothing, but his eyes cannot help but widen. -Matt?- he repeats, feeling the pressure on his chest increase. And it doesn't just depend on the impact his ribs had to suffer.

The Asian looks away for a second, then sighs. -Do you have a reserve question?- but he is not really interested in this question, so before the other can reply, he anticipates him. -I can't answer for her, Luke.- he feels the need to touch him, to manifest his affection physically. He touches his arm.

Luke feels his breath is about to be ripped off him. Maybe he should call a nurse, press that damn button that dangles over his head like a Christmas decoration. -Is she sick?- is the first thing he thinks; but Matt doesn’t shake his head nor nod. He uses their way of saying yes without explicitly doing so, so as to at least partially have a clear conscience. -Does it concern a case?- this time it is much easier to deny. -You can tell me, I'm not a poor wretch, as you all think.- the Latin complains, trying to change his position in a way to be more convincing. But with just one working arm, the task is quite complicated.

But he still hits the target. -Hey, neither of us thinks so.- the other man reassures him. -But you suffered trauma, a particularly serious one.- he points the bandage that covers his head and that could make him look like an aspiring mummy for a cheap horror movie. -I can only tell you... to think about why you care so much about knowing what happened to her.- it seems an acceptable solution, moreover, he has already discussed it with her, who agreed. -I can’t say more, I am also her friend, not only yours.- a truth that only today turns out to be bitter and sad. Luke falters, feeling the first symptoms of vertigo. Fortunately, he cannot fall, thanks to the banks that surround him. He lets himself slide back under the white blankets.

-I...- he stammers, just for a moment. -I don't need to think about it.- so he recovers a grain of his conviction. -I've always caring about her.- he exclaims, feeling that this is a truth he could never forget. -She is my... (girl) best friend.- again that damned thought that overlaps his words. He stands for a few moments staring at his friend, believing that he too has heard it. Then, from his neutral reaction, he understands that he didn’t say it out loud. Only in his damn head. The strangest thing, though, is that it doesn't sound like his own. It seems something impossible to define. Not a single decent adjective comes to his mind.

-Yeah, but it's not up to me to tell you the precise reason.- Matt stands up, giving him one last look. -Now you have to rest and I have to go back to Kristy.-

Two weeks before

Hearing the cell phone vibrate beneath the mountain of clothes, the woman snorts. She begins to dig, throwing shirts, skirts and trousers all over the room. She is able to find it and answers just before goes the voice mail. She puts the speakerphone out of the corner of her eye, seeing her boyfriend's picture on the screen. -Luke, sorry if I didn't answer you right away, I was looking for...- she continues mechanically rummaging in the closet.

But her hand hangs in midair when she recognizes the voice on the other side of the receiver. -Penelope, listen to me.- Roxy, recalled by the thud of her mistress on the floor, rushes to help her.

Thanks to the help of the dog, the woman manages to get back on her feet, and, sensing the worst, wisely decides to sit on the edge of the bed. -JJ?- she beckons the Belgian shepherd to go up in turn. Sergio pops out from behind the door, but she doesn't notice it. -Why are you answering Luke's phone? Will it not be (dead wounded dead mortally wounded) happened something bad?- she can’t drive away those terrible thoughts from her head. It's not new to her. There has always been a part of her to play the role of herald, messenger, modern Cassandra.

On the other hand, a first hesitation. -Penelope, darling, are you sitting?- the term of endearment becomes like a scalpel that begins to cut open her heart with skill, while invisible hands reflect on which is the best method to dissect it.

-JJ, talk.- she replies, avoiding the friend's question, with a harsh tone rather than a wounded one. -(Do you know) Luke is injured?- and it would be nice if he was only wounded, she thinks, sensing the soft fur of the black cat brushing against her arm not busy holding the phone (as if the future of the entire planet depend on it), remained inert, like dead.

The other blonde also ignores her question. -I'm almost under your house.- she informs her, though. -You have to come to the hospital.- and this is enough to increase the pain in the chest, and the lungs become smaller, and the head spinning. But anything will be fine, as long as he is alive. It won't matter any pain she had to endure, if the Lord will want to grant her the grace to see him alive again, possibly healthy. But we don't claim too much.

She stands up like a spring. -God, oh no, no, no.- but she doesn't cry, she doesn't sob. Because, as she read in more than one book, when you leave yourself go, you also accept the fact itself. And she can't afford it. She's not strong enough. Yes, she's the one who sheds tears for every bullshit (even if they weren't all bullshit), just she even told once Luke, before they became a couple. But in really serious cases, a single tear would be enough to break the dam. -It can’t be true. I...- therefore, the only road that remains to her, until she can see him with her own eyes, is that of absolute negation.

A long sigh. -Honey, we'll make it.- JJ promises, but the other one just hears it like an echo, like something that doesn't concern her. -I'm coming.-

When they arrive, Penelope realizes with extreme disappointment that they aren’t the first. The whole gang is already there. She tries to ignore Andrew's arm around Prentiss's shoulders. She has never been like this before. Jealous of love among other people. -What happened?- she shoots suddenly her question without many preambles, without making her usual mince words. Probably her colleagues and friends had prepared themselves for the sobbing Garcia, who was so much easier to manage. -I want to know everything, every detail.- she increases the dose, pressing a fingernail in the palm of the hand in a discreet way and feeling a little anxiety flow away, along with a few drops of blood. -I want (to die, to reach him, yes, so we will stay together forever, we are destined to be together forever, I will love him forever, ever ever)...- but the Other part of herself has clearer ideas than her counterpart external. It would be nice to be able to merge the two identities, to explain what she really feels. To be able to do it without be pitied or guilty.

The leader of the BAU takes the situation in her hand, breaking away from her boyfriend to walk towards her. Emily has never been so open to demonstrations of affection, as JJ, so she doesn't take the friend's hands in hers, doesn't embrace her. And it's all good, because otherwise the blonde is convinced that she would have collapsed. -Penelope, there is no need for you to know anything else outside that he is still alive, that he is in surgery and that the doctor said there is a good chance...- she doesn’t let her finish, Garcia' voice overlaps hers, avoiding a other kind of thoughts materialize.

-Good chance.- she repeats, in a bitter, ironic, disillusioned tone. -Ok. Okay.- the last thing she sees, before she falls unconscious, is Rossi's arm stretched towards her. When she recovers, she understands that it was not even a real fainting. It lasted too little time, less than a minute and she "woke up" on her own. As if her brain needed to reboot to update the system. -Where is he?- is the first thing she asks, ignoring the man who supports her and who she often has considered as a father. -I need... I need to see him.- she exclaims, but her firmness falters.

-Kitten...- the old founder of the unit calls her, and as it happened with JJ, only an hour before at most, is enough to convince her that it is a sign to make her understand that it's all over.

She shakes out in his grip, like a possessed, but no one of the other people look at her with particular interest. This is a place where such scenes are on the agenda. More or less young men, more or less young women, friends, relatives, children, grandchildren, parents. The manifestation of pain is a universal language. -He's dead, isn't he? He's (rotting corpse, food for worms, young lady you must come to make the formal identification, no I can't, I don't want to remember them like that, mom, dad, Carlos can go in my place, no he's too small, younger, it's your fault, it's) dead.- while she says it, she is mentally transported back in time in the body of a young girl who played the role of a woman, but was not up to it. She shakes her head, unable to stop.

Matt, who had been on the sidelines so far, takes the floor, approaching to try to stop her. -No, he is not dead!- he states firmly, leaving no room for doubt, but an evil voice seems to suggest him a different perspective (not yet). He looks at the blonde, trying to figure out if she has said it, but the woman goes limp in his arms. For a moment they believe that she is about to faint again. But the sound of footsteps in their direction makes her quickly recover.

-Penelope.- the newcomer exclaims, which stands out from the rest of the team because of her blue uniform. Garcia detaches herself from her friend abruptly, not caring about anything and mentally thanking her for not having used a nickname or diminutive.

-Lisa!- the other understands that a hug could have destructive results and simply looks at her, expressing her personal pain only through the eyes.

-As soon as they warned me, I understood that it was Luke.- the others, although clearly interested, remain aloof. -How are you?- she knows perfectly well that it is a silly question, but she must still ask it. The blonde looks at her with her brown eyes, incredibly not shiny. Perhaps, she is even the only one in the waiting room in this condition.

-What do you think?- she replies in a rude way, but even in such a situation she cannot accept her human weaknesses and she hurries to remedy. -Sorry, I...- Lisa shakes her head; some strands escape from her pony tail.

-Don't be, come on, let's go for a walk, you need some air.- she drags her away, exchanging a single glance with JJ, the one that seems the most receptive.

Penelope wastes no time. -You know something, don't you?- she asks, letting herself be guided to a bench and sitting down without even being aware of her actions. -Tell me the truth, please.- she begs her, but doesn’t seem like a humiliation.

The friend nods. She doesn't need to study the words first, she already knows what, and above all, how to say it. -He is serious, but non-life-threatening.- she notices the suspicious look of the blonde. -It's the truth.- she says. -Now you have to be strong, you have to...- a man positions himself exactly in front of them. He waits to have caught their attention before opening his mouth.

-Doctor Douglas?- he asks as a pure courtesy gesture. Lisa stands up, Penelope imitates her with a slight delay. This could be one of the moments of truth, isn't it? Of course, it might not even concern her and Luke at all. Or maybe yes. So why does that voice look pretty quiet, silent? Why doesn't it suggest the most catastrophic hypotheses? She quite misses it. -The patient has successfully make it through the surgery.- silence. Inside and outside her head. Then the brunette touches her colleague's arm.

-Thank you for letting me know.- the man smiles and leaves. -See? Penelope, you are the most positive person I know.- she tries to make her remember the obvious. -You can't give up right now.- she winks at her, even snatching a smile from her. Of course, the idea that he is still alive helps her a lot. But as long as he stays in this hospital, she won't even be able to breathe quietly. Complications are always around the corner. Ask Jim and Melinda on Ghost Whisperer...

-When... when can I see him?- she seems more hopeful, though. She sounds like the usual Garcia. Reassured by her reaction, the friend brushes her shoulder in a gesture of affection.

-Soon.- she laughs at her puff of frustration and after a moment the blonde also imitates her. -Let's go back to the others.- Penelope nods, feeling she has once again defeated her own demons. A century seems to have passed when they return to the waiting room. Trying not to look like hungry for news, they slowly approach them.

-Garcia?- JJ asks on behalf of all.

-He did it!- she exclaims, perhaps with a tone of voice that is too high. A few moments to store information. Tara takes a look from a family group, that is waiting for someone to come out and tell if their mother has passed the surgery. Incredibly, there is no trace of envy, but trust and serenity. There is still hope in the world. -He did it.- the blonde repeats a second later. The girls hug each other, while the men exchange glances and pats on the back, already with a joking attitude, like the worst is over. Lisa leaves them alone to let them enjoy the moment. When she reappears, she brings even better news with her.

-Now he can receive visits.- she communicates them. They all walk along the corridor; they separate between those who prefer to do some motion along the stairs and those who risk fate by taking the elevator. They meet in front of room number 756. Without the need to even discuss the matter formally, the first visitor is established. Emily makes a single gesture with her hand. Penelope grabs the handle, looks at her fingers as if the limb didn't belong to her. And during the brief process of opening the door, before her eyes rest on the body of the man she loves, the voice of the Other returns to keep her company. It fills her head, leaving no room for anything else. (You know that there are a thousand ways to die, die, just an air bubble, pop, it's nobody's fault, the brain doesn’t respond, internal bleeding, external bleeding, why I no longer feel my hand, a fragment of bone pierced his lung, he didn’t suffer, how he loved you, you were such a beautiful couple, condolences... you believe that dying is bad but you will discover that there is something much worse, you will find out, though not now). And, just as it started, it ends, dying out as if it were a voice recorded on a vinyl and someone had raised the needle of the head shell. She sighs and turns to close the door behind her. Luke is lying on the bed, surrounded by white. The bandages contrast enormously with the nuance of his skin. His head is completely wrapped; his eyes closed, but he is not attached to a respirator. With a groan the woman realizes that for a long time she will no longer be able to play with his curls. The right arm has suffered the same fate. Something strange surrounds his chest, always on the right side. And, although she can't see it because of the sheet, she can swear that even his leg (the right one, of course) is in bad shape. Penelope is slowly approaching, almost afraid of being able to hurt him further, but aware of the passage of time. She caresses his healthy arm and bends to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth, unable to resist the impulse. Exactly like their first real kiss, and how long they had discussed about, in this year and a half of relationship, the one claimed that it could already considered as a kiss, the other denied it firmly. But was he the one who turned his head or did she had a terrible aim? No one would ever find out.

She rises, watching him breathe for a while. -Luke, my love, you gave me a heart attack.- she reproaches him, feeling, now that she has finally been able to see him, now that she has him before her, the tears pressing to finally be able to free themselves. -I love you so much.- the first begin to flow down her cheeks. -I can't think that I won't be able to sleep in your arms tonight.- she feels the need for contact with his mouth. -It seems to me they've torn my heart from my chest.- she admits, realizing it with a moment's delay. - But it doesn't matter, ok?- she reassures him. -Everything will be fine.- just one more kiss, but the man doesn’t wake up like the princesses do in fairy tales.

Beyond the closed eyelids and the bandages, Luke dreams. He dreams of his best friend (he has decided to consider her such even though she probably wouldn't want to), for which he has a crush (say things the way they are, Luke, a deep and hopeless "falling in love") that tells him how much she loves him and that especially kisses him. The taste of her red, luscious mouth looks so real. The sense of guilt for having betrayed (albeit in a dream) his girl (because he is certain of having a relationship more than life itself) barely brushes him. Exactly five minutes after the entry of Penelope, the Latin agent opens his eyes and gradually regains his sight. He feels a general daze. He understands that he is in a hospital and attributes these sensations to the medications they will have given him. With a twinge that starts from the neck and reaches the little finger of his foot (the pinky toe, Spencer's voice suggests), he manages to turn around just enough to see a figure near him. Blonde, with one of her hands clasped to his left. -Garcia?- he exclaims, weakly, in what is not understandable if it's a question or a simple expression of wonder. The woman smiles at him softly and adds another pleasant pain to his chest. Someone should ban her from smiling like that.

-Hey.- she just says, trying to let go of his hand, but he doesn't loosen his grip, far from it, he seems to cling stubbornly. Penelope gives up easily. She feared only that she could hurt him involuntarily. She doesn't look very good as a nurse, sexy or real one.

Luke tries to catch his breath. -What... what happened?- he asks her, looking away from her to get an overview of his body. -Why am I here?- he is about to rise, but he is too weak to do it.

-You don't need to move.- she warns him with a dirty look. -You had a trauma, I... I don't know the details, they didn't want to tell me.- it would be more correct to say that she didn't ask them, because to discover the reason why Luke got hurt would just pissed her off with him. Hero syndrome. Fuck.

-Oh.- he replies, probably to save oxygen. -And where... where are the others?- the blonde feels a tiny pinch of jealousy (more sorrow) at the thought that he doesn't want to be alone with her for a little while longer. But it only lasts a moment.

-Outside.- then she replies, coming to her senses. -Do you... want me to call them?- Luke frowns.

-I don't know.- he admits, and from the partial movement he makes, she realizes that he would like to be able to scratch his head, like every time he's uncertain. -I'm... confused.- he sighs, letting out some of the frustration and closes his left hand in a fist.

-Hey, don't get upset, you'll see that... you'll be fine.- she says, hearing the same words she said to Morgan, when they shot his wife and before, to herself, when her chocolate thunder was in danger. -It will be (badly, badly, could not be worse) okay.- she jolts , fearing that he may have heard her true thoughts, but once again she realizes that this is not the case, because in reality what comes out is at the same time an internal turmoil.

In fact, Luke smiles. -You're the most positive person I know.- Penelope welcomes this statement with joy.

-Yeah, they've already told me.- so she bends over to stroke his cheek and notices his confusion, or better, what she had already realized before, but now she understands how this doesn't depend just on his injury or the hospital, but more... her. Her presence here. Like he expected someone else in her place. No, they are only remnants of the paranoia that she felt when they were not yet together.

On the face of the man appears a grimace that she has missed immensely (even if technically he did it only the day before). -If I had known... that it was enough to break my head to... make you be nice (kind) with me, I would have done it before.- Luke feels in his bones that he didn't use the correct adjective to define her, but he doesn't try to fix it. The blonde slips her hand off from the male one who was still holding her.

-Hey, I'm very nice with you!- she pretends to be indignant at the accusation, but, flirt with him like in the old days, she doesn't mind at all.

He also seems to think so in a similar way, continuing to tease her. -Yes, the queen of (ice) nice.- she nods, standing up, even against her will. But the rest of the team has the right to visit him too.

-Exactly.- she resists the temptation to caress him, fearing another strange reaction from him. -I'm going to tell the others that you woke up.- but Luke surprises her.

He stretches out his healthy arm to her body. For his sake, the blonde lets herself be captured. -No, wait, stay (for eternity, don’t go away, what is between us it’s forever, forever ever) a little more.- to abandon herself again in the chair next to his bed is definitely the most simple task that she has had to make today.

-Okay.-

As soon as she comes out, she feels the weight of the eyes of others on her. -So, how is him?- this time Matt is the first to speak. She struggles not to turn back to the room she just left.

-Well... pretty (bad) good.- she narrowly manages to avoid the catastrophe. -He wants to see you all.- she announces, forcing her lips to bend in an encouraging smile. She realizes that Lisa has also remained.

-Better if you go two or three at a time, you will not want to shake him too much.- the latter recommends then, caught by personal deformation. Everyone nods, and they decide to split into two groups. First, excusing the cavalry, it's up to the boys. Emily has noticed the concern of agent Simmons, who now considers Luke his best friend. For this reason, she prefers to give them precedence. The other two women agree.

-Hey, brother!- it is a strange effect to see him so stiff and stuck, but he tries not to let him understand what he really thinks, to not add stress.

Luke greets them, raising his left hand slightly. -Matt, Spence. Rossi.- they are placed on each side of the bed, thus avoiding suffocating him.

-That bandage on your head looks really good on you, you know.- the Asian teases him.

The wounded man closes his eyes and gives a little laugh. -You are always so nice.- he comments. -You have no pity not even for the sick man.- he complains, but he doesn’t need to simulate the pain.

-Of course not.- confirms the friend. -So, what did you thinking, man?- he finally asks, giving voice to the common thought.

-What?- he replies in a bewildered and confused tone, but at first they believe it is another play, to continue their teasing.

-To chase the unknown person alone.- finally says Simmons, starting to harbor some doubts, while a fear makes its way into his mind.

-He's right, Luke.- Rossi adds. -The protocol says that you must always be at least in two, for operations of this kind.- since Gideon has gone, there is no one member of the BAU who is older than him, and everyone sees him as a father figure. With Luke, there's even something more. The inner conflicts due to the Catholic faith and military service made them more similar. Moreover, he was the first to want him in the team, and convincing him was certainly not a small thing.

-And it's not even the first time.- Matt insists again, hinting at some glimpses of his concern, hoping that this will encourage him not to repeat the same mistake in the future.

Luke turns his head, with difficulty, from one to the other, more and more desperate. -I... I don't remember anything.- he says what everyone has now realized. -Total black out.- is about to add tabula rasa, but Spencer's comment silences him beforehand.

-It's a fairly normal reaction, considering the trauma you suffered.- he points out with his calm and professional voice that it has always had the power to calm him and at the same time intrigue him.

He pays tribute to him with a weak smile. -If you say so, Dr. Reid.- the man then runs a yawn. Rossi and Matt exchange a look.

-Hey guys, let him rest.- the eldest takes the floor. -We'll be back tomorrow.- after saying goodbye, they leave room for women. This time, not only seniority counts, but also the rank in the FBI.

-Alvez.- Emily calls him formally, hoping that the coldness can make him come to his senses.

-Ma’am.- he replies almost in the same tone.

The brunette approaches his bedside. -What came to your mind?- she asks in turn. -If you were not forced to stay in the bed, I would oblige you.- and she is not joking.

At this point, JJ also comes forward. -Luke, is it possible that having her at home waiting for you in anxiety isn't enough to stop you?- but hers is a different question. -When will you stop to play the hero?- and she doesn't really need an answer. -You scared her to death, and even us.- he nods faintly.

-I know. JJ...- the blonde takes another step towards the bed. -Where is she?- he doesn’t give her the time to formulate an answer, fortunately; or maybe not. -Where is Lisa?- as soon as he pronounces that name, he feels that something is out of tune. The women exchange a look, but Tara, with her expertise, had already feared it.

-Listen, Luke, rest.- Prentiss orders him. -You're a little confused, it's normal.- and he can't do anything but obey.

 A few steps out of the room, the plan has already been defined in detail. JJ takes on the task of informing her friend of the situation. When they return to the waiting room, she immediately identifies them, despite appearing much more worn than usual. -Garcia.- she calls her. The blonde raises her head and seems to emerge from an abyss. Instead she is going to fall even deeper. Among them there is a special bond, but the two blondes have their own communication channel. Just looking at her blue eyes, she understands.

-He is gone (lost), didn't he?- the other remains motionless. -It's not the same Luke.- she says, in a tone so convinced that barely reveals all the despair she feels. -He doesn't remember me.- then, a little laugh. -About us.- she corrects.

JJ reaches out and grabs her hand. -Oh sweetheart, he suffered a bad trauma, it's normal.- she tries to reassure her, but she feels terrible. For feeling relieved because she didn't have to tell her that thing. And to give her false hope. Because the situation is really horrible.

-No, it's not normal!- she protests in fact, wriggling. -It was so difficult, starting a relationship and I... I don't have the strength to repeat everything.- so the blonde understands that she still lacks a piece of the truth. She sighs.

-Penelope, there is something worse .- she begins, making her understand that it would be better if she sat down, positioning herself next to her.

-What?- she asks and doesn’t even seem worried. It is really hard to imagine anything worse than not being recognized by her boyfriend.

-He... Luke believes he is still...- she feels there is no right way to say it -…with Lisa.- she finally exclaims, feeling the need to cry. -He asked for her.- she adds, perhaps because she hadn't killed her enough. -Garcia?- she calls her, but the other one doesn’t reply. She keeps her eyes fixed in the void. -Penelope?- she recovers.

-I'm fine.- she says, getting to her feet and apparently standing on her own legs.

The other blonde follows her. -It doesn't seem that...- but the woman with glasses stops her.

-No, I'm fine, I have to (put the first piece on my coffin) go talk to her.- she announces, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. No kind of specification is required. She has already read her mind.

-You are not...?- she asks anyway, absurdly hoping to be wrong.

But Penelope nods. -If it's the right thing to do, yes.- she simply replicates. -I don't want to lose also the little I have.- the other can do nothing but watch her run away.

She doesn't waste time. She knows where to find her. -Lisa.- she says. The brunette jumps.

-Hey, Penelope, how is...- but she stops before asking the question. And she almost regrets her decision to not visit him personally, perhaps in the group of the girls. After all, despite what there was been between them, she still cares about him.

-He has lost his memory.- the blonde answers, instead of he is gone. Dead, like she had expected. -Only about the last two years.- she wants to specify. -He thinks...- this time she really gets it, no misunderstanding.

-Oh.- she exclaims, only, and again she changed her mind. Luckily she remained faithful to her thought that seeing Luke in a hospital bed would been "strange". That stand aside would be the best thing for everyone.

-Yes.- Penelope nods, and in fact she is not crying, her voice is not shaking, but she seems so devoid of any feeling... -I talked to the doctor, and he says that telling him the truth would be too traumatic, it could even make him regress more.- she continues, avoiding to cross the eyes of the other woman.

The latter pulls back, falling into a chair, in a way not so different from Garcia' a few hours earlier. -You can't ask me such a thing. Penelope, I love you, we're friends, right?- she asks, but it's simply a rhetorical question. -But it was still tough when Luke left me because his mind was entirely occupied by the thought of another woman.- she admits, and it's the first time she does it. She sighs weakly. -Because he didn't want to make the mistake of betraying me even with the body and not just with the mind.- she adds, with a little bitterness. -And he didn't want a beginning like that for your story.- she concludes, in a softer tone. Because it would have been impossible to hate one of them or to envy their love.

-I...- the other woman falters, clearly surprise. -I never knew...- she shakes his head. -He has always made me understood that yours was a shared decision.- Lisa lets out a thin laugh. She is not really surprised to find out. Telling her the full truth would have been like to admit that someone would be hurt because of their breakup. And how could Penelope agreed to be an accomplice of this?

-No, I'm sorry to be the one that tell you, after all this time and right now.- she limits herself to comment, keeping her thoughts hidden in her soul. -So, you understand, I got over it, because I couldn't hate him for being honest and I couldn't even hate you for being... you.- the blonde shakes her hand and she reciprocates. -But pretending to be again his girlfriend...- she shakes her head strongly, denying it firmly.

Penelope begs her. -Please, Lisa, only for a little.- she intertwines their hands, unconsciously putting herself in the typical position of suppliant. -You don't have to do anything more than stay close to him like I would do it in your place.- stay close to him like I would do it in your place. But if she could give Luke all that, he wouldn't leave her for another woman. Of course, she doesn’t say it out loud.

She decides to play a completely different card. -But you, how can you stand there watching me flirt with your boyfriend?- she asks her, though she is aware of her friend's particular character. There is a limit to everything, though! In her place, in reversed parts, would she have been able to stand it? Needless to ask this question also, since she already knows the answer. Categorical no.

In fact, as she expected, the other makes a weak smile. -If this will help him even just a little, I'll make it, somehow.- and she shrugs. As if to say: it doesn't matter if I feel not good, the only thing that matters is that he feels good. That's why Luke was immediately lost for her. How can someone blame him?

But still Lisa is not willing to give up. -And then what should I do?- she asks, without waiting for a reply. -After a few days break up with him, saying that this situation is really too hard for me to face?- she suggests, with an ironic and bitter smile. -So that you can resume your rightful place?- the only thing on which the whole universe agrees.

The blonde takes her head in her own hands. -I don't know, it wouldn't be so simple.- she doesn't allow herself to bask in this illusion.

-Yes, I can imagine.- she nods. She sighs. -Look, Penelope, I'll think about it and I'll give you an answer tomorrow.- her friend grabs both her hands and gives her a brief hug.

-Ok. Thanks!-

 The next morning, it is not a message or a call to wake Penelope, but the deafening sound of emptiness. And the cry of the absence. And that's when she realizes that she has finally found the opportunity to apply a sad, poignant, profound song that she has loved for a very long time. Quickly she finds it in one of her cell phone playlists. The words of the singer, the Spanish accent, keep her company while she wears clothes. Y volveràn los àngeles, a despertarse con tu café, pasara distraída la noticia de nosotros… Y dicen que me servirà, lo que no mata fuerza te da, mientras pasa el sonido de tu voz por la TV, ¡por la radio y el teléfono resonara tu adios…! Learning that idiom that for almost all of her life had proved arcane, had been one of the first things she had done with Luke. And finally, she was able translate and understand the meaning of this song.

She sighs, taking care of Roxy and Sergio too automatically, but no flawless. Luke has been missing for only a day and a half (rectification: five, if she counts the three out for a case), but it seems to have passed much longer. She gets in the car, driving, reaching the hospital. She takes the stairs, because the elevator is too full and she can't wait. Waiting in front of it would mean allowing her thoughts to take off. Too dangerous. Lisa still didn't let her know anything. But when she reaches the room where her boyfriend is staying, she understands what the choice of the brunette was. Luke is partially embraced to the woman, whose face is hidden by her shoulder and hair. ¡De tardas negras! ¡Que no hay tiempo ni espacio y nadie nunca entenderà! Quedarte puedes, porque la vida duele, duele demasiado aquí sin ti, aqui sin ti, aqui sin ti. The door is only ajar, she could almost think of being able to vanish, but to be indifferent to this show is much more complex than expected. -Hey, sorry I didn't want to (Instead I wanted, those arms around her, those eyes that looked at me, they're mine, yes, it was my idea, yours, mine) to disturb.- she says, in a low voice, with a sad tone, crossing the eyes of both.

-No bother.- the man reassures her. But it's Lisa's gaze that is strange.

Reassured by his words, she decides to get closer to the bed. That much to not seem intrusive towards the couple, but enough to feed her wounded heart. -How... how are you?- she asks, dominating, she doesn't even know how, the impulse to stroke his hand. - A little better?- she is forced to grab it with her other one.

-I don't know.- he replies; on his forehead (what is visible) wrinkles appear. -I try to remember, but I can't be able.- he seems angry with himself. He slips his hand from Lisa's and clenches it in fist. And he's so damn nice. She would like to spend eternity tracing each part of his face with her fingers.

Perhaps recognizing the gaze of the blonde, the other woman hastens to intervene. -I told him to give up, for now, but he doesn't want to listen to me.- she reproaches him with a sweet tone. Is she just a good actress? -He's so damn stubborn.- she adds, and this time there's another kind of nuance, more .. malicious? Something that maybe she/Penelope should have said. We can also remove the maybe. But it was she who told her to behave as she would do it. Lisa is following her to the letter.

-Yes.- she nods, but the pain in her chest is so strong that she need to scream. -Well, then I'm going, I just wanted to see (you, because I miss your fingers in my hair in the morning, it's as if they had torn both my lungs from my chest) how you were.- there is only that solution.

 Unbelievable, hard to believe, but another five days have passed since the "brilliant plan of Penelope" got underway. JJ, after struggling with herself for a long time, yields, opening the door of the BAU IT technician's office. The blonde woman doesn’t even turn around to see who has entered. She seems lost in another world.

Aquì yo estoy y tu no estas, y me distrae la publicidad… entre horarios y el trafico trabajo y pienso en ti… entre puerta y teléfono tu foto me hablara! She approaches, fighting against the urge to hug her without even opening her mouth. -Garcia, hey, are you sure you can do it?- the friend turns the chair in her direction. She is not crying, there are no traces of more or less recent tears on her face. But the pain, the real one, the enormous one, has other ways to manifest itself.

-What else could I do?- she replies with another question. -At least I won't have to think every second to (Lisa hugging him, kissing him, embracing him, he tells her he loves her or I never loved anyone more than you) Luke.- surely Jennifer would be the only one to whom she could confide what really passes through her head. The presence of that cursed voice which is part of her ego and which therefore she will never deny. After all, at the time of her parents' accident, it hit perfectly the target.

She sits on the edge of one of the other desks, as Morgan and Luke did before her, of course. -Are you sure this is the best thing?- she asks her, without having to try hard to sound reasonable.

-I don't see what else I can do.- Penelope replies, quickly looking away, as if considering the argument was closed; needless to waste another breath. -Now we can concentrate on the case?- JJ sighs, accepting (only momentarily) the defeat.

-You know that Luke loves you even if he doesn't remember it, don’t you?- Agent Jareau is the only one who can find the right words to disable the protection system she had to install to avoid collapse. Because yes, you can still die for love, even in the 21st century.

It is only thanks to training if she can respond what JJ wants to hear. -Yes, (no) I know.- and not what really dwells in her heart.

¡De tardas negras! ¡Que no hay tiempo ni espacio y nadie nunca entenderà! Quedarte puedes, porque la vida duele, duele demasiado aquí sin ti, aqui sin ti, aqui sin ti.

But JJ certainly didn't buy it. From that moment the counterattack starts.

 The Asian man waits patiently for the camp to be free before greeting her. -Hello, Lisa.- the serious tone and just barely cordial, combined with the penetrating gaze, is enough to make her understand that something is wrong.

She beckons him to enter the room. -Matt, you scared me.- she says, although it's not entirely true. She had already noticed his presence. -What happens?- she crosses her arms.

The man sighs, but he is not one of those who usually dancing around the main topic. His frankness is one of the things that have always made him nice, for her, in the days when... in short, in the prehistory. -I wanted to talk to you about this situation.- he starts, paving the way. -First, when I went to greet Luke, It seemed to me that I saw you two...- he gestures, looking for the right word. Which is not there. -…How can I say? Very close.- he says. Lisa is silent. -A little too much.- he adds, along with a clear look.

The woman steps back a little with the chair. -Well, it's my boyfriend, isn't he?- she replies, trying to sound nice, but too defensively.

Just what Simmons needed to confirm the hypothesis developed with JJ. -Lisa, I always liked you, but Penelope...- pause due to the need to reject the anger towards the whole mess and the thought of the blonde, alone -...I love her so much, that you can't imagine it.- Lisa bites her lips and nods. It's not really that hard to guess, she thinks. -And I wouldn't want her to suffer because of her excessive generosity.- he explains, in an even harder voice, though not entirely on purpose.

-I only did what she asked me.- she replies, raising her hands in a gesture typical of someone who feels guilty. -It wasn't my idea.- she adds, in an almost childish tone, completely new to her, which Matt had never heard her use.

-I know, but you're sure that, when Luke recovers, will you be able to put yourself aside?- he asks her directly. -That's what worries me.- the man opens his arms. -And Penelope worries too, but she would never have come to tell you. You know it.- a slight smile ripples the lips of the Asian, full of affection towards his friend.

Lisa stands up and he imitates her. -You've always been nice to me, that's why I'll tell you the truth.- he's ready for anything. -I don't know.- or maybe not.

He shakes his head, cursing the whole situation. -Do you still feel something for Luke?- then the question changes, though not in substance.

The woman takes a moment to reflect on the answer. -I didn’t think so.- but it sounds bad. -But having to stay close to him, again though, it awakened something in me.- damn, obviously. -And not only in me, if you understand what I mean...- but as they say, there is no limit to the worst. And about this, Matt hadn't really thought of.

He takes a breath. He wouldn't want to go that far. -I can't believe I'm really going to say what I'm about to say.- she just looks at him and her expression doesn't waver at all. -Nobody prepares you for such extreme situations at Academy. Luke loves you, of course.- the "but" is coming. She can already feel it in the air. -But what he feels for Garcia...- Lisa prevents him from concluding.

-I know, it's another thing, right?- a bitter smile. -And if it is really so, it will emerge anyway, if this love is really so great, whatever I do.-

 Finally, after a week and a half of total hospitalization, the news arrives: Luke will be released within a few hours. And this is how another problem emerges, which no one, including the little genius, had taken into consideration. After only three months of relatioship, Agent Alvez had decided to get it all out on the table. He couldn't stand to fall asleep with his fingers wrapped in the gold and wake up with nothing next to him. So, returning from a case, not caring (or perhaps taking advantage of it shamelessly) of the fact that she was still half asleep, he had asked her: why can't we live under the same roof? And she, trembling with fear (but not the one to take this step that she had denied his predecessors, but because responding to him positively was too easy, for someone who had always said she was against) had said yes.

But the woman that Luke expects to find at home is not blonde, doesn’t wear glasses, is not his colleague. And not only. And it is Garcia who proposes the idea, the only solution, during the exceptional meeting of the entire team. Making all her (and their) traces disappear from that apartment. Rossi, JJ and Matt are the first to propose themselves to help her in what seems like a great madness. An absolute error. But they respect her will, because, in effect, finding sheets with unicorns printed on them could give rise to some doubt in Alvez' mind. And if the doctor said it's too dangerous...

While filling the umpteenth box with bad rose novels, Simmons makes another attempt to make her talk. -Are you sure you want to keep these?- and maybe even laugh. In short, to provoke a reaction. They would settle for anything. But the woman doesn’t respond, remains closed in her thoughts, while inside her two different entities are fighting. Y lucho contra el silencio hablando con el, y he limado tu ausencia solo junto a mis brazos… y si me quieres tu ya no me veras, si menos me quieres yo mas estaré allí, y si me quieres tu ya no me veras, si menos me quieres yo mas estaré allí, allí, allí, ¡lo juro!

He doesn't need to be Spencer Reid to understand how the gesture of removing her things from what was her home until the morning before, symbolically amounts to saying that her story with Luke is over. JJ bursts when, while sheets and pillows are being changed, Penelope seems absent from the real world for at least five minutes. It is not difficult, at least for a woman, at least for her best friend, at least for who killed someone to protect her... it is not so complicated to guess what kind of thoughts she is doing. She imagines preparing the bed in which she is aware that her husband will do things, especially sex, with another. A sort of authorized betrayal. And the confirmation comes when the blonde with glasses bursts out laughing without warning. A laugh without joy, which also draws the attention of the two men in the other room.

-Pen...- she calls her, gently, as if she were dealing with one of her sons. But she shakes her head, closing her eyes tightly. -Garcia, this situation has lasted too much.- she says, feeling anger rising. -I can't stand to see you stay like that.- and in the end, she gets what she hoped for. Penelope explodes, talking nonsense, like a madwoman, and frightening them all.

-Like that, Jennifer?- she doesn’t remember the last time she called her by full name. -I'm fine.- no break between one sentence and another. -Luke is fine.- she glances at the anonymous military green sheet. -All (are dead) are fine.- then she starts to fix up, as if nothing had happened. -This is all.- she says. Time goes by too fast. -No, I also think...- she starts to sway -…of having to take a break, a...- and she faints, fortunately, falling right on her bed. JJ exchanges a look with Matt and decides that this is more than she is willing to endure. Rossi signals them with his hand to go and discuss it too. He will stay with his kitten.

-Did you talk to Lisa?- she shoots the question immediately.

And the man also responds promptly. -Yes.- but he doesn’t add fundamental details.

-And what did she say?- but then the blonde lets herself go to a bitter smile. -No, I already understood. Everybody is crazy about Alvez, true?- Matt nods. Their sighs resonate almost together.

-Already. It would have been better to give him the coup de grace.- he says, and he really thinks so. -It couldn't have been worse.- they both chuckle in desperation.

Then the woman voices her true greatest concern. -I think Penelope wants to leave the team. And I don't blame her.- but it's not the same as saying she is willing to accept it.

-Not even I, but we can't allow it.- Simmons says. -How can Luke recover his memory, if she never even show herself?- yes, because after that episode, i.e. the first time she saw them together, hugged, the blonde had decided to stop going to see him.

And JJ knows the reason perfectly. -He's never alone, that's why she never visited him again.- but she doesn't want to hate Lisa. Before this mess, she had never given her reason to do so.

-Ok, so what can we do?- the man doesn’t have problems leaving the command to her.

-We have to tell him the truth.- JJ decides. -I don't see any other solution.- the man nods. -Before they arrive here.- Rossi peeps. -Garcia is now more dead than alive. Nobody knows her as well as me.- by now her blue eyes are shiny. -Morgan will also be her chocolate thunder and Luke her other half, but I'm her best friend.- she says, proudly and fierceness. -And I can recognize every nuance in her eyes.-

Unfortunately, however, fate doesn’t seem to think as them. A terrible case arrives, just what it takes to spur Garcia in the direction of sending her resignation to Prentiss (already filled in every detail). And both Agent Simmons and Agent Jareau are forced to leave.

Luke, of course, is not in a position to follow them. But his special nurse is taking care of him. When he sets foot in his apartment (but he shouldn’t have thought their apartment?) the Latin feels a series of strange sensations. First vertigo. Every room, every piece of furniture seems to have a veil in front of it, the ghost of objects that are not there, like that bookcase, too bare, and in fact seems to be missing something. Phantom limb, suggests that voice, which had given him a respite for a while. He feels something missing, but he is convinced that it's something he never had; indeed, something missing from the whole house, the x hidden in each equation (Penelope, it repeats like the whisper of a spirit). And this thought, even if he doesn't really consider it his own, makes him feel guilty. Because Lisa was so fantastic with him. She has endured all the problems given by the quantity of bandages that cover him; she was been comprehensive and didn't even scold him so hard. And it made him feel good. Kissing her is pleasant. Of course, it is, she's your girlfriend, isn't she? (No, it is not). The scent of her hair and her body makes him feel safe. But... there should never be a but after such a sentence, he thinks, this time with his own internal voice. He has always believed that True Love, for those chosen ones who can experience it, doesn’t know “ifs” or “buts”. Is that why he can't get to sleep? Or because he fears that the woman might inadvertently touch one of his injured limbs? Why does he feel guilty for thinking more about another woman than the one who rests next to him now? Or worse, why he rejected her, using the excuse of pain due to the injuries (But if I were with you I would endure anything), but in reality, why for a moment Garcia's face had overlapped with Lisa's, the taste of her lips had looked different, and even the voice that had spoken his name in a pantomime was different from that of Dr. Douglas? Different, but by no means unknown.

These, that we could call "interferences", are what prevents him from committing the Mistake (necessarily with a capital letter), what would really mark the end of everything.

And he can only stay awake in the dark room, on his back, mulling over what he feels for the blonde. And when, at four thirty-six in the morning, his body (and consequently his mind) surrenders, a song rocks him like a lullaby, despite the words being poignant and full of pain. ¡De tardas negras! ¡Que no hay tiempo ni espacio y nadie nunca entenderà! Quedarte puedes, porque la vida duele, duele demasiado aquí sin ti, aqui sin ti, aqui sin ti. And it should not be added that he dreams that it's Penelope the one who sings this for him, while caressing his face and hair.

The day after the team's return, or three from his return home, Luke suffers a collapse, more mental than physical, which first of all worries Lisa, who decides to send him back to the hospital. This is where the conversation with Matt takes place, which increases the doubts of the Latin regarding what he feels towards Garcia and his decision to break up in any case with Lisa. But doing it now, after how she behaved with him... it would seem ungrateful.

The friend has given him time to reflect on his words, but when he is about to add more, following the plan drawn up with JJ, this latter enters, immediately taking the floor. -Luke, look, are you sure you can handle it?- she asks. Matt understands that the woman is ready to blurt everything and send to hell the consequences.

-Yes.- the Latin nods, scratching his arm, in the healing phase. -I think there's something very important I forgot.- the blonde smiles triumphantly.

-Yes.- she approaches his bedside. -I don't want to be the one to remind you, but... Penelope...- when she is about to say it, Simmons anticipates her.

-She has a crush on you!- he exclaims, with a little too much emphasis. -Yes, it's this.- he says. JJ looks at him halfway between upheaval and anger. He apologizes with his eyes, trying the same things towards himself. Why didn't he let her finish?

At the same time, Luke opens his eyes and mouth in disbelief. -She... for me?- he repeats. - Really?- both nod. -How could I forget such thing...- but JJ has been patient for too long time.

-Yes, but you're engaged to Lisa, aren't you?- she asks, just waiting for an affirmative nod. -So it is hard for her... not to see you happy, no, never think so.- she warns him. -But, in short, put yourself in her shoes. It is as if she had to face all over again.- this sentence can also be interpreted in another sense. -And she doesn't have the strength.- she looks at Simmons, who agrees with her. -This is all you are allowed to know.- she moves, already in the direction of the door.

-So, there's more.- Alvez replies with stubborn tone.

She doesn’t answer him, and beckons Matt to follow her. -Come on, Matt.- it sounds like an order. But the other is not willing to give up.

-No, wait.- he pleads. -She... Penelope, how is she now?- JJ bites his lips. -I would like... I need to (touch her, hug her, hold her to me and melt with her, it’s just us, that collar for Roxy, no it's not good, your abuela called, be careful, Luke, please, I learned Spanish for you, I) seeing her.- he is forced to plug his ears, catching strange looks, for silencing that cacophony of voices in his head.

-The blonde sighs, crossing her arms. -I'm sorry, but... right now she can't.- it sounds categorical, but she only gets to shake him more.

-JJ, what happened?- he jumps on the bed, risking to fall. -You have to tell me.- she can’t know how to get out. -I have the right to know.- and it wouldn't be true, if he weren't her boyfriend. The woman swallows, uncertain, aroused by the possibility of fixing everything. She was going to do it a moment ago, wasn’t she? But maybe Matt is right. Luke has to figure it out alone.

-I can't betray her, and I've already leaked too much.- she replies. -Look for the answers inside you, okay?- after giving him a gentle caress on the cheek, she vanishes, and with her also Matt.

 Less than five minutes later, Lisa finds him trying to figure out how to wear his clothes to leave. -Luke, what the hell are you doing?- she exclaims worriedly. And it happens again. He doesn’t see the Latin brunette, but a shapely blonde with her hair gathered in two childlike braids, not a hospital uniform on her, but a smudged white coat. Too many details affect his different senses. Perfumes and odors; flavors (of her skin, her mouth and other things that make him blush, even if he doesn't notice); warm and soft sensations. Returning gradually to reality, the man strives until he is sitting on the bed. He doesn't even feel pain. Lisa stares at him and seems about to cry. This vision sends him even more short-circuited. He almost sees himself consoling her in a flash... but the woman is not Lisa, no, it's clear, it's Penelope. He's too in love with her to be able to ignore it. Although... too many details to believe that it was just about daydreams. Too realistic. -Oh.- Lisa exclaims, transporting him definitively in the present. He looks at her and she nods. She understood that this time it is up to her to make the generous gesture (even if she can never compare herself to Penelope): she must let him go. -Go to her, room 432, and... Luke, if you can, forgive me.- Luke nods, but in reality, his mind is exclusively focused on the newly acquired datum. A hospital room means that she is also hospitalized here. That's why she never came to visit him. How and for what absurd reason did the team not tell him? How long? What happened to her? Many questions to which he wants to find immediate answers.

 Walking is not so terrible now that the head has stopped spinning. Outside the room he meets Matt, who unexpectedly smiles at him.

-What the hell...?- he starts to ask, to complain, but his friend's gaze tells him that it would all be wasted time. He stares at the door imagining the worst.

-Luke, since you had that, let's call it, "accident"... Garcia barely ate, drank, lived. She practically let herself die.- he informs him, as if he were talking about whatever and the Latin would like to punch him... if he didn't have a bandaged arm and he doesn't needs the other to keep his balance. -If you think you can do it, come in.- he adds, before leaving him alone. Luke sighs and opens the door. Penelope is there, motionless or almost, wires that start from anywhere in her arms. Her fair skin is even whiter. Her glasses are on her bedside table. She is so vulnerable and beautiful (like in the morning, when you spend at least ten minutes watching her rest and you think there is nothing more wonderful in the world). This time he doesn't reject that voice. He sits next to her. The parts are reversed, now it is up to him to watch over her. He caresses her cheek, her hands, and fragments of images start peeping into his mind. However, they don't get the effect of confusing him, as before, like when he was with Lisa and imagined Garcia in her place. In the end, the contact with her body is powerful enough to make him remember. Everything. From his stupid impulsive choice to run after the unknown subject without waiting for Reid, to everything that precedes that moment. He remembers the exact moment when he confessed to Lisa his true feelings. He remembers the sense of guilt for not having told everything to Penelope. And he remembers above all their first kiss, which certainly didn't happen thanks to the courage of one of the two, but by pure mistake. He remembers the way she had looked at him, as if she wanted to apologize but hadn't had the strength. He remembers that, after hearing him declare his love, she asked him in a desperate tone to hold her hand, all night long, because she was afraid. And with memories, awareness also comes. And the understanding of the sacrifice that Penelope, his girlfriend (and finally the two identities agree) made for him. Unable to withstand the blow, he bursts into tears, as hadn’t happened for some time.

His sobs are strong enough to wake the woman. Even if she doesn't wear glasses, she's pretty sure she saw right. Agent Alvez is crying bitterly at her bedside. -Lu... what...- she tries to say, but she's too weak, and she gives up soon. The man realizes that she is looking at him and doesn’t have time to push back the instinct to kiss her. With the few strengths left, she tries to reject him.

Luke doesn't feel bad, knowing what he knows now. -Penelope, my love, you are (everything I have, what I want, what I will ever want, what I don't deserve, what I dream of, the sun, the moon, the stars, the oceans, the mountains, the deserts, the swamps, the forests, the thunderstorms, the universe) awake.- and he could swear to have said it aloud.

She looks at him, more and more confused and lost. -What are you... doing...- the man caresses her cheek and then brushes her lips.

-Shhh, it's all right, now, I'm here, I'm back.- the last word is enough to make her understand everything. Even if she is terrified of believing it. She wouldn't come out alive of it if she was wrong.

-You're back.- she repeats, while her eyes begin to produce tears.

Luke leans over her. -Yes, I came back to you.- Penelope smiles and closes her eyes again, maybe she thinks it's a hallucination, maybe she just wants to enjoy the warmth of his breath on her forehead. But then she suddenly opens them again.

-But Lisa...- he shakes his head. Pause. -You chose me.- she says, as if struggling to believe it possible. But basically, she felt the same thing even when she woke up with his arms around her waist every morning.

-I'd always choose you.- he says, firmly. -At any time, in any condition, in any parallel universe.- neither of them really stopped crying. -I can't believe what you did for me, or rather, I believe it, but...- but Penelope needs to know one thing first.

-Are you sure it wasn't better to stay with Lisa?- she asks, something she always wanted to ask him, but she never found the courage because... she feared an affirmative answer that would have sent him back from the other woman. -I know you said she's perfect.- she adds, as a kind of justification.

Luke doesn’t deny. -And she is... but you know what? Love is not perfection.- the healthy hand flows through her hair. -Anything but that. Love also includes suffering, it is not being equal, but finding a way to fit stuck together.- he smiles at her and she cannot avoid imitating him. -And you're my convex half.- a new way to say to fall madly in love with.

-For me... For me what matters...- she swallows -the only thing that matters... for me, it's that you're happy. That you are well. Your happiness.- the man nods, but then changes expression.

-At your expenses?- he asks, but it's a question he already knows the answer to. - Penelope, never do something like that again, no, don't look at me with that little face, I'm not scolding you, but look, look what you you're done to yourself.- he points to her body and the drips in her arms. -A trivial phrase: you are my happiness. Nothing else. And if you're not happy, how can I be so?- she sighs, letting Luke dry her face with his fingers.

-Now... I’m.- she says, in a dazed voice for the medicines and the various shortcomings. -Could you just... hold my hand until I fall asleep?- he nods, while the last piece goes to the right place in his memory. This is how their story began, the first time; it couldn’t but start again in this way.

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[antiquecompass]

Untamed Fest Day Twenty-Eight: Light/Dark

This was not the first Lan Academy fundraiser Lan Sizhui had attended. Nor would it be his last. It was, however, the first where he was expected to be one of the family hosts, standing in the official greeting line for their wealthy donors. 

This version of the traditional Lan garb was even more elaborate than what he wore to his graduation. He actually needed Jingyi’s help to smooth down all the layers and thread his hair and forehead ribbon through the headpiece.

He was so very jealous of Jingyi is his simple black tux.

“Aww, you poor little heir to a massive family fortune,” Jingyi teased as he smoothed down Sizhui’s hair and placed a kiss behind his ear.

“If I hadn’t been adopted, you’d be in this position right now.”

“I don’t like to think of that version of events,” Jingyi said as he wrapped his arms around Sizhui’s waist. “We never would’ve met.”

Sizhui didn’t like to think of that either, though part of him felt they’d still have found a way, even with the world between them.

He studied them in the mirror, Jingyi’s dark to his light, tall to his...not tall, Jingyi’s new short haircut to Sizhui’s long locks. A study in contrasts to outsiders, but so much of their lives and who they were as themselves, were tied up in each other. 

“I love you,” Sizhui said.

Jingyi’s smile was brilliant--loud--lively, just like him. “I love you too,” he said, voice and eyes soft. 

His arms tightened around Sizhui. “Don’t worry. In a few years, I’ll have to join you officially in the greeting line nonesense. Right now I’ll live comfortably in this tux for both of us.” He breathed into Sizhui’s ear, a tease for later. “But you do look fucking gorgeous. Like something otherworldly. A god of the clouds.”

**********

The greeting line for these fundraisers was the only time Sizhui saw his dad, usually in dark tones for work and formal events, in the white Lan robes. He was currently holding up the line, so many donors eager to talk to the ‘famous writer Wuxian Wei’ and it did the Lan Foundation good to so clearly display his connection to their family and name. Dad only picked one Lan Fundraiser a year to ‘don those mourning clothes,’ and each one always saw a spike in donors and attendees when his official presence was announced.

This year’s greeting line also held another surprise. Uncle Cheng, officially married in now for over a year, stood next to Uncle Xichen, looking even more commanding in his own set of white and light blue Lan robes than Great-Uncle did. Sizhui studied him closer, smiling to himself as he found the hint of a light lavender under robe. He might be married to a Lan now, but Uncle Cheng would <i>always</i> be the proudest of Jiangs. 

He turned his attention back to the donor line. Endured too many pinches to his cheeks and pats to his hands, as long-time members of the Board and annual donors complimented him on growing up so well, graduating high school, getting into college. Most were polite; some were a bit too probing in their questions of whether or not he was still dating that one Lan, the loud one. Every single time he was asked that his eyes flicked up to find Jingyi across the room, making faces at him and trying to get him to break his composure. Sizhui always happily assured the questioner that yes, he was still dating that Lan; yes, the loud one. 

Finally a very familiar face came through the line.

“Zizhen!” Sizhui said.

Zizhen had gone back home after the final graduation party. He had things to handle with his family business, and all the arrangements needed for his move to New Haven. They’d talked of course, plenty of FaceTime sessions and unending group chats, but life had been a little less brighter without Zizhen around.

He looked every inch the Ouyang heir now. His tux was tailored and fitted, making him look years older than eighteen. He wore a dark red tie in the Ouyang colors, with a gold tie pin featuring the family crest. It hadn’t been that long since they’d met in person, not really, but it looked like Zizhen had aged by years.

Zizhen was still Zizhen though, and gave him a soft smile and a warm hug as he pulled Sizhui close.

“Look at you, the Lan Heir!”

“Look at you,” Sizhui said.

Zizhen dropped his head, a blush staining his cheeks. “My parents felt it was best for me to start making myself known at society events. I figured I’d start here.”

“Don’t spend too much of tonight trying to build those social and business connections. We have plans for this weekend, remember?”

Zizhen nodded. “I do. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.”

Now Sizhui was the one holding up the line, so he let Zizhen go, keeping an eye on him until he’d escaped the greeting line. Jin Ling and Jingyi immediately crowded around him, stealing him away before anyone could even get the chance. They caught the eye, Jingyi in his dark tux, Jin Ling, in the lighter creams and golds of the Jin family’s traditional dress, and Zizhen, towering above them both, red tie stark and noticeable.

“Oh, what handsome young men,” Mrs. Ritter said as she followed Sizhui’s eyes. “Though not as precious as you, dear,” she said. And then pinched his cheek.

*********

When Sizhui had first heard he’d have to learn how to formally dance in the Lan robes, he remembered laughing and saying it was impossible. It had felt impossible at the time, being years behind his Lan cousins who had been forced into the uniform for formal family events since they could walk. There was too much fabric to keep account of, too worried he was going to trip on his robes, or the trailing ends of his forehead ribbon, or his partner’s feet. 

Now he did it with ease, though he still envied Jingyi and his tux. 

“Swing your partner, do-si-do,” Dad said as he cut in between them, stealing Jingyi away and leaving Sizhui with Papa.

“You’ve done well tonight, Sizhui,” Papa said as the next dance started. “You do the family proud.”

It was effusive praise coming from his papa. Where once Sizhui would try to deny it, head bent and face flushed red, forever worried he’d be found lacking as a Lan, now he accepted it with grace and a nod. 

The Lans had made their choice. They’d chosen him. And he would honor that choice.

Even if it meant what felt like miles of fabric and a hairpiece that weighed a ton.

Papa smiled. “You’ll only have to present yourself like this a few times a year. Your uncles will advise you on the best calendar. They’re far more familiar with the social events in Boston than we are.”

Sizhui was worried about having to attend those, representing both sides of his family, mostly on his own. But he’d have Jingyi.

“Nie Huasiang has requested to help you expand your wardrobe. It would do you and Jingyi well to follow his advice.”

Sizhui did not wince. He would not show weakness, but he had to know when it was coming. 

“And when will that happen?”

“You have two weeks to prepare yourself,” Papa said. “He’ll only encourage Jingyi to explore his more colorful clothing tastes, so it’ll be up to you to try and rein them in.”

Sizhui would need help with that; one of the two he could handle. Both? He absolutely needed a lifeline. Dad would only encourage them, Uncle Cheng would be busy, Mr. Mo might be of assistance, but he also had more fantastical clothing tastes than all of them combined. 

“I’ll see if Cousin Ning is available,” Sizhui said.

“A wise decision,” Papa said. He smiled at something over Sizhui’s shoulder. “I believe we’re about to be interrupted again.”

“It’s just a jump to the right, and a step to the right,” Dad said as he stole Papa away again.

Jingyi laughed as he stumbled into Sizhui’s arms. “I think he’s finally cracked. Though it was hilarious when he tried to cut between Cousin Xichen and Uncle Cheng.”

“Really?” Sizhui asked as he guided them off the dancefloor.

“Before Uncle Cheng could enough open his mouth, Cousin Xichen just looked at your dad and said ‘no.’ I’ve never seen him back away so quickly in my life. I’ll cherish that moment until my end of days.”

Jingyi rested his head against Sizhui’s shoulder once they found their table. “I don’t know how you still have that smile on your face. I’m exhausted.”

“It’s all a lie,” Sizhui said. “I can’t wait until this is over. My head is aching.”

Jingyi checked his watch. “Just a few more hours there, Cinderella. Then your carriage will once again be a pumpkin and you can go back to your t-shirt and sweats norm.” He patted Sizhui’s thigh. “How are those glass slippers working out for you?”

“Keep it up and I <i>will</i> abandon you for some random handsome stranger.”

“No, you won’t,” Jingyi said.

“Fine, not a stranger. Zizhen. He looks like a fine, respectable gentleman.”

“Yeah, if you want your cousin to stab you with one of his arrows, you do that,” Jingyi said.

Sizhui shot up. “What?” he hissed.

“Oh come on,” Jingyi said, voice pitched low. He gestured to the outdoor balcony where Jin Ling and Zizhen were talking. “Surely you recognize the signs by now. Your little cousin’s got himself a big old crush.”

“Holy shit,” Sizhui said as he thought over the last few months. “Does Zizhen know?”

“I doubt it,” Jingyi said. “And even if he did, Zizhen wouldn’t say anything to embarrass Jin Ling.” He took Sizhui’s hand. “Opposites attract and all that. Maybe, in a few years, once Jin Ling’s matured, and isn’t, you know, sixteen, maybe it’ll become something. Who knows what Zizhen’s life will be like then. He could turn out like Uncle Cheng, not really dating until his late-20s. Or, considering his family, he could already have some pre-arranged thing going on to keep his company’s shareholders off his back. You know Zizhen doesn’t like to talk about that stuff. Not with us, at least.”

With them, Zizhen liked to be normal. So, Sizhui would let it rest for now, but he’d be sure to pay far more attention in the future.

“Come on,” Jingyi said. He held out his hand. “One last dance.”

[justinsdaysinthedark]

Post #9 - Metotrex-HATE

August 20th: Life’s funny sometimes. When it’s going easy, you cruise through and enjoy all the good times. It’s easy. It’s like playing a video game on speed run. On the flip side, when life’s difficult, time slows down to a fraction of normal. You drag through hour by hour, looking for when some positivity will come.

My past week has been so incredibly tough. I never felt like a cancer patient before, but as bad as it is to say, I certainly do now.

I wrote in my last blog that “Day 10 is when things pick up again volume wise and from them until the finish, I'll basically be on a drip 24/7 and constantly have to be monitored - totally different to these first five days.” My god I couldn’t have been more correct.

Day 10 of my treatment started about 3:30pm on August 9th and was a 24hour chemo drug called Metotrexate. I was on this drip for 24 hours and I had no idea what it was going to do or how it was going to leave me. I do now!

This drug finished around 3:30pm on Saturday August 10th with the aim of it to kill my immune system and blood cells and leave me a walking corpse...and no surprise, that’s exactly what it did.

Last week, starting from as soon as the Metotrexate finished I was so incredibly sick. It’s hard to explain, but I’d definitely take the flu over what I just experienced...and I’m still not through the woods yet. The first few days weren’t too bad, I was simply tired with no energy. I slept during the day and night. I had no motivation to get up, move or do anything. So I didn’t. I slept.

The next few days things started to get worse and worse. Picture this, one day you’re perfectly normal with normal temperatures and heart rates. The next day, your temperature soars above 40 degrees and your heart rate is constantly sitting dangerously between 125-140BPM. This second part was me for the next few days. The scariest moment was last Wednesday when Courtney was here. I was sitting in the seat next to my bed, just sitting. Doing nothing. The nurse comes into do my observations and I start to sweat and feel weak. My heart rate is sitting at 145BPM, temperature at 40.3. I feel like i’m going to pass out, I actually think I do. The nurse demands Courtney to press the emergency button and everybody comes rushing in. This is what was my first of three Medical Emergency Calls (Medcall) for the 48 hour period. It was scary. Fortunately, my resident haematology doctor Adam was working late for whatever reason and took charge of the Medcall. Once I’d ‘come to’ slightly, Adam asked if I could move to my bed. It legitimately wouldn’t have been any more than a metre if that but it seemed like he’d asked me to run three in cricket - something we all know is never going to happen! I got up and staggered across and fell onto bed and by then, an announcement was on the loudspeaker.

“Medcall Adult, Monash Medical Centre. Ward 44. Haematology”

Before I knew it, I had 25 people in the room and was getting hooked up to an ECG machine. It truly was scary for me. Courtney was a trooper though. She stood in the corner and watched what was unfolding. In a way, I think we were both settled at the fact my resident doctor Adam lead it from start to finish. If he wasn’t there, who knows how we’d both have been.

It happened again another two times - both 7am and 7pm the next day. These two were far less scary because I knew what to expect.

At this stage, it’s Thursday August 15 and I am at the lowest of low. My mouth, throat and stomach are ravaged with ulcers. Something I don’t think I was ever going to avoid! I’m not hungry. I can’t eat due to these ulcers and drinking is near impossible.

I’m in incredible pain, all over. I have no immune system or anything to fight infection - which I was obviously getting with all my fevers. The pain team came around to see me and suggested I went on both Ketamine and Oxycodone to help with the pain. I was in no state to argue, so that I did. Boy oh boy did these give me two days of hallucinations though! Spiders climbing across the walls, people surrounding me talking when I slept; it was such a throw around.

All whilst this is happening, my hair is starting to fall out. Something I knew would eventually occur but never expected it to actually happen. It was bad. I was pulling chunks of hair out of my hair and beard. It was surreal. Alas, mum came in to cut my hair and Courtney brought in my razor to give it a shave. Both were tough tasks feeling so unwell, but we got there in the end.

Saturday August 17th around 2:30pm is when I started to pick up a little bit. I was able to sit up out of bed and try and entertain a conversation. Everyday since then has gotten better and better, albeit incredibly slowly. That puts us at today. I’m up out of bed, sitting next to my window writing a blog - something that was a world away a week ago! Only mum, dad and Courtney would understand as they have been there everyday through my lowest.

How am I today? I’d be lying if I said I were great however I’m the best I have been in a fortnight. I still have mouth ulcers and still struggle to swallow tablets and drink water. I expect this to go over the next two days - there’s just one ulcer at the back of my throat that is giving me grief. As a result, I’ve been taking a routine mouthwash three times a day to numb my mouth. The Peter Mac mouthwash, a cocaine based liquid followed by a lignocaine gel. Between these three, I’m able to ‘clean’ my mouth, numb the ulcers and make it bearable to either eat yoghurt and take my tablets - but trust me, it is still incredible tough.

Today marks Day 20 of my 16 Day treatment and as soon as my white blood cells return to a normal count, I’ll be allowed to go home for a few days before I start my next round of treatment next week. Apparently the white blood cells need to be 1-1.5 and mine were at 0.3 yesterday and 0.5 today. Hopefully, just hopefully my bone marrow kicks into gear over the next day or two and I’ll be home towards the end of the week - that’s the goal anyway! I’ve been hooked up to a drip 24/7 for the past 11 days and quite frankly, I’m over having a buddy to take everywhere. I can’t change my shirt so I’ve had to wear the same shirt for three or four days in a row. For those that know me, should know I love being clean. So that’s killed me. It’s also made showering hard, but no impossible. It just depends on my mood. I’ve been here 38 days straight and it’s just starting to get to me. What I’d do for a few days at home is a killer.

I spoke to my Doctor Adam yesterday who advised September 22nd was in the realms of possible for me to get to the fundraiser those closest to me are organising. A day that I’m really looking forward to and I just hope I can make it. Details are below.

That’s about it from me for now, hopefully this explains why I’ve been M.I.A for so bloody long. I have left out a lot of other details and touched over the basic stuff...so just trust me when I say this Chemotherapy and cancer business certainly isn’t easy! Until next time,

Much love.

Juzz xx

[monstersheithzine]

Beep beep can we have an update 😊

Hi there!  Okay, buckle in, because I’ve got a lot for you guys!

All merch, with the exception of the pouches, has been delivered to me!  (Stickers just got here today, actually).

As I’m learning, it’s generally a wise idea to avoid producing things around the holiday season: our pouch supplier was unable to take our order prior to the Chinese New Year, and that supplier is closed until the Lunar New Year ends.  Unfortunately, given that this supplier produced high quality products at a low cost and MOQ, finding another is not an option within the budget, and we’ll need to wait until their vacation ends to place the order.  It shouldn’t, however, take too long to get to us; we should almost certainly receive them before the books (see #3).

Also unfortunately, our original printer fell through due to the explicit nature of the project.  Although they said they have occasionally done erotica projects before, they decided to pass on this one (maybe the tentacles put them off?  they’re not for everyone I guess!).

Additionally, our pinch hitter ashinan had to drop the project due to a trojan virus locking all of their files and them losing their fic.  Fortunately, the wonderful @abyssiniana volunteered to step in and pinch hit!  All fic has been completed and is safe in our google drive, and the (physical) PDF is complete as well!  (I didn’t want to announce this until it was completed, just in case it got jinxed again…)

I have been very busy over the past couple weeks submitting quote requests to other printers, and have received some back.  This, however, has some of the same problems as #2: several of these printers are located in China, and were unable to provide quotes once we received our final print count due to the Lunar New Year vacation.

We do have a fallback printer, who has printed very good (and fast) quality work in the past; however, he does not provide holo foil options for the cover.  If the holo feature falls through, we’ll use him!  Still, we’re working incredibly diligently to get this feature for the covers, and while we have found some reasonably-priced options, the turnaround for those options are 6-10 weeks, and we would much rather find a supplier with a shorter turnaround.  I’ve had a lot of luck with suppliers on Alibaba, but see #2 and #5.

Additionally, many of these potential suppliers have a minimum order quantity of 500 books per order; however, the pricing is such that we may actually pay less for 500 with these suppliers than, say, 250 with other suppliers.

In the event that we do place an order of 500 books, we will be reopening a second round of preorders for the physical copies only, though we may look at adding some sort of a merch stretch goal for all orders (that won’t delay shipping, of course) if we sell a certain amount of secondary copies. ;)

As soon as we receive the remainder of our requested quotes, we’ll determine a supplier and place the order the same day, as well as let you guys know.

I apologize for the delay in updates!  I wanted to make sure that we weren’t going to run into any further technical difficulties with our zine content after announcing it, but now that it’s all been wrangled and completed, all we’re doing is waiting on suppliers.

TL;DR: Trying to get holo foil; current printing options can take up to 10 weeks.  Don’t want to wait that long, so in touch with alibaba printers who won’t be able to give us a firm turnaround time for another week or so.  Will evaluate quality and turnaround time options for zines once we receive our quotes, and place order the same day as well as update you guys on the news.  Have a few promising options so please bear with us!  May cost less to order 500 books with one supplier than 250 with another.  Will hold a second round of preorders if we order the 500.

Thanks so much for your patience!

EDIT: To be clear, the second round of preorders WILL take place while the zine is being printed, and will be limited to a certain amount of zines.

EDIT 2: Going back through previous posts, I did see where I had stated that all merch orders had been placed, but in this reply I said that our pouch supplier hadn’t taken our order, and wanted to clarify for transparency!  At the time, we had received our quote and finalized what we wanted from the order, including sending our images over, and fitting them to the template, but our supplier, uh, didn’t get back to us for a while.  So while we haven’t paid, we had “put in” the order.  So these two things don’t contradict!