#he loves the new house he and Bernie run around and up and down the stairs all the time it’s good

[cowboykakashi]

We moved into a new house that has a balcony so now his lordship can watch over us from on high

[enhashoutout]

Tears and Matching Tattoos (Ice x reader)

I am and will always be a Nessa Barrett enthusiast

Genre: Angst

Trigger Warnings: typical H&L violence, jealousy (please let me know if I missed anything)

I use fem pronouns and descriptions because that is what is easiest for me but if you do not identify with that, please feel free to change that as you read to fit you :)

I'm not sure I 100% like this story, but I'm trying to get out of the habit of being a perfectionist and just allowing myself to publish everything even if I don't think it is perfect so that I have a record of my works to look back on and improve upon.

The one where you’re still in love with Ice even after he’s moved on.

𝕀𝕗 𝕀 𝕕𝕠𝕟'𝕥 𝕘𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦, 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕜 𝔾𝕠𝕕 𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕠𝕠𝕤 𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕝𝕚𝕗𝕖

✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁

Ice was your first love, and you were his. You spent a good amount of your life not only being his first love but also his best friend. You were there for him through thick and thin. There for all his highs and his lows. You spent so much time together, you guys also fell apart. Today, it suddenly felt like everything you went through meant nothing.

You had split because Ice said that he didn't feel the same way anymore; feeling like you guys would be better if you guys went back to just being friends like when you guys were kids. That's okay, he had a lot on his plate, and some people just fall out of love sometimes. You weren't always lovers, you could go back to that again, right? He went back to friends, you pretended. It's hard going back to being friends when you literally live in the same house as the person you love. Being a part of Mighty Warriors was suddenly like shooting yourself in the foot. You were around Ice ALL. THE. DAMN. TIME. How does anyone move on like that?

Then, Sarah came along. Mighty Warriors had saved the poor girl from getting kidnapped by Doubt. Ice allowed her to stick around, and she became part of the group. Being the only two women on the team should've brought you closer, but it never did. You could see it, it was happening. Ice was moving on. He liked Sarah, he said and did the same things to you when it was you. The only difference is that this time they would last, something you didn't have the luxury of knowing. It wasn't Sarah's fault or her intention, but it did make you hold a secret grudge against her.

You were wallowing in your bedroom, figuring out how to improve upon the track Bernie gave you when Ice burst into your room.

"Well damn, at least knock. Did you need something before tonight's performance?"

"Yeah, can you look at this real quick?"

"Sure." You had answered him thinking he needed you to look at a track or a new styling choice for tonight's performance, but it wasn't either of those. From his back pocket, Ice pulled out a velvet box. He opened it up and showed it to you, a ring.

"Do you think Sarah will like it? I'm gonna propose to her tonight in the middle of Funk Jungle."

You were stunned. You didn't think this day would arrive so soon, and yet here you guys are.

"I- wow. I think the ring looks great. I'm sure she's gonna love it."

"I love her. For once, I'm nervous."

"Come on Ice, why be nervous? It's not like she's gonna say no. She's gonna say yes. She's going to absolutely love the ring, and she's going to absolutely love you."

"Thank you, you're the best. You always know what to say."

"That's my job as your best friend who actually has a brain unlike the rest of Mighty isn't it?" The two of you laughed.

"I'll see you downstairs for your set."

"You bet."

Ice exited your room, closing your door. All you could do was stare at the spot he once stood in. Tears began running down your face. It's been a while since you guys broke up, and a while since Ice and Sarah were together, so this should've hurt less. Should've, but here you are, crying at the news. You couldn't hate either of them, but you did hate yourself for holding onto feelings that were no longer reciprocated. You fixed your makeup and went back to looking at the track Bernie gave you to keep your mind off of everything.

Later that night you stood with Bernie behind his set up, dreading the moment the proposal would happen. It seems like Ice didn't tell anyone else but you, knowing that one of the guys would probably accidentally let the surprise slip to Sarah.

In the middle of Ice's performance, he told Bernie to cut the music for a second. He walked to Sarah where she usually sat on the side, bringing her to the middle of the dance floor. The spotlights focused on the couple. Ice got down on one knee, and into the mic asked "Sarah, will you marry me?" She was thrilled, shouting yes. He picked her up in a hug and spun her, telling Bernie to continue where the track left off. Everyone in the club was shouting and celebrating the two, everyone but you. Bernie noticed this. Aside from Ice, the other Mighty member you were closest to was Bernie. He was the only other person in the group whose brain could process deeper emotions.

Bernie pulled you away from the noise. "Hey, you okay?"

"After everything we've talked about Bernie, how do you think I feel?" you mumbled.

"Like shit obviously but I figured it wouldn't hurt to ask."

"I'll be fine. I'll cry for a while and then I'll be good. I've held out for this long, what's a little more right?"

"Will you be okay? I'm being serious. I don't want you in a place that's causing you pain."

"I don't get to have him but thank god matching tattoos last for life right? I'm heading back, tell the others I wasn't feeling good okay?" Bernie nodded.

You left Funk Jungle and headed back home. In your room, hidden away from everyone else you cried. It's alright, Ice can love her even after he broke your heart. It would be cruel to wish anything other than the best for him. Part of you wished everything was a lie, but the other part of you hoped that your heartbreak brought him the love he deserved. You looked at the matching tattoo you had with Ice on your arm. It had started as a couple's tattoo, switching its meaning when you had broken up. Now it was just a matching best friends tattoo, but in your mind where no one else could see, you could look at the tattoo and remember the time when Ice once loved you.

✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁✫☼☾☁

You reached the end! Thank you so much for reading this little blurb. It's not the best thing I've written or my favorite but I figured I can publish it and use it for improvement moving forward.

I read on the post here on Tumblr that Ice and Sarah get married in the H&L manga series so I wanted to write something to go along with that.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

Please don't take my work and repost it anywhere or take credit for it. Writers work hard on their stuff so please don't be a crappy human.

Random question, are there any H&L characters you guys want to see more stories for?

[evening-starlight]

Survival Mode

After a messy fight, Britney falls into a survival state of mind.

T/W: Mentions of traumatic past, fighting, yelling, cursing, mentions of alcohol.

_____

    Britney looks at Chris over the counter, horrified by the words he just said. "Are you fucking serious, Christopher?" She seethes. "We have been non-stop fighting for weeks, and you think having a damn party is a good idea?"

    Since Chris came back from filming his new movie three weeks ago, they have been at each other's throats. Everything Britney did was wrong or annoying. One fight was brought on just because she was chewing too loud. All Britney wanted was to enjoy her time with Chris after not seeing him for months, but everything turned into a fight with them.

    "We've had this planned for months, Britney," Chris retaliates, throwing his hands up. "It's like you don't even listen to me anymore. You act like I'm doing this for me when you're stupid friends are coming too."

    "My stupid friends?" Britney yells, walking away from Chris. "Jesus fuck, Chris. Tell me how you really feel about my stupid friends." Chris sighs and pulls at his hair.

    "It's not fucking like that, Brit. There you go again, presuming shit." The anger boils hotter in their veins. Both of their faces grow red, and their breath elevates. "Can we not have a fucking civil conversation anymore, Britney? I don't even know how to talk to you anymore. Everything I do is wrong and irritating to you." Chris continues to yell, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

    "What are you fucking talking about?" Britney yells louder, throwing her hands in the air. "You started a fight because I was breathing too loud one night. Who are you to say that you irritated me when you slept on the couch?"

    The need to run in Britney was getting stronger with every harsh word exchanged between the two. She was so tired of fighting with Chris every time she showed her face that she might as well not live in his house anymore.

    "Whatever, Chris," She huffs, making her way past Chris and towards the front door. "Have fun at your stupid fucking party and call me when you're ready to have a "civil conversation" as you put it." Britney continues to snap as she grabs her keys from the hooks.

    "Where the hell do you think you're going, Britney?" Chris yells, following his girlfriend to the front. Britney turns around and glares at Chris.

    "Away from here," She yells, opening the door front to leave. Chris growls and rushes forward. He slams the door harshly, rattling the pictures on the wall and causing Dodger to perk up from the couch in concern.

    "The hell you are. We have guests coming over. What would everyone think if you weren't here?" Chris yells, keeping his hand firmly on the door and towering over Britney. She cowers underneath him as his hot breath hits her square in the face as he continues to yell at her.

    The unbridled anger in his eyes was terrifying. Britney had never seen him so upset over anything before. And the fact that she was the cause of that anger made something inside Britney snap.

    A cold, dark feeling rushes through Britney as Chris inches closer, continuing his tirade. She could feel the spit coming from his foul mouth, hitting her in the face. Like a light switch, Britney changes from a scared, cowardly girl into an emotionless faker.

    Chris must have seen the switch because he backs away and looks Britney over. "You're right. I'm sorry," She apologizes, plastering on a fake smile. "We can talk about this when the party is over, okay? Let me go get ready, and I'll help you set up after," She says before turning on her heel and making her way upstairs to the bathroom.

    Her breaths are shaky as she changes into a yellow sundress as quickly as she could. The flashbacks won't cease as Britney looks at herself in the bathroom mirror. Sleepless nights, bruises, and slammed doors replay in vivid colors. Her face won't show it, but her insides are in extreme turmoil.

    The flips her stomach was doing enough to make a rookie throw up on the spot. But this wasn't Britney's first time feeling like this. When Britney first started dating Chris, she thought she had escaped her past. That was one of the most naive things Britney ever thought.

    Once her makeup was on, Britney made her way downstairs with a fake smile and pep in her step. "What do you need help with, Babe?" She asks, voice lace with such fake enthusiasm even she thought it was real.

    Chris looks back at her quickly before going back to setting foods out for their guests. "I got it," He says with a flat voice. Britney comes up behind Chris and rests her head on his back to ease his tension. He shakes her off with a low huff.

    Before Britney can ask Chris anything, there's a knock on the door, startling the couple. "Can you get that?" Chris asks, refusing to look at Britney.

    "Already on it, Babe," Britney chirps, skipping to the front door. She swings it open to see Scott and Lisa with a pack of Chris's favorite beer. "Hey guys," She greets, welcoming them in.

    Soon after, a steady trickle of their friends begins until everyone is hanging around the house or the back yard. Britney stays close to Chris, afraid, if she leaves his side, it'll lead to another fight. She laughs at all the jokes and puts on her best fake attitude.

    Chris tips his beer back, getting the last of the alcohol out. The couple was sitting outside surrounded by a few of their friends. "Oh, Babe, do you want another?" Britney asks, already grabbing the empty bottle from him.

    "I can get it," Chris says, already getting out of his lawn chair. Britney shakes her head with the same smile that's been plastered on her face for the last two hours.

    "Nonsense. I'll get it," Britney waves off, walking away before Chris can protest. Shannon, Britney's best friend, follows closely after.

    "What happened?" Shannon interrogates once the girls are alone in the kitchen. Britney looks back and shrugs.

    "I have no idea what you're talking about, Shan," Britney lies. It was her survival mode in full throttle. Her brain didn't know what a threat was and what wasn't anymore. But she sure as hell was faking it well. Shannon raises an eyebrow and places a hand on her hip. "What?"

    "Don't what me, Berny. I know something happened. You've had the same stupid smile plastered on your face all night. I know you better than that. So, what happened?" Shannon knew Britney like the back of her hand. Sometimes better than Britney knew herself. Britney sighs and checks around for anyone listening in.

    "Chris and I have been fighting since he got home. Before everyone showed up, he slammed the door before I could leave," Britney explains in a hushed tone. Her barrier was slowly coming down, but she couldn't cry in front of all her friends. Shannon gasps and holds onto Britney's arms.

    "Did he hurt you? Because I swear to God," Shannon starts, the protective side of her coming out. Britney shakes her head quickly.

    "No. Oh, God, no. Chris would never touch me like that," Britney says. "But that was so un-Chris-like I don't know what to do," She continues, sucking in deep breaths so she doesn't break down in the middle of a party in her kitchen.

    The girls go silent as they hear someone enter the kitchen. Britney's eyes find the floor when Shannon turns around to see who it is. "Can I have a second?" Chris asks, sending Britney back into her survival mode. Shannon looks at Britney for permission to leave, to which Britney nods.

    "I'm sorry, I have your beer right here, Hun," Britney says when Shannon leaves, handing the bottle to Chris. "I got distracted with Shannon," Britney starts to excuse. Chris sets his beer on the counter behind Britney and pulls her into a tight, grounding hug. "Oh," Britney exclaims, slowly wrapping her arms around Chris's middle. "What's this for?"

    "Do I need a reason to hug my sweet girlfriend?" Chris asks, resting his cheek on her head. Britney shrugs. This wasn't what she was expecting, but it was a pleasant surprise. "I'm sorry," Chris whispers, voice cracking at the end. "I shouldn't have gotten so cross with you and should have given you time to cool down. It was so unfair of me, and I hope you can forgive me."

    Those were the words that made Britney lose it. She hugs Chris tighter and starts to sniffle. It was all that she ever wanted to hear in her past, and finally, someone was saying it to her. Someone who loved her more than anything to suck up their pride and ego and apologize when he was in the wrong. Britney pulls away and looks up to the sky, willing the tears away. She wasn't going to ruin her makeup look over something as silly as an apology.

    Chris smiles down at her kindly and waits for her to get control over her tears. He knew how much she loved her expensive mascara. "When everyone leaves, I would love to sit down and talk things out with you. Civilly," Chris says. Britney nods and hugs Chris again.

    "I would really love that, Chris."

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 22

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

“Five, four, three, two, one, Happy New Year!”

Auld Lang Syne erupts from the speakers at the Gunmen’s, everyone finding someone, or something, to kiss. Scully smiles at the sight of Missy and Byers, snuggled in the corner of the couch smirking around a series of small pecks, whispering something to each other meant only for their ears.

“Sorry, poorly timed bathroom break,” Mulder says as he approaches, putting one hand at the small of her back and the other across her shoulders as he dips like he’s a sailor returning from sea. She squeals, then kisses him in earnest with her hands cradling his face, stopping only when Frohike suggests they get a room. They straighten up, her palms on his chest as his rest just above her tailbone. She beams up at him, optimistic and excited to embark on 1998 as a team. What a difference a year makes, she thinks to herself.

“Happy New Year, Scully,” he says with an affectionate smile.

“Happy New Year, Mulder.”

———

“Ugh, do we have to go?” she whines, curled up on the couch under a blanket.

“Do we have to go to your birthday party? I’m thinking yes,” he says, crouching down next to her.

“I’m sleepy,” she says, tugging on his hand, “let’s take a nap.”

He sighs. “That sounds very enticing, but you already took a nap today and we have to be at your mom’s in forty-five minutes.”

She makes a face. “Fine, but she better have coffee made.”

“She always does,” he replies, pulling her to her feet. “But drinking coffee at 6:00 pm is probably why you’re so tired in the first place. You’re not sleeping well at night.”

She gives him a deadpan expression. “I totally missed you getting your doctorate in medicine, Mulder. You hid it so well.”

He gives her a playful slap on the butt. “Get going, little lady, we’re gonna be late.”

There’s dinner, cake, and a small set of gifts. Missy and Byer’s give her a very fancy set of bubble bath and bath salts, while Charlie opts for a VHS of Weekend at Bernies, which she begrudgingly admits is one of her favorites. Mom gives her two tickets to see Chicago live on Broadway, and insists that she won’t be upset if Dana takes Mulder instead of her. She opens Mulder’s gift last, having already warned him that if it were something inappropriate to open in front of her family, she would punish him profusely. He insisted it was totally safe, so she accepts the large flat rectangular package from him with only a hint of skepticism. She tears the paper away to find a large frame, nearly the size of a poster, with a dark blue circle occupying most of the framed area. Within the circle is a series of white dots and lines of varying sizes. Beneath it is a date and set of coordinates.

May 29, 1996

38.5313718, -77.4456233

She feels her throat constrict with emotion and bites her lip to try and stave off the tears.

“What does it mean?” Missy asks.

“It’s a constellation map,” Byers answers, “it shows the night sky on a specific date and at a specific location. Those are coordinates.”

“For where?” Missy inquires further.

“Quantico,” Scully answers tightly, standing to thread her arms around Mulder’s neck. “Thank you,” she whispers, and he gives her a little squeeze.

“It was written in the stars, Scully,” he whispers back, then holds her while her mother clears the dishes and everyone retreats to the living room.

An hour later, Mulder and Maggie stand at the kitchen sink, washing and drying the dishes while Scully sips a cup of coffee at the counter, her chin resting on her fist.

“Can we go soon, Mulder? I’m exhausted,” she says with drooping eyelids.

“Of course, whatever the birthday girl wishes is my command,” he replies, running a dish towel around the perimeter of a plate.

“Are you okay sweetie, you getting sick?” Maggie asks with a concerned furrow of her brow.

“No, Mom, I’m fine. I’ve just been exhausted lately, no matter how much sleep I get.”

Maggie cocks her head at her daughter. “When’s the last time you had your period, Dana?”

“I don’t get a period, pleasant side effect of my birth control,” she says with a hint of annoyance.

“And you haven’t missed a pill, or whatever?” Maggie clarifies.

“It’s a shot, and I got one in December, I’m not due to get another until next month,” she replies, resting her forehead on the counter.

There is a long silence. Long enough that she lifts her head to see what’s causing it. Mulder is staring at her with wide eyes, his mouth slightly open, and Maggie is staring at Mulder like she’s just come to some kind of realization.

“What?” Scully asks, “you’re freaking me out.”

“I was supposed to remind you to reschedule your appointment in December,” he says softly, his breathing very shallow.

She sits up straighter. “No, Mulder, I got my shot right before we went to California for Christmas.” Even as she tries to convince them all that it’s not what Maggie is suggesting, her face is contorting into one of fear.

“You had an emergency autopsy,” he says quietly, “Trudy was out. You missed it.”

“Oh god,” she says, her mind reeling. “Oh my god.”

“I’m going to give you two some privacy,” Maggie says, exciting the kitchen.

Mulder comes around to her side of the counter, placing a palm in the middle of her back. “Scully?” he asks, though he’s not sure what the question is.

“We need to go to the store,” she says flatly, shifting into problem-solving mode. “We need to pick up a pregnancy test.”

———

They are perched on the edge of the bathtub, the test sitting face-down on the counter next to the sink.

“How long has it been?” she asks, and Mulder checks his watch again.

“Four minutes,” he answers, squeezing her hand.

She pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“What if it’s positive?” she asks quietly.

“Then...we have a baby,” he answers.

She looks at him and he gives her a small smile. She tries to smile back but her chin puckers and turns it into a grimace.

“Okay,” she finally responds.

Mulder checks his watch again.

“It’s been five minutes,” he says, “do you want to look, or do you want me to?”

She closes her eyes.

“You look. One line is negative, two lines is positive. Even if the second line is very faint, it’s positive if there are two.”

“Okay,” he says, moving to the counter.

She opens her eyes to watch him as he picks up the test and turns it over. His face is unreadable as he places it back on the counter and walks over to the tub, kneeling on the floor between her knees. He brings his hands to her hips and looks up at her with a gentle expression, then leans forward and presses his lips to her belly.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, tears pooling in her eyes.

He pulls back and takes her hands in his.

“It’s okay, Scully. Maybe it’s not perfect timing, but I love you and I’m excited to have a baby with you.”

She looks at him incredulously. “You are?”

He smiles at her. “Of course. I’ve thought about us having kids someday hundreds of times. I just always figured it would be a little further in the future.”

She gives him a pained smile through her tears, draping her arms around his neck.

“We’re going to have a baby,” she says out loud for the first time.

“We’re going to have a baby,” he repeats.

That night in bed, she lies awake for a long time, the shock of the news overriding her fatigue.

“I can feel you thinking,” Mulder grumbles from behind her.

“Sorry,” she answers over her shoulder.

He pushes his chin into the crook of her neck, his arm slinging over her waist.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks softly.

“Just the future. What’s going to happen next. Where the hell we’re going to fit a baby and all it’s crap in this apartment.”

“We might have to move,” Mulder offers.

“Even if we do, should we rent someplace bigger? Should we buy a house? Would your name or mine be on the deed? Speaking of names, will the baby have your last name or mine? I can picture my mother’s church friends gossiping about the poor bastard child with a different last name than his mother,” she rambles.

Mulder is quiet for a moment.

“We could get married,” he says with the same casualness as suggesting pizza for dinner.

She freezes. “No, Mulder,” she says coldly.

“Why not?” he asks, pulling away and gently rolling her onto her back so he can see her face.

She shakes her head glumly. “I got married for the wrong reasons once. I’m not going to do it again.”

“What’s the wrong reason?” he asks sincerely.

“Getting married because you’re pregnant is about the most standard wrong reason to get married I can think of, Mulder.”

“I don’t want to marry you because you’re pregnant, Scully,” he implores, resting his hand on her stomach. “I want to marry you because I love you.”

“The timing of the question suggests otherwise,” she counters, and his face contorts into a wounded expression. “Mulder, I’m not saying no forever, I’m just saying not right now. We’re about to go through a lot, I’m going to be insane with hormones, and then give birth and feel fat and awful with a crying newborn and will probably resent you-“

“Well with that attitude,” he cuts her off, though his tone is lighthearted.

She rolls to her side to face him, clutching his hands to her chest.

“Ask me again later, Mulder, when we’ve survived this. When you’ve seen me huge and then deflated and unshowered and weepy. If you still think you want to marry me after seeing me at my absolute worst, ask me again.”

“Okay,” he says, planting a kiss to her forehead. “I will.”

[unfortunate-arrow]

Let Your Heart Be Light

[My @hphmsecretsanta gift for @amerrymystery. Hope you like it! The title is a reference to Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, by the way.]

A Modern Daywood AU

Robbie Donovan’s already handling everything that he can— family drama, recently being diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder, and taking a brand new job. He doesn’t have time for anything else, not even for the pretty woman working in the restaurant next door. Robbie just wants to figure out his life and possibly find some way to not live with his family. However, he cannot seem to stay away from the pretty woman next door, Penny Haywood.

Penny Haywood doesn’t know how she ended up being tasked with the job of saving a failing restaurant in Killybegs, Ireland. That seems to be the only way that she can advance her career and possibly be able to run her own five-star restaurant one day, though. So, Penny reluctantly agrees to take on the project. Her ambition doesn’t leave much room for other things, but for some reason the man working next door, Robbie Donovan keeps being on her mind.

As Robbie and Penny’s friendship starts veering into a decidedly non-platonic direction, obstacles appear, testing their commitments to their respective goals… and to their budding relationship. Yet, it seems that working together is the best way to solve their problems, and their friendship starts turning into something much deeper and stronger— love.

A Little Bit More - A Regency Brilias AU

Lord Elias Quintin, heir to the Clarendon earldom, doesn’t want to think about Christmas or celebrating the holidays. How can he, when he’s nearly consumed with guilt over the accident that left his little brother dead? That hasn’t stopped his parents, though, who insist on throwing a house party… despite the fact that their mourning period is not yet over. And this time, the purpose of the party is to get him married off. Elias doesn’t want a wife and he’s convinced that no woman would ever want him for a husband, even with the title that he’s set to inherit. Also, he wouldn’t even subject a rat to his family. Except that Miss Brianna McGill keeps drawing Elias’s attention away from the more acceptable choices for a bride. But dammit, if he has to marry, then Elias is going to choose a bride who actually seems to like him… and one that he may just end up falling in love with.

Miss Brianna McGill needs a husband by the end of the Yuletide season in order to inherit her grandmother’s beloved cottage. Which is the only reason she’s even at the Clarendon Christmas house party. There’s something fascinating about the Clarendon heir, Elias, though, and Brianna finds herself wanting to learn more about the young man who seems to be followed everywhere by an unseen cloud of darkness.

As their courtship moves closer to marriage, Elias’s parents begin to let their disapproval be known. This time, though, Elias isn’t going to let them ruin something good, even if it means directly disobeying them and risking his mother’s wrath.

*The title is from a quote from How The Grinch Stole Christmas: “Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.”

I Bet My Life - A Song for the Everett Brothers

I've been around the world and never in my wildest dreams Would I come running home to you I've told a million lies but now I tell a single truth There's you in everything I do

Now remember when I told you that's the last you'll see of me Remember when I broke you down to tears I know I took the path that you would never want for me I gave you hell through all the years

This song by Imagine Dragons was chosen because it has Conner & Cooper vibes, especially regarding Conner’s fate, which is something that Cooper never wanted for his brother. It’s definitely from Conner’s point of view, addressing his beloved younger brother.

Bonus One: Bernie Brennan

Bonus Two: Duncan Donovan

[legendsoffodlan]

The Unwritten Supports: Bernadetta and Ignatz

Anonymous requested:  Bernadetta should have had supports with the other house archers Ashe and Ignatz change my mind (C-A) and hopefully paired ending

So, here’s Bernie and Ignatz

-

C - Support

Location: Outskirt Ruins

OST: Funny Footsteps

*Bernadetta is tucked away in a little corner of the ruins with her paints and canvas.*

Bernadetta: Ah, alone at last! Just Bernie, her paints, and the sun.

*Bernadetta hears something moving around*

Bernadetta: Huh?! What? W-who’s there.

*She hears a familiar voice murmuring to themself*

Bernadetta: Huh? Is that... Ignatz?

*Bernadetta moves through the brush to see Ignatz at his own canvas*

Ignatz, to himself: Hmm, I think blue would create a better contrast... but the again green would create a better overal tone...

Bernadetta: Is he painting? Wow, that’s gorgeous!

Ignatz: But Aquamarine might overshadow the foreground by making the background pop too much...

Bernadetta: No! Use Saphire! It would be perfect.

Ignatz: Of course! Saphi- BERNADETTA!?

Bernadetta: WAAGH! *she falls out of her hiding place*

Ignatz: B-Bernadetta?! What are you doing out here?1

Bernadetta:I’MSOSORRYIWASN’TTRYINGTOBERUDEIJUSTSAYYOUPAINTINGAND-

Ignatz: Bernadetta, calm down. Take deep breaths

Bernadetta: *deep inhale* *deep exhale*

Ignatz: Look, Bernadetta, you can’t tell anyone about this, I’m beginning you!

Bernadetta: Y-you’re th-threa-threatening me?!

Ignatz: N-no! I’m not-

Bernadetta: AAGH! I KNEW IT! AWAY FROM ME FIED! AAAAAHH! *she runs off*

Ignatz: ... ... ...I think I handled that poorly.

-

B - Support

Location: Bernadetta’s Room

OST: A Gentle Breeze 

*Ignatz knocks on Bernadetta’s door*

Ignatz: Bernadetta? Are you in there?

Bernadetta, hiding under the bed: Oh Goddess, he’s here! He’s going to kill me and use my blood to make the perfect shade of red!

Ignatz: Look, Bernadetta, I wanted to apologize for scaring you earlier.

Bernadetta: Pretending to apologize to lure me out?! A tactic worthy of a demon!

Ignatz: N-no! Bernadetta- I-I’m not very good at this. I- sigh* I’m sorry I shouted at you. It’s just, I was- you kind of scared me.

Bernadetta: ... *pokes her head out from under the bed* Scared... of me?

Ignatz: I’m not supposed to be painting, and I thought you’d come to tell on me.

Bernadetta: Not supposed to be painting? But he’s so good at it!

Ignatz: I know I scared you in turn. I didn’t want to. I-I’ll leave you alone from now on.

Bernadetta, fully emerging from under the bed but not opening the door: W-wait!

Ignatz: Huh?

Bernadetta: I- I’m sorry I was spying on you too. A-andIthinkyou’repaintingisreallygood!

Ignatz: Oh. Uh, thank you Bernadetta. I- I’d like to see one of your one day! *he walks away*

Bernadetta: He- he wants to see one of mine?! One of Bernie’s?! Oh no. OH NOOOOOO! *dives back under the bed*

-

 B+ - Support

Location: Outskirt Ruins

OST: Respite and Sunlight

*Ignatz is at his sketchbook, murmuring to himself as he goes*

Ignatz: No no... too much on the eyes... her hair is wilder than that...

*Bernadetta pokes her head out from behind a rock*

Bernadetta: Okay Bernie, there he is! Just go over and say hi! Easy as can be!

Ignatz: Hmm, is someone there?

Bernadetta: AACK! NO ONE HERE BUT US ROCKS!

Ignatz: Bernadetta? Oh, I’m sorry. Did I scare you again?!

Bernadetta, falling out from behind the rock: NO! *stands up and brushes herself off* I- I’m n-n-not scared. I- I just came t-to say hi!

Ignatz: Oh, well, hello Bernadetta.

Bernadetta: A-and u-u-uh- w-what are you.... *gasp* drawing?

Ignatz, suddenly self-concious: N-nothing. just sketches of ideas right now.

Bernadetta: Oh, um, well, I-I j-just wanted to say Th-that... you’re really good at painting. You- you should do it!

Ignatz: Oh, uh, well thank you Bernadetta, but painting is only a hobby for me. I have to focus on being a knight. It’s what’s best for my family. My father says so.

Bernadetta: Oh... well getting married rich is what my father says is best for my family.

Ignatz: Wha- but you should get married because you love someone!

Bernadetta: And you- you should keep painting!

*There’s an awkward silence before Ignatz speaks again*

Ignatz: You know what, Bernadetta? Okay. but, on one condition.

Bernadetta: Wh- what is it! NO YOU CANNOT HAVE MY HAIR YOU SICK DEVIANT!

Ignatz: Wha- NO! N-no. Nothing like that.

Bernadetta: Oh. Uh, then what is it?

Ignatz: I- uh- I want you to use these. *he hands her her paints and canvas back*

Bernadetta: O-oh! I dropped these on my run away from here.

Ignatz: Y-yeah. I wanted to return them, but you never left your room. So- uh... I want you to use these to paint something. Something you want to. And then, at the end of the year, we’ll show each other our paintings.

Bernadetta: Y- really? O-okay! Let’s do it!

-

A - Support (Only available Post-Timeskip)

Location: Chapel

OST: Somewhere to Belong

*Ignatz is standing before the ruined front of the chapel when Bernadetta comes up behind him*

Bernadetta: Ignatz?

Ignatz, turning to face her: Oh, hey Bernie!

Bernadetta: We- uh haven’t had a whole lot of chances to chat. What with the war and everything.

Ignatz, laughing: Yeah, that does tend to put a damper on one’s social life.

Bernadetta: And, uh, since we didn’t get the chance at graduation, we oughta exchange paintings now!

Ignatz: You... you remebered?

Bernadetta: Y-yup! A-and we’ve had five years to work on it!

Ignatz: Heh, I hope you like mine... I’m not sure how good it is.

*he hands it to her*

Bernadetta: ...Ignatz... is- is this me?

Ignatz: I’m sorry! It’s awful. I wanted to show you what I saw when I looked at you- and I’ve overdone it and-

Bernadetta, crying: It’s... it’s beautiful Ignatz...

Ignatz: I- you think so?

Bernadetta: This- this is how you see me? All- all bright and happy?!

Ignatz: I- I see a flower, blooming against all odds. I see someone who’s brave even when they’re terrified. I- I wanted to show you that.

Bernadetta: Oh, Ignatz. H-here’s mine. It’s a little embarrasing now and I

Ignatz: You- you painted me?!

Bernadetta: I’M SORRY! I just- I just wanted to thank you for being my friend. And- and this was the only way I could think of doing it!

Ignatz: Bernadetta, this is the best painting I’ve ever seen.

Bernadetta: Oh. Oh... Ignatz...

-

Paired Ending: The Eternal Loner and the Worldly Artist

Ignatz and Bernadetta, together, created a new renaissance of artistic innovation in Fodlan, a movement that grew even greater after their marriage. Together, they converted Varley Manor into an art school where they could nurture young minds and ease them gently into the world. Bernadetta came, bit by bit, out of her shell and by the time she bore her first child she had little fear of the outside world any longer. Ignatz, for his part, started a new order of Knight, the Order of the Stained Brush, who went into the world to learn new art forms and spread beauty to the masses. But besides all that, they were happy together, until their dying days.

[abiggaynerd]

Light in the night

Another fanfic of @quetzalcoatlzz ‘s western au comic, link here if you would rather read it on AO3, there is a link here

Charlie looked out her window from her bed. It was clear out, and she could see the moon. She sighed, rubbing her forehead. She could not sleep. 

It was silent. 

She closed her eyes. It had been a long day. One of her girls had gotten sick, and she had had to contact Maxwell’s new boytoy and have him take care of her. She would be fine, the doctor had assured, but Charlie couldn’t help worrying. 

On top of that, a letter had come from her parents. 

Charlie’s family was never rich, but she was still sheltered. Her older sister and her parents had worked extremely hard to help her become a proper lady. They had been thrilled she had secured such a wealthy man. After the... incident, she had promised her parents they would marry when they reached Constant, ignoring their protests that traveling with a man she was not married too would be scandalous. She felt terrible for deceiving them, but she could not tell them the truth- she was not a pampered mistress of the Carter ranch, but Madame of a whorehouse. This was not at all what they had wanted for her. 

The only one who knew the truth- about her and Maxwell’s... preferences, about the broken off engagement, all of it- was her dear sister Winona. Winona understood everything- Charlie knew that the relationship with the female friend Winona was living with was not exactly chaste. Winona had urged her to tell their parents, at least about the broken off engagement, if nothing else, but Charlie still couldn’t work up the courage to tell them. In her (extremely rare) visits home, Maxwell would even come with her and lie. She was jealous of the close and open relationship he had with his family- they knew of their broken engagement, and the reasons, and had accepted it. Darling Wendy still called her Aunt, when she saw her, though. 

She looked at the unopened letter on her nightstand. Every time she got one, she was terrified they had found out- if they heard about everything... 

It would be better for her mental state to open it, but she found she could not. The letter opener lay on top of it, taunting her. 

THONK

Charlie jumped wildly and yelped as someone banged into her window. 

“CHARLIE!! YOU AWAKE?” 

Charlie rolled her eyes as she calmed down. She opened the window. “How could I not be, after that racket?” 

Willow grinned. “Can I come in?” Charlie nodded, and Willow began to try to get in through the window. 

“Not through the window! Through the door! Honestly, Willow, it’s like you’re a secret lover trying to catch a moment alone with your beloved without alerting her parents.” 

“I am,” Willow said cheerfully. “Except the parents part.” 

“Exactly, which is why you can come through the door. This is my house.” 

Willow grumbled, but went to the door to be let in. Charlie lit a candle, put on a robe, and walked through the rooms to get to the back door. 

“Kiss?” Willow asked, taking off her hat. She helpfully pointed at her lips to indicate where they were. 

“Very well,” Charlie said. She leaned over and pecked Willow on the lips, but before she could pull away, Willow deepened the kiss and put her hand on the back on Charlie’s head. Charlie relaxed into it. Being with Willow calmed her spirits. 

Charlie pulled away when it became apparent Willow had no problem having sex right where they were. “Come along, dear.” 

“It’s a bit chilly tonight,” Willow remarked, scampering after Charlie. “Just, incredibly cold. I’ve never seen it get this bad, really. You might freeze to death.” 

Willow cut in front of Charlie to open her bedroom door for her. Charlie smiled. “If you’re asking if you can make a fire in my room, you may.” 

“Yess,” Willow said, no regard for her noise level. She took Charlie’s candle and began fussing with the fireplace. It really had grown slightly chilly with the window open. Charlie closed it, as well as the curtains. 

“Where is Bernie?” Charlie asked, taking off her robe and climbing back into bed. 

“Maxwell has nice stables,” Willow said. 

“You walked all the way here from Maxy’s stables?? Why Willow, you must be exhausted!” 

“Any amount of exhaustion is worth it if I can inconvenience Maxwell,” Willow said. “Besides, he’s got great food for the horses. Bernie likes it there.” 

“Do you need food? A drink?” 

“I just need you,” Willow said, about to climb on Charlie’s bed. 

“Absolutely not! No, Willow, if you want to get on my bed with my good linens, you’re going to take a bath first.” 

Willow grimaced. “Really? Do I have to?” 

“Yes! But here, don’t make that face. I’ll wash you myself.” 

“...Fine.” 

“Come, help me set up the tub.” 

Having Willow to help lug around the heavy tub and buckets of water made the whole experience much faster. Willow was much stronger than Charlie, and had the added bonus of “liked to show off.” 

“Alright,” Charlie said. “Get in.” 

Willow seemed to have forgotten the bath was for her. She frowned. “What if I washed you instead?” 

“You don’t have to sleep with me, you know,” Charlie teased. “You can sleep on my floor. I can find a blanket.” 

Willow threw back her head and groaned. “FINE.” She threw off her clothes. Charlie watched appreciatively. 

Willow was not what most people considered attractive for a woman, but Charlie didn’t hold much stock in their opinions. Willow was toned, from hours of manual labor and horseback riding. She wore no corset, but instead wore nothing but men’s clothes. Her breasts, unlike Charlie’s, were small enough to need no support. She was thin, but strong. Her beautiful black hair was thick and shiny, if you ignored the layers of soot and dirt.

“At least it’s hot,” Willow said, stepping in. 

“Just below boiling, just how you like it,” Charlie said. She had a rag, and used a bit of her soap on it. Rose scented. Willow had admitted a while back that she liked smelling of Charlie’s soap. 

Willow seemed to be enjoying the heat, now she was actually in it. Charlie smiled, and took her hand. The nails were cut short, but caked with dirt. She began scrubbing. 

The water became murky as Charlie cleaned Willow. 

“You must have half the dust in Texas on you,” Charlie said. 

“Sometimes I roll in the dirt,” Willow said. 

Willow was practically boneless from Charlie’s rhythmic, gentle and careful cleaning; she now looked like an entirely different person. It was almost done, all that was necessary now was to rinse Willow’s hair. 

She unbraided the braids, running her fingers through it. The cloud of dust made her sneeze. 

“My hair too? Really?” 

“I’ll brush your hair after,” Charlie soothed. “Give you a nice scalp massage.” 

Charlie had to rinse the hair five times before she was certain all the grime was out of the hair. 

“Alright, all done,” Charlie said. Willow immediately bolted out of the tub, getting water everywhere.

Willow dried herself with a towel, then rummaged in Charlie’s drawers to find the clothes Charlie kept for her. She pulled out a nightgown and put it on. 

“Sit on the floor in front of me,” Charlie instructed. Willow complied. Charlie began to brush the hair. 

“You have beautiful hair,” Charlie said. 

“It doesn’t really do anything I want it to,” Willow said. “Always slips out of the braids! So irritating. I don’t know how fancy ladies like you keep your hair in those crazy styles all the time.” 

“Part of it is not rolling in dirt, dear.” 

“Well, I guess I’m never going to be able to do a fancy smancy hairstyle then.” 

“You never were going to in the first place.” 

“Ah! True.” 

Willow settled against Charlie’s legs. Charlie began to massage Willow’s scalp. 

“That’s nice,” sighed Willow. “I haven’t seen you in ages. I missed you a lot.” 

“It’s only been a few days.” 

“AGES.” Willows groaned. “You know Wilson- that doctor- he’s living with Maxwell now? He only comes to town for work. Goes back at night.” 

“Mr. Higgsbury is truly living with him? Maxy must be very fond of him.” 

“Why can’t I live with you,” Willow complained. “Why does that awful man get nice things and I, objectively the best person ever, do not?” 

“Am I not a nice thing?” 

“You’re the BEST THING!” 

Charlie chuckled. “You’re the best thing to me too.” She kissed her head. “I love you.” 

“If I wasn’t a wanted criminal I would be... Your housewife.” 

Charlie laughed. “You? A housewife? In what world?” 

“Well, I suppose I could be your bodyguard and scare away men who bother your girls.” 

“That would be nice.” 

Willow pulled away and turned around. 

“You’re nice. Want me to make you feel nice too?” 

Charlie nodded. Willow beamed. 

“Nothing too much tonight, though,” Charlie said. “I’m tired. We can do more tomorrow.” 

“Alright!” 

The sex was calm, and not rushed, but Charlie finished rather quickly.

She breathed heavily for a few moments before speaking.   

“Honestly, you devious thing, where did you even learn that?”

“I like to put things in my mouth.” Willow was on top of her now, and Charlie kissed her. They kissed passionately for a moment, until Willow pulled back. 

“Let’s go to sleep. Did you have a long day?” 

“Yes,” Charlie sighed. “But I feel better with you here.” 

They climbed until the covers. Charlie turned and saw the letter on the nightstand. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“A letter from my parents.” 

“Want me to kill them for you?” 

“No,” Charlie snorted. “You can’t kill all of my problems.” 

“I can try.” 

Charlie looked at it for a moment longer, before sitting back up and opening it. She smiled at Willow- her simply being there gave her enough courage to open the letter. 

She hesitantly read it. 

“Dearest Charlie,

We miss you terribly! Our neighbors have just had a baby girl, and she reminds us so much of you when you were her age. You were so small and perfect. We thought to ourselves, no matter what happens, we will love this child with all our hearts, and support her in all things. 

We hope you and your husband create a little miracle of your own very soon.

All our love, 

Mother and Father.” 

Charlie set down the letter. Her anxiety was eased a bit, but she stared pensively into the fire. 

“Willow, I think it may be time I told them the truth.” 

Willow pulled her close, kissing her forehead. 

“I’ll be with you whether they accept it or not. Don’t worry.” 

“I love you,” said Charlie. 

“I love you too.” 

Charlie fell asleep quickly held in Willow’s arms. 

[thewidowsghost]

Chapter 1 - The Sky’s Tsunami

3rd Person POV

In East Los Angeles, California, a young boy is looking in at a group of seven heroes in the window of a shop.

"Ace," the boy's father steps forward, handing his son a hot dog. "Come and get it. What do you say we got out to your Aunt Mindy's this weekend?" he asks. "You and Kisha can swim in the pond."

"Sure," Ace says, continuing to look at the heroes, the legendary Captain America, Thor, Iron Man, Hawkeye, Hulk, Black Widow, and her sister, Tsunami.

"You know, you got a birthday coming up in a couple of months," Ace's father tells his son. "Who's your favorite?" he asks.

"I'm okay," Ace returns and his father's gaze saddens and he turns his son around, looking into his eyes.

"Hey," he says. "Things are tight right now, but I'm gonna find something. Not back at the factory, but I got prospects." The man pauses. "You and me - what are we?" he asks.

"We're a team," Ace answers.

"That's right," the man chuckles. "So, who do you -" the man is cut off when a building explodes and he turns, blocking his son from the shrapnel raining down from above.

People scream and they all look up at the burning building. Ash rains from the sky and car alarms blare.

"Are you okay?" the man asks his son. "All right, Ace, look at me. I need you to stay here with Bernie, okay?" he asks, nudging his son towards the hot-dog vendor. "People might be hurt, and I'm gonna see if they need my help. Stay with Bernie! Watch my boy!" the man bolts towards the building and he looks up, running down the side of the building and climbing up the side of the building.

"Help me!"

"Help me!"

"Anybody in the building still?!"

The man reaches the window and he pulls his hood over his head to conceal his identity. He pulls himself through the window and makes his way through the burning interior of the building. Glass shatters. Flames roar. Wood burns.

The man hears a woman whimper, and hearing the man, she yells, "Help me! Help me!"

Part of the burning roof collapses and he grunts, stepping back.

Outside, a young brunette is recording the scene with her phone.

The man jumps out of the burning building as it explodes, landing on the ground, cracking the pavement below.

The brunette goes to follow the man as he runs away, but instead, she turns to check on the woman, sirens wailing.

"What does SHIELD stand for, Agent Ward?" Maria Hill questions the agent.

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division," Ward answers.

"And what does that mean to you?" Agent Hill asks.

"It means someone really wanted our initials to spell out SHIELD," Ward replies.

A young agent, probably about twenty-four, steps out of the shadows. "That is a very Howard Stark thing to do," the redheaded agent remarks.

"Aah, Agent Rushman," Maria addresses the young woman. "Nice of you to join us."

"It means we're the line," Ward proceeds, and the young woman turns to her brilliant (E/c) eyes on the dark-haired agent, "between the world and the much weirder world. We protect people from news they aren't ready to hear. And we can't do that, we keep them safe. Something turns up," Ward sticks his hand on the inside of his jacket, pulling something out of one of the inner packets, "like this Chitarua Neural Link," he slides it down the table and Hill catches it, "we get to it before someone bad does."

"Any idea who Vanchat was planning to sell it to?" Hill asks.

"I'm more interested in how this Rising Tide group found out about it," Ward says. "I thought they were just hackers. What changed?"

"Everything's changed," Hill states. "A little while ago, most people went to bed thinking that the craziest thing in the world was a billionaire in a flying metal suit. Then aliens invaded New York and were beaten back, by, among others, a giant green monster, a costumed hero from the '40s, and a god."

"As well as a ginger ninja, and an archer," Rushman adds.

Hill raises her eyebrows at the redhead before turning away from both, suppressing a smile before turning back to address Ward.

"I don't think Thor's technically a god," Ward argues.

"You haven't been near his arms. The Battle of New York was the end of the world. This - now - is the New World. People are different. They have access to tech, to formulas, to secrets they're not ready for."

"Why was I pulled out of Paris?' Ward asks, leaning forward.

"That, you'll have to ask Agent Coulson," Hill says and Ward frowns, slouching back in his seat.

"Uh, yeah," Ward says with a false smile. "I'm clearance Level Six. I know that . . . Agent Coulson was killed in action before the Battle of New York. Got the full report."

Agent Rushman flinches a little but no one notices.

"Welcome to Level Seven," Coulson steps into the room and (Y/n) smiles at the man. "Sorry - that corner was really dark, and I couldn't help myself. I think there's a bulb out."

(Y/n), a little later that day, walks out to meet her older sister, Natasha, for lunch.

Natasha smiles warmly at her shorter sister.

"Ready?" (Y/n) asks.

"Yeah, we're just going to the food court," Natasha says.

"Oh, be quiet, Red," (Y/n) says, her (E/c) eyes sparkling.

"You are also a redhead," Natasha points out.

The two bicker affectionately as they walk down to the food court together. After getting their food, the two sit down beside Clint Barton, AKA Hawkeye, who shakes his head, watching his best friends continue to bicker.

"So, I'm getting put on a SHIELD team," (Y/n) tells her sister and best friend. Then she turns to her sister. "Do you mind looking after Liho for me, Tasha?" she asks.

"Okay, but we live together. In the same house," Natasha points out, her silvery-green eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Yeah, but I didn't want my kitten to starve," (Y/n) tells her sister.

"I wouldn't let Liho starve," Natasha soothes.

(Y/n) relaxes a little, "Apparently, I leave tomorrow morning."

"NoOoO," Clint says, his voice rising throughout the one word. "What am I gonna do?" he wails. "My bestie gonna leave."

"Aww, Clint," (Y/n) turns to look at the man. "I'll visit. I'm not going to leave forever. And you've still got Tasha," she adds. "She'll continue to drive you insane."

Natasha laughs, bumping her sister with a shoulder.

The Romanoff sisters had grown up together in the Red Room, which was strange because they had been the only group of sisters kept together. Natasha had been able to get her sister out before the Graduation Ceremony, which the older redhead was grateful for, being able to save her baby sister from the trauma she had gone through. There was one thing that separated the two sisters. (Y/n) had water and wind powers. Natasha had to guess that they were given to her by the Red Room, but no one could be sure.

Natasha had always been protective of her little sister, but it also went the other way. (Y/n) always made sure Natasha was patched up after missions, learned to cook as Natasha didn't know how; also attempted to teach her sister. Natasha had actually managed to pick up a few cooking skills from her baby sister.

Natasha and (Y/n) return home that night, (Y/n) making her way to the kitchen to start dinner, Natasha sitting down at the barstools at the counter.

"I'm gonna miss you, you know," Natasha says, a watery smile spreading across her face.

(Y/n) sniffs and walks over, wrapping her sister in a tight hug.

"I know love's for children, and all," (Y/n) says, making fun of what they'd been taught. "But I love you, Nat."

"I love you, too kiddo," Natasha returns. "But I also love dinner," she says and (Y/n) bursts out laughing, drying her tears before returning to the kitchen.

Liho, their black kitten, pads out and streaks over to (Y/n), nuzzling her companion's leg.

Natasha gets up from her barstool and walks over, pulls Liho's tub of food out of the pantry, and gives Liho a scoop before opening a can of wet cat food, dumping half a can into Liho's bowl before putting the remainder of the can in the fridge.

"Look at you, being all responsible," (Y/n) says, nudging her sister with an elbow.

Word Count: 1410 words

So yeah, here's the first chapter of my Skye (Daisy Johnson) x Fem!Reader.

(Y/n) and Natasha are sisters, which makes me happy inside.

Also, (Y/n) does have powers, wind and water, leading to her name, Tsunami.

Anyway, I love you guys so much! ❤️❤️

Love,

           Kaitlynn ❤️😍

[delos-mio]

You’re So Last Summer - PROLOGUE

Logan Delos was a pain in your ass.

His father Jim and your father, Daryl, had been friends since their Scroll & Key days at Yale. They became close in the secret society and continued their close brotherhood as Jim went on to start up Delos and your father became a grossly successful hedge fund manager. From there, Daryl married your mother Bernie, an OBGYN whom he met at a fundraiser for housing for teens in transition. The two fell in love and united their empires, having you shortly after.

Growing up, this meant you wanted for nothing. You took horseback riding lessons with your own horse, had access to the best education private school could provide, and membership to a highly exclusive country club, where your family spent most weekends. It was a comfortable, predictable life, and one you rather enjoyed. There was only one problem.

Logan Delos.

You were objectively privileged- you knew you were, no sense in denying it. But Logan was capital ‘S’ Spoiled. Ungrateful. Entitled. Uppity. He was the poster child of country club elitist. This was only compounded by the fact that Logan was extremely attractive and he damn well knew it. Logan was quick to flash his perfect, bright smile, bat his dark brown eyes, run his long fingers through his black hair if he knew it would get him what he wanted. All the girls, and a lot of the boys, in your social circle simply fawned over him, thought he was just so charming. And sure, perhaps on the surface, Logan was all of those things. Everything Logan did was so spectacular and so impressive and he was just so funny. That’s what he’d have everyone believe, anyways. You didn’t see what the big deal was. He was a good-looking boy who could pull an A in Biology. Revolutionary. But you liked to think you could see right through him and understood he was all surface and no depth.

Much to your dismay, you constantly found yourself in his presence. Jim and your father spent a lot of their free time golfing together, drinking together, hosting dinners together. Even marriage and fatherhood hadn’t managed to drive a wedge between the two. Unfortunately, that meant having Logan as some kind of weird, unwanted, unwelcome brother. Your only real reprieve was school, since he went to an all-boys prep school. Small blessings.

Even worse than that, Logan made his attraction to you plain as day. It started when you were both maybe 13, right when his hormones came in like a fucking tornado. He looked at you with hearts in his eyes, chased you all around Liberty National Country Club, and asked you out at least once a month for the last four years, each time met with a resounding “no” from you. This never seemed to deter him, though, even if he did find himself a flavor of the week to occupy his time between asking you out. Not only were boys and dating the furthest thing from your mind- school came first, of course- if you were at all interesting in dating, it sure as hell wouldn’t be Logan fucking Delos.

It was another afternoon spent at Liberty National, Jim and Daryl getting in 18 holes on one of the last nice autumn afternoons. You were posted up in the clubhouse, looking east out of the massive glass windows, taking in the boats on the Upper Bay. No matter how many times you’d seen it over the last 17 years, the Statue of Liberty and the Manhattan skyline still captured a corner of your imagination. You opened up the little notebook you always carried with you and got swept up in journaling. Sometimes, you wrote poems, sometimes musings. And sometimes, you simply wrote rants you wished you could scream from the top of your lungs, but held them in because doing so would be “un-ladylike”.

“Whatcha got there, hm?” Logan asked from over your shoulder, trying to peer at what you had written on the pages.

“None of your business,” you spat, slamming the notebook closed and slipping it back into your backpack.

“C’mon, you’ve gotta show me your writing one of these days.” Logan perched himself on the edge of the table, looking down at you with that annoying smirk that drove you up a fucking tree.

“I certainly do not,” you huffed, getting up and throwing your backpack on your shoulder. “Why do you care so much anyways?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’ve got the next Catcher In The Rye in there. What if I was the first one to read it and publish it and make millions?” he smiled as he followed alongside you, clearly not taking the hint that you didn’t want his company. You simply deadpanned and rolled your eyes, not breaking your stride. Logan was still hot on your heel when you finally whipped around abruptly, stopping him in his tracks.

“Why the fuck are you still following me?” you growled.

“You know I love your company. Besides, we only have next summer together before we leave for school. I think we should squeeze in all the quality time that we can,” Logan smiled. You knew he was only doing this to annoy you but goddamn, it was working. “Where are you going to college again?”

“I have told you eight hundred million times, I am going to Yale. Let me say that again- Yale! So don’t ask me again!” you huffed, taking off again for the car.

“Aw, man. You mean you won’t be with me at Columbia? Here I was hoping I’d pledge Sigma Alpha Epsilon, you’d pledge Sigma Delta, and we’d be the unstoppable king and queen of campus,” he sighed, a little bit longing. “Just picture it.” Logan’s arm was now draped over your shoulder as he gestured in front of you, setting the scene for this imaginary future. “You and me going on dates in Central Park, me sneaking into your room late at night, getting drunk and making out in the middle of a party so no other guys there get any ideas.” You shook off his arm then and quickly stepped away.

“No thank you. Guess it just wasn’t meant to be,” you said with a fake smile and exaggerated shrug.

“Oh well. New Haven is only, what? An hour and a half away? We can make long distance work.”

“If you visit me even one time while I’m at school, I will personally make sure you are physically unable to reproduce,” you hiss as you open the back door and toss your backpack inside.

“That a promise?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, fuck off.” You take your seat in the back, hand on the door handle. “You’re so disgusting.” Logan only laughed, clearly pleased with your discomfort.

“You have no idea,” he chuckled darkly. “So, I’ll see you Wednesday?”

You opened your mouth to cuss him out again, turn down his date again. But then you closed your mouth. Fuck. You’d forgotten all about Juliet’s, Logan’s younger sister, birthday dinner. “Yeah. Wednesday,” you grumbled without looking at Logan, slamming the door shut before he could get another word in.

So, yeah. Logan Delos was a pain in your ass.

[just-a-poor-boy-queen]

I'm sorry to hear you've had a bad day. I hope this makes you feel a bit better 💜

Part 20 of Jimercury Kid series

‘I’m going to die.’ Freddie whined dramatically from the sofa, arching his back as Jim walked through the door with a tray of tea and biscuits, carefully setting it on the coffee table in front of the singer. ‘I’m not sure how much more of this pain I can take, darling.’

‘I know, love.’ Jim replied softly, placing another pillow under Freddie’s head. ‘But that’s what happens when you decide to do acrobatics on stage when there are wires lying around.’

‘It was entirely Roger’s fault.’ Freddie huffed. ‘He could have warned me that his drumkit was a danger zone.’

Jim chuckled and kissed his husband’s forehead. ‘The doctor said you’ll be right as rain in a few weeks, so long as you get plenty of rest and keep up the physio.’

The Persian grumbled, ‘I hate rest.’ Then he looked up at Jim with an accusatory glare. ‘And I can’t believe you’re abandoning me to galivant off and cut people’s hair! The audacity.’

Freddie hadn’t been all that pleased when Jim announced that he had accepted a weekend job at the barber shop down the road. The Irishman had befriended the owner, Carl Pritchard, in a bar a few months ago and while he had declined the offer of a full-time job (he still had the garden to think about and Khaleel to look after when Freddie was at the studio,) he was more than happy to lend Carl a hand every Saturday, when the shop was at its busiest.

Khaleel hadn’t been too happy about it either; he was used to Jim being around 24/7 and the sudden change of routine caused him a great amount of stress. Jim was almost late on his first day of the job because his son had cried and refused to let go of his leg. But eventually, the boy begrudgingly accepted it and Jim was able to pacify his separation anxiety with the promise of bringing home a treat when he was finished at work.

‘You’re just saying that because you’re jealous.’ Jim teased, dodging as Freddie attempted to swat his backside. ‘You think I’m going to fall head over heels for Carl’s dashing good looks and run off into the sunset with him.’

Freddie pouted like a child and crossed his arms. ‘So, you do think he’s good looking.’

Jim chuckled and dropped a kiss into his husband’s dark head of hair. ‘I’m old enough to be his dad, sweetheart. Besides, he’s really not my type.’

‘I wasn’t your type either and you still went for me.’

‘Well, how could I possibly resist? Have you seenyour arse?’

He roared with laughter as Freddie attempted to swat him again, but this time the singer grabbed his hand and pulled him down to kiss his lips.

‘Do you love me?’ he whispered once they had parted, brown eyes staring into Jim’s own almost fearfully. They had been together for almost ten years now, and yet he still needed that reassurance.

‘To the moon and back.’ Jim replied, leaning down for a much deeper kiss. He could have stayed like that all day, but a quick glance at his watch told him that he was already pushing it for time.

‘I’ll be back about six.’ He placed one final kiss against Freddie’s forehead before heading to the hallway to grab his coat. ‘I’ve left the shop’s number by the phone in case there’s an emergency. Try not to have too much fun without me.’

‘Very funny.’ Freddie sniggered as Jim blew him a kiss and turned the keys in the door. ‘Have a good day, darling. Don’t snip any ears off.’

The last thing he heard was Jim shouting goodbye to Khaleel up the stairs – which was quickly followed with a cheerful, ‘bye Daddy!’ – before the door was pulled shut. Freddie sighed and stretched his sore back, wishing he could at least hobble over to the piano and belt out a few show tunes to take his mind off the pain. He hated being alone; Phoebe was in town with friends and Khaleel had been colouring upstairs for most of the afternoon. He knew that colouring was one of the ways his bijou coped with Jim’s absence, so he didn’t want to disturb him.

Well, since he was bedbound (or in this case, sofa bound) he might as well catch forty winks. After finishing his tea and munching on a biscuit, he plumped up his pillows, propped his feet up on the armrest and did his best to ignore the constant throbbing in his lower back as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

--

Freddie was awoken by the sound of the phone ringing in the hallway, and he groggily rose from the sofa to go and answer it.

‘It’s Bernie, Bernie Morris.’ Said the voice on the other end of the line. ‘I know you usually have your physio on Sundays, but my 2 o’clock just cancelled and I don’t have any other appointments today. Would you like to take the slot?’

‘Oh darling, that would be wonderful.’ Freddie sighed in relief, rubbing his back as he spoke. ‘It’s really acting up today. I could use your magic hands.’

Bernie chucked jovially. ‘Alright then, see you in twenty.’

Bernard Morris was a tall, broad, cheerful man, recommended to Freddie by Doctor Atkinson after he had his accident. The vocalist had been apprehensive at first, thinking he could simply deal with the pain on his own; but he eventually relented when it became unbearable and had agreed to six weeks’ worth of sessions, so long as he could do it in the comfort of his own home. So far, Bernie’s methods had proved remarkably effective; Freddie’s back still hurt like hell, but he always felt slightly more relieved once he had been stretched and bent over a few times by a handsome looking man.

‘Thank you so much for this, darling.’ Said Freddie, as Bernie laid the exercise mat out on the floor and shifted the coffee table over to give them more space. ‘I was doing well for a couple of days but last night it started hurting like a bastard. I made the mistake of lifting Khaleel up too quickly during playtime.’

‘It’s no bother at all.’ Replied Bernie. ‘How’s the family? I still have yet to meet your little man.’

‘He’s very shy, our Kenny.’ Freddie chuckled fondly. ‘He’s been a bit clingy lately because of this new job Jim has taken up. He’s not used to him being away and he’s finding it hard to understand.’

‘Poor thing.’ Said Bernie sympathetically. ‘My little girl was the same when I started working full-time. But they get used to it eventually. Now,’ he cracked his knuckles, ‘shall we get started?’

‘Abso-fucking-lutely.’ Freddie said with a laugh and carefully laid himself down on the mat.

--

Khaleel let out a soft yawn as he finally finished colouring in Goliath’s bright yellow eyes and carefully added the picture to the pile of cat drawings he had been working on all afternoon. He didn’t like it when Daddy went to work; he was used to Baba being away, even though he missed him, but Daddy was always there and suddenly not having him around all day made Khaleel confused and scared.

His tummy began to rumble, so he hopped off his bed and carefully climbed down the staircases to tell his Baba that he would like a snack. But when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard a strange noise coming from the lounge. The door was open a crack, so Khaleel peeped through curiously.

Baba was lying on the floor and a strange man was sitting on top of him, pulling on his leg. Baba was moaning in pain, his arm flying up to cover his eyes as the strange man continued to push on his leg until his knee reached his chest, before stopping and doing the same with the other one. Baba started to cry a little, and the man said something, though Khaleel couldn’t hear what it was. The boy felt his tiny heart racing. There was a strange man in the house, and he was hurting his Baba. Daddy and Uncle Phoebe weren’t here to protect them. He wanted to run into the lounge and jump on the horrible man, but his feet were frozen to the floor, unable to move.

Then he remembered the phone. Daddy and Baba had taught him how to use it, though he was only supposed to use it in emergencies, and he was never to call 999 unless he really needed to. Daddy had left his work number beside the telephone in the hall, so Khaleel quickly hurried to it and stood up on his tiptoes to grab the handset. He stared hard at the numbers on the little piece of paper and slowly began pressing the buttons. (1/2)

Jim had to admit that it felt good cutting hair again.

Pritchard & Sons was nothing like the Savoy; it was small and intimate, with a far more welcoming atmosphere and friendly regulars who were always happy to make conversation. He instantly felt at home in the place and found himself actually looking forward to working on a Saturday; despite his full-time commitment to the garden, he had been longing for a change of scenery as of late, and this job offer was exactly what he needed.

He was busy brushing away the stray hairs from the shop floor when the telephone at the front desk began to ring. Carl was nowhere to be seen and his two co-workers, Simon and Neil, were busy with clients, so he set his broom against the wall and crossed over to the desk, picking up the handset before it could ring off.

‘Pritchard & Sons, how can I help you?’

‘Daddy?’ Came a small voice from the other end of the line.

Jim was taken back a second, as if he was hearing things. ‘Kenny? Is that you? Kenny, you shouldn’t be calling Daddy at work, he’s very busy.’

‘Daddy, I need help.’ The little boy whimpered in response.

‘Sweetheart, if you need help with something, ask your Baba-’

‘There’s a strange man in the house.’ Khaleel started to sob, his voice a terrified whisper, as if he was worried about being heard. ‘There’s a strange man and he’s hurting Baba.’

Jim felt his blood run cold. ‘W-what do you mean? Where’s Baba, Kenny?’

‘In the lounge. The man is on top of him, and Baba is crying.’

Oh Jesus. Jim began to shake, sweat beading his forehead as a million images flashed before his eyes. He knew he couldn’t let Khaleel hear the fear in his voice, otherwise it would just panic the little boy further. ‘Sweetheart, listen to me. I need you to go upstairs into your bedroom and hide under your bed, okay? Daddy’s coming, everything’s going to be okay.’

Khaleel continued to sob. ‘Daddy, please hurry.’‘

‘Please, Kenny, do as I say. Hang up the phone and go upstairs as quietly as you can. I promise I’ll be home soon.’

There was a loud sniff, before Khaleel mumbled, ‘hurry, Daddy,’ and the line went dead.

‘Tell Carl there’s been an emergency!’ Jim yelled over the counter to Simon, as he raced to the hat stand and grabbed his coat, racing through the door before he even got a response. He cursed as he fumbled with his car keys, almost dropping them into the gutter as his hands trembled violently; as soon as he was in the driver’s seat, he slammed his foot on the accelerator and sped down the road.

-----

As soon as he reached Garden Lodge, Jim immediately went around the back entrance, not wanting to alert the intruder by ringing the bell. As soon as he had turned the key in the back door, he immediately called for Freddie, feeling his heart sink when he didn’t receive a response. He slowly walked down the hallway, glancing into every room in case someone leapt out and attacked him, until he reached the kitchen and quickly armed himself with a large knife that had been left sitting on the counter. He prayed that he wouldn’t have to use it.

‘Freddie!’ he cried out again, almost in tears, the hand holding the knife shaking so hard it was a miracle he didn’t drop it.

The kitchen door suddenly swung open behind him, and he yelled in surprise, whipping round, knife clasped in both hands and pointed straight at his would-be assailant.

There was a high-pitched shriek and a crash, and only then did Jim realise it was Freddie, clad in one of his silk kimonos and surrounded by broken teacups. They both stood there, frozen, as Jim looked his husband up and down; Freddie appeared unhurt, though shell-shocked, the tray he had been carrying now lying at his feet amongst shards of china.

‘Jim!’ Freddie screamed, once he had overcome his initial shock. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing?!’

Jim didn’t respond. He dropped the knife immediately, letting it clatter against the kitchen tiles as he ran to Freddie and scooped him into his arms, hugging him fiercely. His husband let out a surprised squeak as he was suddenly lifted off the floor and he quickly wound his legs around Jim’s hips before the younger man dropped him on his arse. It felt like Jim stood there forever, holding onto Freddie tightly, swaying back and forth like he did when soothing Khaleel to sleep.

‘Darling?’ Freddie finally whispered into Jim’s flushed ear. ‘Darling, what’s going on? What was all that about?’

Jim finally released his husband, brushing away the tears that had fallen down his cheeks as he cupped Freddie’s face and looked desperately into his eyes. ‘Are you alright? Are you hurt?’

Freddie looked baffled. ‘Hurt? Of course not! Why would I be hurt? And what are you even doing here? I thought you didn’t finish work until six.’

The Irishman’s heart finally began to relax as he took a moment to process this information. ‘Khaleel called the shop. He said there was a man in here and he was hurting you. I got here as fast as I could.’

Freddie stared at him with wide eyes, looking like a deer in headlights. ‘Oh my God…Jim, that was Bernie. Bernie Morris, my physiotherapist. He’s in the conservatory, I was just about to make us some more tea.’

Jim looked like he was about to collapse to the floor. He leaned back against the counter, colour finally returning to his face as he realised that Freddie and Khaleel had never been in any danger. All the horrifying scenarios that had been playing in his mind finally ceased to be.

‘Oh God…’ he covered his eyes with his hands, taking deep, uneven breaths, ‘I thought some psycho had broken in, I thought…’ He cut off, not wanting to even consider what could have happened.

Freddie carefully stepped over the mess on the floor, careful not to cut his bare feet as he approached him and put his arms around Jim’s neck, gently kissing his forehead. ‘You really would have killed a man just to protect me?’

Jim removed his hands from his eyes and replied without any hesitation. ‘Absolutely. The bastard wouldn’t have known what hit him.’

Freddie chucked softly, ‘my knight in shining armour.’ Then suddenly his eyes went wide. ‘Kenny! Where’s Kenny?’

‘I told him to go upstairs and hide under his bed.’ Replied Jim. ‘Come on, let’s go and get him. He’s scared out of his wits.’

-----

It had taken a while to coax Khaleel out from underneath his bed. But his parents eventually managed to convince him that the mean man downstairs was actually a very nice man, who was helping Baba get better, and the only reason Baba had been crying in the lounge was because his back hurt so much. They praised him for being such a brave boy and using the phone to call for help when he thought it was needed. Khaleel eventually crawled out and let Freddie carry him downstairs.

He hid in face in Freddie’s shoulder when he saw Bernie, his body trembling in fear. But he gradually looked up when Bernie started chatting to him, realising this strange man wasn’t really that scary up close. By the time Phoebe arrived home from town, Kenny was sitting on Bernie’s lap, giggling as the man held one of his soft toys, pretending to make it talk in a deep gruff voice.

‘What happened here?’ Phoebe asked as he walked into the kitchen to see Jim sweeping up the broken china into a dustpan.

‘Long story.’ Was all the Irishman said in reply. (2/2)

--------------------------------------------------

Aww an extra long update! I loved it😊 It was exactly what I needed after the exhausting day I've had, thank you for making me smile with this part (and all your stories everyday).

I was happy to see Jim take up a part time job of a hairdresser. I've often wondered about that in Freddie!lives scenarios. I think one of the reasons why Jim took up the job of the gardener at GL is to be close to Freddie who had received his diagnosis by that time, if I'm not wrong.

And aww, baby Khaleel being so smart and calling up his father when he saw that his baba was in danger. And ofc, Jim being ready to do absolutely anything to keep his family safe... my heart.

And lol, I can see Phoebe rolling his eyes in the kitchen like, "I take one day off..."

(More drabbles by writer anon)

[pers-books]

Since you're running out of prompts, would you fancy trying 60 and 85? Loving the ones you've already posted!

Thank you, Anon. I’m glad people are enjoying reading them because I am have a HUGE amount of fun writing them! You chose 60. Poorly Timed Confession and 85. Innocent Physical Contact - an interesting combo, Anon! This is a S19 canon divergence fic because Canon Schmanon! (This is Angst with a Happy Ending.)

Bernie knows Serena means nothing by it. The touches to Bernie’s arm or her shoulder or her back, the brushing of their fingertips when passing objects (usually patient files, but sometimes cups of coffee) and of their shoulders when walking down AAU’s corridors - it’s all innocent physical contact, she knows. She’s seen Serena with the others on the ward, and with their patients, too and knows she is a woman to whom reassuring physical contact comes naturally, easily. Unlike Bernie Wolfe, who is practically constipated in similar situations - even hugging her children (when they were in her life instead of avoiding her like a leper) was and is never easy.

She keeps telling herself that Serena means nothing by these touches. But she’s finding it harder and harder to accept that fact the more time she spends with Serena. Of course, it’s even worse once the two women start drinking together at Albie’s because Serena’s hands wander far more often when she’s a bottle of Shiraz or more down of an evening. She’ll grip Bernie’s knee or thigh while talking emphatically about whatever’s got her riled up this time, or she’ll sling an arm around Bernie’s shoulders as they make their way to the taxi rank. Worse, once Bernie starts escorting Serena home and getting out of the taxi to watch her make her way up the drive to her front door, the brunette begins kissing her good night - it’s just a peck on the cheek, nothing more because while Serena might flirt with men and women alike, but there’s no doubt in Bernie’s mind that she’s a dyed in the wool heterosexual.

It all comes to a head at Christmas. Serena, of course, hosts a party for everyone on AAU, plus selected individuals from elsewhere within the hospital. Bernie, somewhat to her discomfort, is not only not allowed to refuse to attend (she’d thought she’d been cunning in fixing the rota so she’d be doing the night shift on the evening in question, but Serena tells her that they always get locum cover, so Bernie will be free to attend), but is requested (in a tone that implies that the Major had better not think of refusing the request or else!) to arrive at Serena’s no later than 11am on the day of the party so that she can assist Serena and Jason in decorating the house and prepping the food for the party.

Major Berenice Wolfe is nothing if not stoic about accepting her own pain, so though the idea is painful in the extreme, she acquiesces to her new CO’s orders and arrives at Serena’s house at 10.30am, carrying a kitbag containing her ‘party’ clothes and the items she’ll need for an overnight stay in one of Serena’s guest rooms as she’s also been roped into assisting in the clear up the following morning.

The party goes swingingly well - of course, since Serena is hosting it - and by the end of the evening even Bernie’s more than half-heartedly enjoying herself (though at the beginning of the evening she’d very much wished she could emulate Jason and decamp elsewhere as he, lucky young man, also dislikes parties so has gone to spend the evening with Allan and won’t return until dinner time on Sunday). Serena thanks her for her assistance as they part ways once everyone else has gone home and Bernie, made bold by the punch she’s been drinking and how gorgeous Serena looks in her festively themed red, white and green dress, dares to finally voice something of how she feels. (Afterwards, she’ll kick herself.)

“I - uh - there’s something I want to tell you,” Bernie says, as the pair of them are standing on the landing, each a few paces from their bedroom door.

“Go on,” Serena says, nudging Bernie’s elbow with her arm.

“It’s - um - it’s just that I like you.”

Serena laughs, throwing her head back and exposing her throat to Bernie’s burning gaze. “Oh darling, I like you, too. Why do you think you’re here?”

“No, I - um - I mean I more than like you,” Bernie says, feeling heat climbing the back of her neck and clenching her hands into fists. “I find you incredibly attractive. I - um - I’d like to kiss you.”

“Oh!” Serena gasps, clearly shocked by Bernie’s poorly timed confession. “Oh Major, I -”

“It’s fine,” Bernie grits out, stepping away from her co-lead. “I get it, I understand. You don’t feel the same way. Why would you?” She tries to rein in the bitterness she can hear seeping into her voice. “Even my kids don’t want anything to do with me.” She closes her eyes, grits her teeth, then says in as normal a voice as she can manage, “Good night, Serena.” 

She steps through the door to the guest room, leans back against it, then slides down it to sit on the floor, feeling the burning heat of shame, humiliation, and anger at her own stupidity clearing her head of the alcohol she’s consumed tonight. She remains seated on the floor, despite the protests of her back, for more than an hour, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, and very occasionally spilling down her cheeks. 

Eventually, and with great difficulty, she pulls herself back up to her feet, then she strips out of the black tailored trousers, forest green shirt, and burgundy tuxedo jacket that she wore to the party, and pulls on the skinny jeans, ribbed white vest, and flannel checked shirt she wore that morning to put up the decorations. She opens the window and sits on the window seat and smokes cigarette after cigarette until the world is sunk into sleep. Then she closes the window, grabs a breath mint, before packing her party clothes into her kitbag. She quietly makes her way downstairs, leaving her kitbag on the same coat hook as her black wool coat, then she moves into the sitting room and begins clearing up.

By 7am, when Serena is just beginning to stir, the ground floor of the house is spick and span with no sign that a party took place the night before. Bernie scribbles a brief note to Serena on her shopping list pad and leaves it in the middle of the kitchen table. Then she pulls on her boots and coat, shoulders her bag, and quietly lets herself out of the house.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

By the time Serena makes her way downstairs, the brunette is surprised to find her house looking impeccably tidy. She doesn’t notice Bernie’s missing coat and boots, but she does spot the note on the kitchen table.

Dear Serena

I’m sorry for making an ass of myself last night. Put it down to the punch and the spirit of the Season. You needn’t worry that I’ll ever allude to the matter again. But if I’ve made things too awkward, then let me know and I’ll leave.

Bernie.

Serena feels completely shocked. She had thought it was just the punch and ‘the spirit of the Season’ that had led to her friend and co-lead confessing to a desire to kiss her the night before. It hadn’t occurred to her that Bernie was serious. She stares at the note a while longer, then makes herself some strong, hot coffee and heats a chocolate croissant in the oven for breakfast. She wonders if Bernie had any breakfast: there are still three more croissants in the bag, and there’s no sign of a mug of coffee being made and consumed. She frowns, then shakes her head and concentrates on her breakfast because she doesn’t yet feel awake enough to think clearly about what she’s going to do - if anything - about her co-lead’s confession.

All day, Serena contemplates Bernie’s confession and the note she left her, and in the end she decides to do nothing about it. She likes Bernie a lot, finds her very good company, as well as a fantastic and fearless surgeon, but she doesn’t feel any desire to move their friendship beyond what they currently have.

On Monday morning she walks onto AAU to find a baffling absence of Bernie Wolfe. It’s not until she opens her emails that she finds a message to say that Bernie’s switched to nightshifts for the next couple of weeks so that their staff can fully enjoy the Christmas season. Serena frowns at the email, but cannot argue with Bernie’s logic, much as she’d like to. She can’t help thinking it’s typical of the Major, though - she does have a strong tendency towards being noble and self-sacrificing.

They see each other briefly at the end of Serena’s shift and the start of Bernie’s for the ward handover, and Bernie’s maintaining that stoic air that Serena’s seen her deploy often in situations that make her feel emotionally uncomfortable, so she makes no mention of her party nor the conversation afterwards. She just offers a ‘thank you’ to Bernie for her clean up of her house, which elicits a tight nod and pursed lips. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Serena says.

“Of course,” Bernie responds, then turns towards her desk and the stack of patient files thereon.

Serena is tempted to linger, to try to make conversation, but she pulls on her coat, picks up her handbag, and makes her way out of the office.

It becomes a routine for the two of them over the next two and a bit weeks. Serena offers to get locum cover for New Year’s Eve so that Bernie can attend the hospital party at Albie’s, but her offer is gently but firmly rebuffed. 

“As a general rule, I’m not fond of parties,” the blonde tells her. “So, thank you, but no thank you.”

Serena considers telling Bernie that she’d have accepted a kiss from her at midnight, but holds her tongue, instead.

Two days later her daughter Elinor, following an argument with her mother, accidentally runs down her nephew Jason in the hospital car park, and Bernie’s forced to perform emergency surgery on him. At the time she’s barely finished a lengthy trauma surgery on a motorcyclist who got sideswiped by an SUV while going around a roundabout, a surgery that’d run on well past the end of Bernie’s night shift and she’d barely made it out of theatre before they were wheeling Jason in. 

Serena notes the droop of the Major’s shoulders and the stiff way she’s holding herself, but she knows there’s nothing she can do to help because Jason needs surgery right now if Serena’s not to lose him. She is furious with Elinor for her wilful behaviour and selfishness and doesn’t hesitate to tell her so once she knows Jason’s made it through his surgery. Elinor starts shouting at her, her tone a mixture of defiance and remorse, then she collapses as she’s storming out of the consultants’ office, and Bernie finds herself back in theatre for the third time in several hours. Serena paces the corridor outside the theatre, watching every move on the monitor. She knows Elinor’s in good hands, the very best that Holby has to offer, in fact, but that doesn’t stop terror clawing its way up her throat, and she’s grateful for the company of first Raf, then Hanssen.

“How is Bernie still on her feet?” asks Raf in awed tones.

“She’s used to it,” Serena says, and is immensely grateful for the fact. “She used to have to perform multiple surgeries back to back, and sometimes even under fire, when she was in Afghanistan.”

“Still,” Raf says. “We’re very lucky to have her here.”

“I am very lucky that she’s here,” Serena says, acutely aware of just how fortunate she is to have the country’s foremost trauma surgeon in her hospital.

Eventually Bernie straightens up, nods at the anaesthetist and the rest of the team, then turns towards the window and nods at Serena, too. Moments later Elinor is wheeled out, ready to be taken up to ITU. The staff follow Elinor, then Bernie last of all, trudging wearily behind the others.

As soon as she’s scrubbed out, Serena hurries over and grasps Bernie’s hands in both of her own. “Thank you,” she says, more tearfully than she’d like.

Bernie shrugs, gently freeing her hands. “Just doing my job,” she says gruffly.

“You must be exhausted,” Serena says. “And your back. Can I -”

Her offer is cut off. “No, thank you. I’ll manage,” Bernie says. 

She walks away and Serena swallows hard, blinking back tears. She straightens her shoulders, then follows in Bernie’s wake, watching as the blonde heads towards the on-call room. 

As she walks onto the ward proper, she finds Hanssen and Ric Griffin are there, and she frowns at the pair of them.

“Go upstairs, Serena,” Hanssen says gently. “Mr Griffin and I will cover for you and Ms Wolfe.”

Serena can’t help glancing in the direction that Bernie’s just gone.

“Don’t worry, Serena,” Ric says, “we’ll take care of Bernie. You go upstairs to be with Jason and Elinor.”

Serena swallows. “Thank you. Both of you.”

She heads into the office to sign out of her computer, then grabs her coat and handbag, before making her way upstairs to the fifth floor. She talks with both of the physicians looking after Jason and Elinor and is both relieved and unsurprised (because Bernie’s the best) to learn that the prospects for both of them are looking particularly good.

Serena goes in to sit with Elinor first, holding her hand and talking to her, reminding her of incidents from her childhood and teenage years. She’s a little surprised when a nurse comes in at some point and brings her a cup of coffee and a sandwich from Pulses - the coffee is exactly how she likes it, and the sandwich is one of her favourites. She asks the nurse where it’s come from and the nurse says, in an awed whisper, “It was Major Wolfe, who brought them.”

“Ms Wolfe is here?” Serena asks, surprised. It’s barely been three hours since she finished the surgery on Elinor.

“She’s next door with Mr Haynes. She said she wanted to check on her patient.”

“I see.” Serena settles down to eat her sandwich and drink her coffee, and is just swallowing the last of the coffee when the door opens, and Bernie comes in. She still looks exhausted, but she’s not moving quite as stiffly.

“How is Jason?” Serena asks quietly.

“Looking good,” Bernie says. “I was able to save most of his liver and I don’t think he’ll have any long-term side effects from the rupture.”

“Thank you.”

Bernie glances at her and Serena elaborates, “For staying to operate on both of them.”

Bernie frowns. “Well, of course I stayed. Whyever wouldn’t I? Trauma surgery is my specialism. It would hardly have made sense to go home and leave them to someone else, someone without my experience or skills.”

Serena bows her head, knowing that Bernie’s right. She still feels deeply grateful to the other woman, though. Particularly since things have remained strained between them since the night of her Christmas party. A small part of her now wishes that she’d let Bernie kiss her then, just so that she can kiss Bernie now to try to express her gratitude.

“Did you manage to get some sleep?”

“Some. Don’t worry, I can manage. I’ve had longer days than this one.”

“Of course,” Serena says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you’re not capable of judging your own capabilities, it’s just -” She pauses to swallow, aware her eyes are prickling with tears. “You saved both their lives and I can’t help thinking they’d both be in a far worse state if you weren’t here.” She can’t hold back a sob and within moments she’s groping for a tissue to stem the flood.

“Here,” Bernie murmurs, pressing a packet into her hand, then sitting in the chair beside Serena and drawing her into her arms. “Come here, love. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Let it all out.” 

Serena allows herself to be held and soothed, Bernie’s right hand rubbing circles into her back as she sobs and sobs and Bernie murmurs reassurances into her hair.

Eventually, her tears subside, but Bernie makes no move to let go of her and Serena makes no effort to sit up; Bernie’s embrace is incredibly comforting, and she feels like she could easily fall asleep in the other woman’s arms.

“C’mon, Campbell,” the blonde says, as if she’s heard Serena’s thoughts. “I need to get some more rest and I daresay you could use a nap, too, after so much emotional trauma.”

Serena straightens up, then shakes her head. “I’m not going home. I -”

“I was going to suggest the on-call room, actually,” Bernie says, her voice a little gruff. “If you think you could bear to share?”

“With you, yes,” Serena says.

Bernie’s look of gratitude cuts Serena as she realises that the other woman was expecting her to refuse, but before she can think of a way to frame an apology, Bernie says only, “I’ve got my pager. They’ll let us know of any changes in the condition of either of them.”

“Thank you,” Serena says and gets to her feet. Bernie gathers up her coat, folding it over her arm, then passes over Serena’s handbag.

They take the lift back down to AAU, Bernie’s arm wrapped around Serena’s shoulders, then make their way into the on-call room. Serena’s coat and handbag are left on the chair, then they both shed their shoes and Serena takes off her blouse and puts it on the hanger on the back of the door. When she turns around, Bernie’s already settled in the bed and for a moment she hesitates about joining her, but Bernie lifts up the duvet and gives her an expectant look, so she climbs in beside the other woman.

“A bit of a squeeze, I know,” Bernie says, “but I figure you’ll be grateful of the warmth of human contact.” 

Serena wonders if she’s imagining the ‘even if it is me’ tagged onto that sentence and immediately decides that she has to try to make things better between them.

“I am very grateful,” she says firmly. “Especially because it’s you.”

“Oh?”

Serena shifts to face the trauma surgeon. “You’re my best friend, Bernie,” she says earnestly. “So I’m very grateful that you’re here with me, quite aside from your trauma skills saving the lives of my daughter and my nephew.” She takes a breath. “And I’m sorry that I laughed at you when you said you wanted to kiss me. That was unthinkingly cruel of me.”

Bernie opens her mouth, but Serena places a forefinger across her lips. “Shh, Major,” she says softly. “Just because I’ve never been more than friends with a woman before is no excuse for me to laugh at you when you expressed a desire for more. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Of course,” Bernie says immediately., “You’re my best friend. And I was an idiot.”

“Why were you an idiot?”

“For thinking you could be interested in me. I kept telling myself that all those little touches you do are meaningless, just you being you. I know very well that you’re tactile with everyone, but well, you’re a gorgeous, confident, sexy and skilled woman, Serena Campbell, and I couldn’t help fancying you.”

Serena feels a blush heating her face and chest. “Thank you. I, um, I ought to confess that since the night of my party I’ve thought about kissing you.”

“You have?” Bernie sounds surprised and Serena realises that’s her fault.

“I have. I, um, I think I’d like to kiss you, if you still want to kiss me?”

“Now?” Bernie whispers.

“Yes,” Serena breathes, then leans towards her. To her relief Bernie reciprocates and then the blonde’s lips brush gently against hers. A second brush follows, then Bernie’s lips press more firmly against her own, and Serena reaches up to clasp the back of the other woman’s neck, holding her in place so that she can properly kiss Bernie back.

Eventually they have to break apart to breathe properly and Serena can’t help smiling at the dazed look on Bernie’s face.

“Okay?” she asks in an innocent tone.

“Mmhmm.”

Serena chuckles, then shifts on the bed, settling herself properly beside Bernie. “We should probably have that nap,” she observes, stifling a yawn. 

“Yeah,” Bernie says on a soft sigh.

They tuck themselves together on the narrow bed and as Serena finds herself falling asleep in Bernie’s arms, she can’t help feeling that, despite the circumstances, she might just be the luckiest woman alive. 

[Pick two (2) tropes for me to mash-up and explain how I’d write them (Berena only)]

[papermoonloveslucy]

LUCY vs TIME

June 22, 1973

The publicity photos, from the movie set of Mame were unrecognizable. Unrecognizable! Why, they were unbelievable. Either somebody had shot them through six layers of soft-focus gauze - or a time machine. 

Who was this frisky redhead hoofer kicking up her heels on the distant reaches of some resplendent soundstage, cannily avoiding a camera close-up?

Who was this svelte eyed lady fluttering from beneath a fringed rug of false lashes, not a wrinkle, sag or bag, not to mention even an expression line, sporting her famous face?

Well, clearly the lady was a star. And as star of Warner Brothers' new $8 million musical version of Mame, Lucille Ball had veto rights over all still photographs.

The trouble was that obviously nobody had had the nerve to tell her that if she could order reality rubbed out of a picture with a wave of the retoucher's brush, she couldn't pull the gauze over the eyes of an interviewer ushered into the Mame set to confront the living flesh, unretouched. 

Time has not been unkind to Lucille Ball. No, beneath a billowing wine velvet and cream satin lounge suit, the svelte one-time chorus-girl's curves are still obvious. Despite a badly broken right leg from a skiing accident that had left the shooting of Mame stalled and the star in a cast for nearly a year, the shapely former showgirl's gams had now already carried her through a dozen dance routines up on top of pianos and down banisters that would have taxed a tap-dancer half her age. 

At 61, Lucille Ball could pass for a dozen years younger. But only a dozen years. 

The outrageous, outsize eyelashes now stick like pine spikes out of a swamp of tucks, puckers and bags etched around her shrewd big baby-blues. Her plastic face is a relief map of over-made-up wrinkles, the big bright red Cupid's-bow mouth lipsticked in a smile outside her own spidery upline. 

But you don't survive 22 years on TV in the top ratings, get renewed once again this season when all about Bridgets and Bernies and Dean Martins (1) are falling to the network's chop, practically bear a baby and outlast a broken real-life marriage on the TV tube, take over a foundering corporation and build it into the single most powerful independent TV production house, without it showing in your face. 

One look at Lucille Ball's face and you don't doubt it for a minute when Hal, her make-up man for 32 years, says she used to limp on to the Mame set in excruciating pain. Then, the minute the cameras clicked on, burst into a dazzling and seemingly effortless song-and-dance. 

Not that the lady would admit it for a minute. "It was excruciating pain," she dismisses the subject airily. 

But then these days she's not admitting much. It was a lesson learned the hard way. One recent fateful February day, over perhaps one too many Pouilly-Fuisses on the rocks, she was admitting so much so freely to the New York Times that the story read like a Hedda Hopper monologue. 

On Desi Arnaz Sr., the Cuban bongo (2) player-bandleader she met and married out of a chorus line in 1940 and divorced 22 years later after a marriage that was even stormier off -screen than on: "He drank too much and he couldn't stand success."

On Desi Arnaz Jr., their 20-year-old son and his much-publicized romance with actress Patty Duke: "I had my doubts if the baby was Desi's at all. I said to him, "You feel responsible? Boy, you're all of 16 1/2 years old and you want to spend the rest of your life with this neurotic person?'" 

On Liza Minnelli, then Desi's current fiancée: "They took her for over a million and a quarter more than her mother's debt. Just for beginners..." 

One mention of the story now is enough to send sparks flying. "Why, that man should be..." she sputters over the reporter, "...spanked!" 

It's a first burst of spontaneity from a lady who, once burned, is now so careful that she sounds at times as if he's dictating to the Library of Congress. 

"I never thought I'd get this far, do so much, have such beautiful children," she says, chain-smoking in her dressing-room, all the wide-eyed telephone lineman's daughter from upstate New York. She knocks on wood. 

"All I ever wanted was to get to vaudeville and I never made it." 

When she hit New York to take acting classes at 16, the school sent back her mother's money, saying. "No talent." And now, refund in hand, 81-year-old DeeDee Ball, as the whole family calls her, sits in a front-row seat for every “Here's Lucy” show, just as she has done non-stop for the last 22 years. 

Still it wasn't till 1951, when the Amazes dreamed up the “I Love Lucy” show, patterned after their own lives, as a way of keeping their marriage together and bandleader Desi home from the road, that success came. 

But when it came, it was she who stole the show. 

By two years later, 68 per cent of TV viewers in America were tuned in to see her show-by-show birth to Desi Arnaz Jr., whose arrival vied with the U.S. presidential election results for front-page space under the headline, "Lucy's $50 million baby." 

Everybody, it seemed, loved Lucy except perhaps Desi Arnaz. Despite her insistence that "the series was happy there was no fighting. It was the greatest time of my life," she admits, "the trouble came much later. Only the last five years were hard." 

Which means that the greatest time of her life lasted only a scant six years. When their marriage broke up officially in 1962 (3), friends introduced her to a stand-up comic named Gary Morton, now her producer, vice-president of Lucille Ball Productions, Inc., official show warm-up man and for 11 years now, Mr. Lucille Ball. 

As her daughter Lucie, 22, and still a performer on the show, puts it. "She may be the king of stage 12, but at home she's queen Gary's the king!" 

She indulges his passion for golf and a garage full of classic cars, but with the warning: "If he ever looks at another woman, I'll kill him."

She says she never makes a business move without him, but when she was left to head up the giant Desilu Corporation after her marriage break-up, it was she who was known as the woman shrewd enough to snap up “Mannix”, “Mission Impossible” and “Star Trek” when they were apparently doomed pilots, a comedienne who was not so comical in the executive suite. 

But as for her much-vaunted business acumen, she is all denials and femininity. 

"Me? No way. Desi did the whole thing. He was a fantastic businessman. I only took it over to build it up and sell it. I mean, there was a certain amount of building up to do." 

When she took it over from Arnaz in 1961, Desilu had lost over $600,000. When she sold it seven years later, for $17 million in Gulf and Western stock, making her the conglomerate's largest stockholder and, some say, the wealthiest woman in Hollywood, the company had grossed $30-million and made a profit of ever $800,000. 

"But everyone in the know knew I wasn't tough," she says. "No, the men I surrounded myself with were." 

Still there a flinty glint behind the false lashes, a shrewd imperious purse to the painted lips, a ring to the wise-cracking whisky voice that's used to being heard. She moves around the Mame soundstage in queenly command, dispensing Norman Vincent Peal-doms, part star, part super-mother. 

When it comes time for a scene featuring co-star Bea Arthur, she practically takes over directing from Gene Saks, Miss Arthur's husband. "Now did you tell her what side of the camera to be on?" she asks Saks, who looks like he might explode. "Now honey, toe your mark," she fusses over Bea, who grows quiet, explaining later: 

"Lucy's really a dear. But sometimes it can get a little overpowering." 

She doesn't talk to people without picking lint off their clothes, and straightening their collars, a habit that comes naturally enough to a woman who has her whole retinue, hairdresser, secretary, make-up man and driver of the last two decades - even her little picket-fenced French-provincial dressing-room trailer, with its false shutters and plastic ivy - picked up and transplanted wherever she strays from Lucy Lane where she presides at Universal Studios, year after year.

With her kids, she was, as daughter Lucie says, "Strict - and you want to believe it. We were the only kids we knew who had to work around the house for whatever money we'd get." Lucie still gets paid only scale for her mother's show. 

But Desi Jr. wasn't exactly a natural. "He'd be asleep on the sidelines and I'd be ready to smack him," Lucy says, "When he said he was interested in serious acting, I said, 'Oh, really?' But he got out and worked. He surprised me. He surprised everybody. He even surprised himself." 

Still, for all her talk about the joys of getting away to her Colorado ski lodge where she does "the cooking, the washing, the socks, the things I miss - not to mention the leg breaking - there's not much chance that Lucille Ball is going to be sitting the next round out, wallowing in domesticity, In the old rocking chair. 

#   #   #

FOOTNOTES FROM THE FUTURE

(1) “Bridget Loves Bernie” was a 1972 sitcom about a mixed marriage between a Jewish man and a Catholic woman. Like Lucy and Desi, stars Meredith Baxter and David Birney were also married in real life.  Despite excellent ratings (it was the highest-rated new show of the 1972-73 season) the show was cancelled after only one season. The official reason for its cancellation was that it was scheduled between two mega-hits, “All in the Family” and “The Mary Tyler Moore Show”, and its ratings weren't strong enough considering its choice position in the line-up.  

Also, that same season, the long-running “The Dean Martin Show” (1965-1974) was cancelled. Lucille Ball had made three appearances on the show, and he also appeared on hers.  

(2) Conga drums, not bongos. It is slightly dismissive to call Desi Arnaz a bongo player. 

(3) The editor makes the error of assuming that Lucy divorced Desi and Married Gary Morton the same year. She divorced Desi in April 1960, and married Gary in November 1961, a year and a half later. 

This article was published in the Leisure section of The Vancouver (BC) Sun on June 22, 1973.  The article was written by Marci McDonald and illustrated by David Annesley. 

[nowis-scales]

Pre-Verdant Wind Endgame Update

An Update on the ol’ Three Houses Verdant Wind playthrough, since I’ve been neglecting documenting my journey properly for a bit:

• My current placement is Ch.20, so I’m only a few chapters away from the last one. It’s kind of a weird thought because I feel like I just hit the timeskip, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed that this will feel well-paced out. In terms of writing, I’m known for being a bit of a stickler for good flow. It’s why all of my fanfics take so long to update! I have to make sure my flow is perfect.

• The fact that they have been giving background information on characters has been so amazing. Learning that Raphael’s sister’s name was Maya and getting to hear about her has made me irrationally happy.

• Also, just generally, holy shit people sleep on Raphael and Leonie. Raphael often gets shoved to the side, and Leonie is treated like her only trait is liking Jeralt, and for me it all just culminates in the question of “so did you like... not do their support conversations, or...?” Seriously. I think Leonie might be one of my favourites in the game so far, and I adore Raph. He’s so sweet!

• The Flame Emperor reveal for some reason gave me “and I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids” vibes. I liked the venom Cherami Leigh had there as Rhea, too. I think I read from someone that in Japanese, Rhea’s actually super calm in that scene. I don’t think I have a preference towards the anger or the calmness, honestly. I think I just liked how smoothly the emotion came across. Plus, I’m a little biased, I’m fond of Cherami as an actress. I haven’t found a performance from her I haven’t enjoyed yet.

• I was really confused as to why Seteth showed up in my house after Chapter 12ish I think? I wasn’t expecting him to just be there after the paralogue, but I definitely wasn’t unhappy. I do like him! I just never use him, because I recruited Bernadetta and Sylvain, so I kinda have a full roster going... 

• I was also confused in the Gronder Field fight because I couldn’t see what people meant about Bernie getting set on fire. Then I remembered Bernie wasn’t on the hill because she was with me. I recruited her. Whatever this proves about me, I don’t know.

• I did end up beating Marianne’s paralogue! It actually wasn’t as hard once I levelled her up a bit and classed her to a Holy Knight. The big thing with her in that paralogue seems to be that she needs a decent amount of power and movement to really get by, so that’s what I’d recommend for anyone else playing it. Using rescue will also probably help you out, but I tried to avoid using Flayn there because it’s kinda easy to kill her. 

• Admittedly, I’m not 100% sure how I feel about the support system. In some ways, I think it’s better that not everybody has that forced S-Support. Oftentimes we were either squeezing a love confession out of two characters who were unlikely to have one, or characters with decent potential might get snubbed because their connection was less apparent to the writers (and unfortunately that still does happen in the case of same sex S-supports in 3H). Having the conversations only go to a certain point is helpful, but at the same time, the inherent romantic undertones of several of the A-supports do make things feel strange. If it weren’t for the fact that I know characters can have only one partner as their paired ending, I would think lots of them were in a polycule. Nothing wrong with that as long as everyone’s comfortable, but because I know they can only have one person in their ending, I find it pretty jarring.

• I think it was interesting that they went to do the fights for breaking into Enbarr and then taking down Edelgard back-to-back. I’m glad they did, honestly, because while I don’t usually like to do two fights next to each other unless I’m grinding, it doesn’t mess with the suspension of disbelief. It would be stupid to break into Enbarr and then just run right back to the Monastery.

• I have still not completed the randomized quest from just after the timeskip. You know, the one I was yelling about with the weeds? Still haven’t gotten any weeds. I think I might just have to give up on it. It’s hilarious that my luck is so good that it’s actually bad.

• The fact that Byleth is praised for having more of a personality than Corrin is the biggest slice of bullshit I have heard from this fanbase in a long time. Byleth is literally designed to be a silent protagonist with nothing going on with them – they even came up with a story reason for why Byleth is such a blank sack of meat! In the kindest way possible, I don’t think most people realize that they are implementing whatever personality they want onto Byleth. Personally, I don’t find anything relatable about being stoic, calm, and not inclined to anyone (until plot happens, of course). I’ve always been the overly enthusiastic and caring type, with a tendency towards nervousness. Trying to relate to Byleth was like trying to relate to the experiences of a cactus. While I definitely don’t think Corrin is the strongest of the modern FE avatars – that award goes to Robin – they still had some things I could understand and relate to. If you’re not the type of person who loves the cool, “I fight for my friends” types like Ike, though, you’re likely to have a hard time relating to Byleth. If you can manage that type of character, then you’re more likely to have present them with a personality of their own.

• Actually, while we’re on the topic of Byleth getting praised for things Corrin got dragged for, the fact that Corrin is still cited as the character who receives the most “player pandering” is ridiculous too. Do a lot of characters like Corrin? Yeah! But most of them who do are deeply traumatized in a way that inclines them specifically towards Corrin. The Nohr siblings cling to each other due to their abusive childhood, the Hoshido siblings all in some capacity seem to suffer from abandonment issues (oldest) and/or attachment issues (youngest), and the official foursome of retainers have also had some sort of abandonment struggle in their past (forced separation from parents, murdered loved ones). While the cast of Three Houses needs therapy and is traumatized too, there is no reason why the inclination moves towards Byleth. Bernadetta feels safe around them just because. Edelgard is obsessed with them just because. Marianne learns to feel better about herself just because. Why are there so many exceptions for Byleth, and so many just without explanation? I don’t hate Byleth by any means, but these two things make my opinion of them lower than it would be otherwise. It kinda sucks that my image of Byleth is tainted by the fanbase’s hypocrisy, but I know I can’t have everything.

• The gameplay overall for 3H has been pretty fun! I love the addition of the Demonic Beasts, as annoying as they are to fight. There’s a charm to having some of your stronger units working to take on the soldiers blocking the path, meanwhile your army’s more intermediate strikeforce works to keep them safe by bringing down the beast. Once you get the hang of it, gameplay with the new additions is fun. The only thing I don’t use is Divine Pulse, but that’s because I’m on Casual and usually when I want to rewind, I want to just plain start over. So I use the old “turn off and start again” trick.

• Edelgard’s death scene was actually pretty good. I must confess that I went out of my way to avoid Edelgard in the academy phase, as I knew how hard the game was going to hit me with the “she’s obessed with you” thing and I wanted to see how wonky it would feel if I didn’t speak to her much. I was right that it’s incredibly awkward in terms of writing when you haven’t spent the time with her, but surprisingly, her death scene still holds up. Good voice acting, animation, and music. My only beef with it is something they have done in FE before, and it’s something I wish they’d stop. If a character is dying, you either let them have a few last breaths after their last lines or you kill them mid-sentence. It’s probably just a personal nitpick, but hearing them get their last word out without struggle and then immediately die just makes me aware of how badly the directors wanted the whole line to be in there. I can totally understand it but I find it so troublesome in the grand scheme of things that I just can’t.

• I also like that in the fight against Edelgard, they tried to make it ambiguous who had the key. Immediately as it told me that, I decided it was Petra and ended up being right. I was kind of sad to kill her though, to be honest. I don’t know her well, but she’s probably one of the Eagles I like more.

• The fight against the Death Knight at Fort Merceus ended up being surprisingly pretty easy. In fact, while I paved the way for most of my army, Nader ended up making it to the Death Knight just as Claude did. He did most of the damage – I’m not kidding, the Death Knight was down to 1 HP – and then Claude took care of the rest. It was a weird fight. They said impregnable a lot leading up to it.

• I understand why they kill Dimitri off-screen at the Gronder Field fight, but I was admittedly a bit disappointed. Again, Salli Saffoti does a good job doing Hilda’s voice for it, but I would have liked to see it animated. It was also nice to have that little rapport with Dedue! If only we could have allied with the Lions a bit more. Everyone always says Claude and Edelgard have similar goals; however, it’s their methods that differ. Claude seems to align himself a bit closer to Dimitri, so I’m usually a bit confused by the idea that Edelgard and Claude would work together. I was spoiled on enough to know her background and story, and even so, I think that her methodology is just a bit too violent for his tastes. But that’s just my two cents.

 Alright. I think that’s about all I can drain out of my brain from the top of my head. With that, I am off to kill the slithers! We’ll see how this goes. Wish me luck!

[pixelatedrose]

Soulbound part Six

First | Previous | Part 6 | Next

Ao3 link

Masterpost

Word Count: 2,651

Pairings: Platonic LAMP, Prinxiety, Logicality, background Remile

Warnings: uncensored swearing, unsympathetic Deceit, one small mention of being shot (metaphorically), if i missed anything please please tell me and if there's something in particular you want me to tag, don't be afraid to let me know!!

Summary:

Roman Prince and Logan Rose are soulmates. They’re platonic soulmates though. They both have the same Soul mark to prove it. But they both have one other soul mark, binding them to one other person. And when they find Patton Miles, it just so happens that they’re both his soulmate. Logan being his Soulbound Soulmate, and Roman being a platonic soulmate. But something feels missing. And it feels filled, shockingly so, when they meet a certain someone a year and a half after they found each other.

Chapter 6

  It was five minutes till the bell and 15 minutes ago Roman had given up on hoping Mr. Sanders and Virgil would come back. For all he knew they could be through a magical portal and would come back a day later and twice their ages and having gone incredible life changing journeys and Virgil would have realized too late that he wanted to be Roman's bestest friend in the entire world.

  Of course if that happened Roman would be pissed cause they went on a magical journey without him!!!

  "SORRY CLASS!!" Mr. Sanders announced loudly, bursting in through the door dramatically. Roman, who had been standing near the door, jumped nearly 5 feet in the air and suppressed a shriek, having it come out as a scream instead. Not much better.

  The class laughed softly and from behind the teacher, Roman saw Virgil.

  And what a sight he was.

  His eyes were tear streaked and red, but his eyes danced with joy as he held back a laugh. It was like witnessing raining stars, if you know what that is; when the sun shines on falling hail, it looks like sparkling stars streaking from the heavens.

  There were still the remnants of tears caught in his lashes and just the tip of his nose was red, matching his cheeks. And somehow, it was only then that Roman noticed his freckles, unmasked by tears and a lack of concealer.

  He was beautiful.

  And once again Roman got caught up in the moment and had forgotten where he was and what had happened.

  Virgil seemed to have caught Roman's staring and threw his hood over his head, obscuring his eyes, however failing to hide his shy smile that he thought he was so cleverly masking.

  "Well! Sorry about that but it's all over now and I would sincerely appreciate it if you didn't mention this to people!" Mr. Sanders finally said when the class settled down.

  Rose raised her hand. "I'll be happy to keep my mouth shut, but what happened exactly?"

  Mr. Sanders hesitated and Roman saw Virgil, who was still behind in the hall, stiffen up and all joy flicker off his face, his eyes shimmering with an uncomfortable glaze.

  Roman's emotions sizzled softly under his skin and he was about to turn on his friend when Mr. Sanders beat him to it in a much kinder tone.

  "That's something that I think can stay between me and my brother. Sorry, Rose."

  Had Roman been drinking anything it would be long sprayed over the rest of the class.

  Virgil and Mr. Sanders are brothers?! I mean I sort of knew they had the same last name, but I mean so does Bernie Sanders but they're not related!!!

  Roman opened his mouth to voice his disbelief, not catching the horrified look on a small emo boy's face. "Wai-"

  Ding!! Ding!! Ding!!

  Damn that bell.

  "Alright class! That's it for today and don't forget that the syllabus needs to be signed by Monday!!" Mr. Sanders called to his students who were shuffling around the room now, grabbing their books and bags and slowly filing out of the room.

  And swept up in the crowd, Roman lost sight of a purple haired boy with pale skin and pretty blue eyes.

  Roman cursed under his breath but halfway back home he silently blessed that the universe swept the small boy away from him. Virgil had obviously had a trying day. He didn't need a near stranger nagging him for information on his personal life after such a day.

~~•~~

  Virgil could have melted into the ground then and there when Thomas had announced to the whole class that they were brothers. Luckily the bell saved him and before Roman inevitably came looking for him (he had every other time of the day) Virgil slipped into the crowd and disintegrated his presence.

  He slipped into a side hall and watched Roman pass him by, a look of hot disappointment tracing his features. 

  It stung a little to watch, but Virgil could deal with a tinge of regret for a few seconds if it meant he could escape the drama of the day for a breath or two.

  After everyone was out of sight he turned around and went back into the classroom.

  "There you are!" Thomas said happily. "I thought you'd ended up running home. Which would have been fine I mean, it's your choice after all." He rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish and sloppy grin plastered on his face awkwardly.

  Virgil nodded. "Yeah it's fine. I want to talk to you about the letters anyway." Sudden realization dawned Virgil's mind and he frantically ran a hand through his hair. "Oh god of course I overlooked things!!"

  "Hey, is everything okay, Virgil?"

  "Yeah...I mean no! I mean- ugh!!" Virgil threw his hood over his head once again. "Mom will freak out if she doesn't know where I am…" He looked up at Thomas who had disappointment glazing his eyes. Virgil tried to correct himself. "Oh!! No no, no I'll just tell her I'm at a friend's house!!" He nodded to himself. "Yeah that will work!"

  Thomas looked at him. "Alright, I'll be in my office cleaning stuff up and then we can go if you're absolutely sure."

  Virgil nodded and pulled out his phone. He opened the messaging app and clicked on his mother's profile picture. He never did like calling people. Even his mom. He'd rather send a text and plan out what he's going to say rather than be put on the spot.

  He typed out a quick message and pressed send. Two seconds later Virgil's phone lit up with the call menu. Mom was written across the top and his mother's smiling face was flashing at him.

  Dammit, mom! Don't you know that texting is easier?!

  He answered the phone bringing the violent buzzing to a stop.

  "Hheeeyyyy mom!" Virgil said awkwardly. Not that his mother noticed apparently.

  "Virgey, honey! Tell me what is it that you're doing?" She sounded genuinely confused and Virgil had to hold himself back from facepalming.

  "Mom, I sent you a text…"

  "Oh I know, baby, it's just that mummy would rather hear it from you and not some computer thing."

  "Mom it's literally the same thing."

  "Oh it is? Oh...Well I wanted to hear your voice anyway!"

  Virgil rubbed the bridge of his nose before returning to the phone. "It's fine mom! I just wanted to go and hang out and study at a friend's house. That's all."

  There was a pause on the line and Virgil knew he'd met his doom. Of course she wasn't going to let him!! He should have just walked straight home and not looked back, he should have-

  "Oh honey!! You've already made friends?!"

  It was like being shot through the skull. Virgil you idiot you don't have any friends. How can you go over to a friend's house if the friends don't fucking exist.

  "Yep!! I've already made a friend!" Virgil lied through his teeth, sweating bullets.

  "Aww!! My baby's growing up and making friends!! What's their name? What are you studying?? Who are they???"

  Shit, shit, shit, fuck, uhhhh….. Virgil thought desperately of someone he could use as a friend. And before he had completed the thought in his mind, his mouth started forming words.

  "Roman Prince." Virgil said confidently.

  Wait fuck no-

  "Oh that's lovely! Well you have fun with your new friend darling dear!! I'm expecting you home by 5:30 for dinner!!" His mother squealed, the way she half sighed half giggled the word 'Friend' sending warm shivers across his cheeks. He knew he didn't have any friends but it wasn't something to swoon over!! Virgil heard the call end and he was left with a hot, embarrassed blush across his face and his mouth open like he was ready to catch something in it.

  "She was overly excited and way too quick to accept it wasn't she?" Thomas asked, coming out of his office with a shoulder bag.

  Virgil shook himself back to the present and nodded his head. "Yeah…"

  "Yep she's like that. Doesn't care where you are but cares way too much about what you're doing. She'll probably try and read any journals you keep tonight. Either that or she won't leave you alone during dinner."

  "She was like that when you were a kid too?"

  "Oh yeah. Deva doesn't seem to have changed much, if I'm being honest. And it's only more clear now why dad left her…"

  "Oh...She's...She's not that bad, is she?"

  "I mean in my opinion yes. But I can't force you to think things."

  "Right…"

  Virgil arrived at Thomas's place after a car ride full of belting out Disney songs as loud as possible and talking about the darker meanings behind each movie, and Virgil just felt that much more comfortable around his brother.

  "And welcome to my humble abode, brother Virgil!" Thomas said theatrically.

  Virgil rolled his eyes. "I see why you're the theater teacher, now."

  Thomas smiled before cupping his hands around his mouth. "GUSS-GUSS, JAQ, I'M HOME!!"

  "You have roommates?"

  "Yeah but they don't pay rent. And they're a mess to clean up after."

  "That doesn't sound like they're good roomies…"

  "Oh they make up for it by being cute."

  Thomas walked up the stairs waving Virgil to follow. He rounded into a room that was sure to be his and flicked on the lights, strutting over to a cage on the far wall.

  Virgil took the time to drink in the room and Thomas' s house. It was nice, and it smelled more like home than "home" ever did to Virgil.

  Thomas returned holding two fluffy objects in his hands. "This is Guss-Guss and Jaq!" He said bubbly. He held out his hands which were clasped warmly and safely around two mice. "Like I said, they make up for not paying rent by being cute!"

  If Virgil didn't have pride he would have cooed and melted at the sight of the puffballs. "Can I…?" He gestured in an odd way that somehow got his point across.

  "Yes! Yes you can hold them!" Thomas was delighted.

  He handed Virgil the two soft rodents and Virgil squeaked in delight, reminiscent of the mice themselves.

~~•~~

  An hour later, after eating leftover cake, watching Thomas try (and fail) to slide down his banister majestically, and talking about emo bands they were (or are in Virgil's case) into, Virgil and Thomas sat on the couch in the living room, Virgil absently feeding Guss-Guss little bits of coconut shavings.

  "So," Thomas began, Jaq falling asleep in his shirt pocket. "You wanted to talk about the letters? What do you want to talk about?"

  "I don't really know…" Virgil confessed. "I guess I just wanted to talk about them to get to know you better, but I don't know...I already feel like I know you." Virgil paused to pick up the mouse in his lap and delicately placed him on his shoulder. "The other thing was that I wanted to answer all the questions you asked me. But it feels silly just listing them off myself, so-"

  "What's your favorite color?" Thomas interrupted Virgil, a faint and warm smile on his face.

  "What?"

  "What's your favorite color? It was one of the first questions I asked in a letter I think." Thomas's words were soft but his eyes were beaming, as if he was the most clever person ever. "So. What's your favorite color?"

  Virgil smiled widely. "Purple!"

  Two hours later Virgil was being dropped off. He had talked the entire time about things they did, stories Thomas had missed out on, and Virgil's interests. It so happened that Thomas shared a lot of them. They almost got caught up talking about Avatar the last airbender for nearly half an hour towards the end of their talk, and still had a million things they wanted to know.

  "Hey drop me off here!" Virgil asked.

  "Why? Your house is still a block away."

  "I know, but I don't want mom to know I was with you."

  "Ah. That makes a little more sense." Thomas pulled over and let Virgil out of the car.

  Virgil did a double take before running up to the drivers side window and reaching through, giving his older brother the best hug he could from where he was.

  "Thanks, Thomas. I'll see you tomorrow!"

  "See you tomorrow, Virge!!" Thomas called out to the purple haired boy.

  Virge… Virgil had never actually been called Virge before. His mother always ended it with a cutesie "y" at the end, making him feel like a toddler.

  He found that he enjoyed the way Virge sounded.

  It suited him.

  He liked it.

~~•~~

  A boy called Deceit sat in his room thinking. He wanted to get the purple haired boy to be his new puppet friend victim. He stood up and crossed his room, fishing a clean notebook out of an all too messy desk, in the process disturbing the bracelets on his wrist causing a hint of a tattoo to catch the light.

  The boy called Deceit panicked and dropped the notebook, slapping a hand down around his wrist. He took a few calming breaths and adjusted his bracelets again. He picked up his notebook and began writing everything he knew about the purple haired boy down.

  He's reserved.

  But not afraid to talk back.

  He's been through shit and I'll put him through hell.

  He seems fairly depressed and easy to manipulate.

  Use that against him.

  Or don't.

  He's drawn to Roman Prince. That's a problem. I can probably fix that with time.

  He's the new drama teacher's little brother. And at least I'm not an idiot like the rest of this dull lot and I know who the new teach is.

  I can use that too.

  A short boy who was called Deceit thought back to Roman Prince and how he was tied up in all of this when a grand idea struck him as he scribbled out what he had previously written about the semi-popular boy.

  Oh I can use that.

  Oh now this will be a fun game to play!!

~~•~~

  Patton got home from school that day, a little sad that he wasn't able to walk home with Logan that day. His boyfriend had said that he wanted to start going to Chess Club as soon as possible and heaven knows that Chess Club is B O R I N G.

  It had been a particularly odd day for Patton, emotions-wise. He had a slight prickle of dread in him for the first half, followed by tiny warm fuzzies that didn't last too long. That was replaced by more dread bubbles that burst into full blown betrayal and regret by the time 6th period was rolling around.

  It had evened out though, Patton felt unusually happy and content for the rest of the day. It had been a weird few days, but it wasn't something he could help.

  Hormones, amiright?

  Patton flopped down onto his bed and sighed happily. It had been a long while since he had been this blissfully content with his life. He glanced over at his fishtank- He was allergic to cats and his parents wouldn't let him have a dog no matter how much he begged, so he settled for fish.

  Fish and dogs were basically the same thing, right? I mean there was such a thing as a catfish so dogfishes must also exist.

  Patton giggled happily to himself as he imagined a fish on a leash, floppy little dog ears sprouting from its scaly head.

  Something felt right.

  Something felt calm.

  It felt like there were going to be good days ahead.

  And Patton couldn't wait to greet them.

Authors notes:

So uh yeah good news. This chapter WASN'T late!! In fact it's EARLY!! Yeah so i got hit with some mad insomnia last night and ended up writing a whole bunch. It's not a long chapter, but i think it's a good break from all the angst. Don't get too comfy though~

Anyway, love you all and stay fresh and minty my shiny folks!! 💛

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[catb-fics]

It’s Like I’m On The Outside

This is a preview for the sequel I’ll be writing for All The Mixed Feelings in the new year...

So when we left Abby and Van at the end of ATMF they’d FINALLY got together and admitted their love for each other, The Balcony was almost written (just missing a certain acoustic track) and Van was just about to go off on tour...

Abby

I opened my eyes, squinting against the glare that was intruding through the gap in the curtains. The first thing I saw was him. Van. Hair strewn across the pillow, long lashes fanned out on his cheeks, mouth slightly agape. A little snoring noise emanated from him each time he took a breath. I smiled to myself. Seeing Van so serene and peaceful was a rare treat.

I rolled over carefully and reached for my phone from the bedside cabinet to check the time. It was early still, but my heart sank as I realised that today couldn't be like every other day in the last two weeks. Today was different. The band were flying off to Japan that evening to play a string of shows, then they'd be moving on to Australia. Three weeks they'd be gone. My mind was full of worries, imagining constantly checking my phone and missing calls due to time differences.

For saying we'd only been together for a few weeks I'd gotten used to our little routine. Waking up next to him and lazy mornings spent tangled up in each other's arms. Tea and pastries at my favourite cafe in town or lunches we'd make together in Van's kitchen. Cuddles on the sofa watching films and trash TV. Baths together. Showers together. Everything... together.

Of course I knew it couldn't last. This blissful little cocoon we'd shut ourselves away in wasn't real life. Even without the Japan/Australia tour looming I knew that the real test of our relationship would come in the weeks and months to follow, with Van's hectic schedule of gigs and appearances following the recording and release of their debut album.

I felt movement beside me and rolled on to my side, watched Van's eyes flutter open and a smile emerge as the sleep fell away from him and he saw me lying there.

"Hmmm... morning love..." His voice was slightly croaky, thick with sleep.

"I woke up before you for once. That never happens."

I propped myself up on an elbow and reached over with my free hand, placing it on his bare chest, fingers gently toying with his chest hair.

"I prefer to wake up first," he said. "I love to watch you sleep."

I giggled. "Okay... that doesn't sound creepy AT ALL!"

A lazy smile spread over his face. "It's not creepy!" He protested. "I just like to watch you sleep 'cause you're so beautiful and you don't even know it."

Now I was grinning too. It was impossible to be anything other than happy when I was around Van. I felt like I'd been walking around in some kind of dream for the past two weeks. I was just frightened that at some point I'd have to wake up and the reality might not live up to the dream. But right now I didn't want to think about that.

His hands slipped around my hips, pulling me closer to him, his head burrowing into my neck. "God I'm gonna miss this so bad," he murmured against my skin, making me giggle.

"That tickles!"

"You're ticklish everywhere!" He laughed, hands moving up to lightly brush my sides under the t-shirt of his that I was wearing to demonstrate exactly how ticklish I was, and I wriggled to the side out of his grasp.

"Van! Stop it! I know your game! We can't spend all day in bed today. You've got loads to do. You've not even started packing yet. And you said you couldn't find your passport the other day. You need to look for it. What happens if you can't find it?"

I was straight-faced now, trying to sit up in bed whilst Van tried to pull me back down under the covers. "C'mon Abby... this is the last time we're gonna get for weeks..."

"No!" I said, trying to maintain a serious face whilst I was dying to laugh underneath.

Just seeing Van's daft expression, his over-dramatic pouty face and wide-eyes was almost enough to make me give up and flop back down into the bed, but I knew that would mean another hour could easily slip away. Time seemed to have a habit of doing that with Van.

"You need to shower... go!" I commanded, and he reluctantly sat up in bed, rubbing his face with his hands.

"I know, I know!" He grumbled, and then he looked at me, his voice raising up hopefully. "You gonna join me?"

I pretended to consider his request long and hard, scrunching up my face, but I'd already made up my mind. Showering with Van was one of those intimate moments I thought I'd never be able to get enough of.

"Come on then..." I was already pulling the duvet to one side and getting to my feet, Van grinning widely as we made for the bathroom.

We both undressed and Van started the shower, letting it run until the room was filled with steam. I stepped into the bath and under the jet of water, tipping my head back and letting it cascade over me, soaking my hair. When I looked back Van was just standing there, not making any effort to join me, just watching.

"Are you coming in then or what?"

"Yeah... I just wanna remember you... just like this. For when I'm away. You're fucking breathtaking you know."

He let his eyes trail over my body. I was still a little self-conscious around him but I was getting better. And I still had to make an effort to bite my tongue when I automatically went to rebuff a compliment he'd given me. He complimented me a lot and I found it uncomfortable at first, still struggling with my confidence, but as I was starting to learn, that was just his way.

He stepped into the shower and he slipped behind me, wrapping his hands around my waist, his body flush against mine. I leant my head back, resting it on his shoulder and we stood for a while, just enjoying the feeling of being so close, chatting about everything we needed to do before his flight that evening.

Eventually I grabbed the shampoo and Van lathered up my hair. I complained he was too lanky to reach so he did his own, then I squirted some shower gel on to a sponge and started to rub the suds over his chest.

He chuckled. "Why have you always gotta wash me, huh?"

"You love it," I smiled up at him. "And I just love taking care of you, that's all."

I followed the contours of his bare chest, down across his stomach, the jut of his hips. He tipped his head back, closing his eyes. "Mmm... maybe you should move in with me. It could be like this all the time..."

I stopped still, stunned, watched his face for a little grin to appear to tell me he was joking but none appeared. Was he serious? His eyes flicked open and he looked at me, taking in my surprised expression.

"Too soon?"

I screwed up my face a little. "Van, it's been like two weeks."

He took the sponge out of my hands, started rubbing it gently along my shoulders. "Sorry... you know what I'm like. I just get ahead of myself. It's like with the band. I'm always planning about three years in front. I can see it in my head, all laid out."

I smiled, turned around when he indicated so he could scrub my back. Now I was facing away from him I was brave enough to ask. "So... you got our plans all laid out too then?"

"Maybe...."

I rolled my shoulders as I felt the sponge fall away and his hands replace it, the soothing feeling of his fingers kneading my skin. "Mmm, that's nice... well, go on then..."

"I'll just scare you off," he chuckled, making me even more intrigued.

"Promise you won't, I'm not going anywhere," I assured him.

"Maybe we'll get a nice house in the country or something, or on the coast." His voice was soft, kind of faraway like he was dreaming. I just stood still, trying hard not to react even though my inner self was practically doing backflips with a disbelieving kind of happiness. I didn't say anything, waiting for him to carry on, and he did.

"Maybe a couple of little McCanns running around, eh? Can just see it. A boy and a girl."

Now I was really having a hard time not reacting, feeling a little overwhelmed, sure he was just joking. I decided to make light of it. "No way, definitely two girls. I couldn't cope with another one of you!"

I could hear the grin in his voice without looking at him. "You can't get enough of me babe!"

His hands slipped lower now, running gently down my spine, sending a little shiver through me. "So... seeing as you've thought this through in so much detail, what are we gonna call the kids then?"

"That's easy. Bernie for a boy, Mary for a girl... hold up... what was your mum's name? Theresa wasn't it? Maybe Mary Theresa?"

I giggled. "That's sweet but it's a bit... old-fashioned. And I like Sam for a boy..."

"No fucking way!" He cut me off, fingers curling around my hips.

I laughed again. "I can't believe we're discussing this!"

I felt his lips connect with my shoulder and plant a soft kiss there, and then he moved along in the direction of my neck, leaving a trail. "Well... I'm sure we'll think of something... we can give 'em some wacky celebrity names or something... some stupid shit..."

Now I was really laughing, but my laughter got cut short when his mouth moved up to my neck, and his sweet kisses became more passionate, his lips smacking against my damp skin. His fingers slipped forward from my hips, down between my thighs. "Mmm... Van..." I sighed, my hands shooting forward to brace myself against the tiles as he caressed me.

Minutes later we were lost in each other, bodies slick under the spray, hands and lips everywhere, memorising every dip, every curve, every blemish, hoping we could re-live these moments when we were thousands of miles apart in the weeks ahead.

"I love you so fucking much," Van murmured into my neck when we were finally sated, still panting a little, coming down from our highs. "I swear these next few weeks are gonna be the longest of my life."

I felt tears spring to my eyes, blinked a few times to clear them, wrapped my arms around his waist, holding him tight. "I'm not gonna lie Van. I'm a little scared. Last time..."

"Hey..." he said, interrupting me, pulling back so he could look me straight in the eye. "This is nothing like last time okay? We've talked about this haven't we? Like you said if we're feeling worried about something or pissed off or anything, we just pick up the phone, yeah?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, feeling the emotion already thick at the back of my throat.

"Come on... let's get out," he said, reaching forward to switch off the spray.

* * * * *

The rest of the day was hectic, Van practically tore the whole house apart trying to find his passport which he eventually discovered in Larry's hand luggage.

"Well... I know what you're like Van! I have to think of everything don't I? You'd forget your bloody head if it wasn't screwed on!"

"Fucks sake Larry, you could have told me you had it. I've been proper shitting myself not being able to find it!"

Van was glaring at Larry, itching for a fight, so I stepped forward. "Oi you two. Don't start now. You're gonna be stuck sitting together on a fourteen hour flight later."

Larry scowled at Van and I laughed inside. They really were like brothers. They bickered over everything but then they had an inseparable bond which was heart-warming.

Van was very last-minute getting packed, and I found myself getting exasperated at his haphazard approach to choosing suitable clothing.

"Van... you're going to Australia, not the Antarctic, why are you packing so many jumpers?" I cried in frustration as I watched him slinging clothing into his case without folding anything.

"Ah... it'll be fine, don't worry..."

"Van! Mini bus is here!" Larry suddenly bellowed upstairs, causing Van to curse under his breath and start tossing toiletries randomly into the case without really paying much attention.

I could feel my anxiety rising just watching him taking such a lackadaisical approach to such an important trip, and started fussing around.

"Stop flapping love, I can always buy stuff there. C'mon, you ready?"

I took a deep breath, nodded, again feeling my throat tightening at the thought of saying goodbye at the airport. "Let's go..."

To be continued in the new year...

[bloodybells1]

Lucky Dog

                    No philosophers so thoroughly comprehend us as dogs and horses.

                                                                                            —HERMAN MELVILLE

I look into the eyes of an animal. 

I am in the habit of doing this with a little Brussels Griffon by the name of Casca, my canine, whose gentle orbs and spunk and flexibility make me forget that he is in fact a dog and not a cross between an Ewok and a Koala.

Not right now, though. These are different eyes, the ones of a Maltese crossed with a West Highland Terrier, peering through a curtain of matted hair draping over his brow, as he lays back on my futon. He has jumped up here as I lay down on it, after having flipped onto his back in a split second, in what seemed to have been a familiar move, so natural and quick. It was a gesture of near total compliance. He was egging me to stroke his belly. 

There was something deep about his gaze, somewhat simian in intelligence, communicating a kinship, but difficult to pin down. If this creature hadn’t the capacity to at least conceive of complex, putatively human emotions and other states of mind—like fear, relief, care, or pleasure—lacking only a verbal means to communicate them, then everything that I was seeing in his eyes, the layers of thought and feeling, were just a coincidence of Mother Nature, some thing that animals do which I don’t have access to, but which I insist I do in the form of anthropomorphization. 

Yet, that doesn’t seem possible: the facsimile is too close. These have to be the same things, or similar things, that we humans feel, that I am now sensing coming from this upturned canine lying on my lap on the futon.

At this point in the story, the dog’s name is Sammy. 

Sheri, the woman who’d found him on the street, had posted on the NextDoor forum hoping that someone might claim him. She’d grabbed him on the corner of Broadway and 177th. The dog was in a panic, chaotically searching for his owner, crossing the street with his leash in tow, and she’d scooped him up and brought him to her nearby apartment. Sheri’s domestic situation precluded a canine presence: she wanted to find the owner of the dog, but more urgently, she needed someone to foster him in the meantime. Otherwise, she’d have to put him in a shelter. My girlfriend Bernie and I had taken pity and responded, offering ourselves as foster parents for the interim. We’d hold him until the owner showed up or until he’d otherwise find a permanent home. 

We’d started calling him Buddy, but Sheri had asked he be named something with an “S,” so Bernie suggested “Sammy.” 

And Sammy is taking this house by storm.

As it turns out, I’d met Sheri once before, though neither of us know this during our Zoom call. She’s leaning back on the headboard of her bed with the soon-to-be monikered Sammy laying supine, his favorite position, by her side. Bernie’s been texting with Sheri and now she and I are talking to Sheri over Zoom to take a look at Sammy, who is all but glowing through the screen, despite his matted hair which, even on the call, looks as though it's never once been brushed. 

I’m having that funny feeling you get when someone seems familiar and you can’t quite place why, until later on in the conversation Sheri tells us her address and a little about her job and I put two and two together and realize she’s the wife of a good friend, a fellow actor and writer named Michael who lives in the neighborhood. I know that Michael’s wife is a make-up artist for various TV shows and—bam—the memory of having briefly met her outside her apartment building once before enters my head.

“Oh my God, this is going to sound creepy but I know who you are, Sheri. I know your husband. I know your son’s name. I’ve actually met your son. Benjamin, right? I’ve been to your house.”

Sheri’s jaw creeps open in amazement over the coincidence and I add with ironic omniscience, “I know everything about your life.” 

“Wait . . . what? For real?” Sheri is having a hard time processing all of the information but immediately knows what to do next, which is to walk out of her bedroom and open Michael’s study. My friend’s familiar bookshelves and wall art come into view of the camera.

“Honey, look who I have on Zoom.” 

Michael turns around and sees who’s on the other side and yells out my name, happy over the coincidence, as I am as well. 

We come right over to pick up Sammy and it’s a nice reunion during a bleak pandemic year when I’ve been seeing very little of people outside of my three-block radius. 

It seems that Sammy’s a bit of a good luck charm. He’s bringing people together. Bernie and I are taking him around the neighborhood, to the park just a block above our apartment and everyone is asking who this precious, white-haired creature is. 

“We don’t know!” we keep saying. “Our friend found him in the street.”

“Are you going to keep him?”

“We don’t think so.”

“But he’s getting along so well with Casca.”

Indeed he is. He’s friendly. But Sammy’s also timid and nervous. He is after all, a strange dog in a strange land. I can’t imagine what must be going through his head. Who are these strange people? What is this strange neighborhood? Where are my owners?

That’s the thing. The owners. 

We’re not so sure whether, in fact, there are any. We hear stories about how animals are often deposited in the city, right on the street, by callous owners with little patience—and little humanity—who then drive off and disappear, leaving the poor animals to be discovered by locals. 

Some of Sammy’s details align with those stories. He was discovered not far from the George Washington Bridge, which would lend credence to the account of a disinterested owner from some place in, say, Westchester, who’d decided that Sammy had become a liability they could no longer sustain and who had left him in Washington Heights just before taking the quick way out into New Jersey over the bridge. Sammy’s coat is also completely tangled, with small knots, very much like dreadlocks, peppered throughout, with dirt and lint encrusted within, which suggests a type of neglect that might align with the story of someone who no longer wanted him. He also smells profoundly of urine, though this is likely to have happened from having to spend a night alone, if that is even the case. We just don’t know. Finally, it is abundantly clear that Sammy has not been neutered.

But there’re other details that don’t lend credence to that story. It only takes a couple of hours with him to see that Sammy, who is responsive and trusting and loving, had been cared for deeply by whomever had had him. He was loved. A quick pull on his lower lip reveals pristinely clean teeth, as well. Yes, he’s nervous, and he keeps pulling on his leash like a caught snapper. Every time we walk him he juts around like he’s on a desperate hunt. He has an air of desperation, a vigilance for possibly familiar faces that might pop out any second. But he looks at you with an unmistakable sense of domesticity. And he’s clearly house trained. 

Sammy definitely has an owner. Someone who loves him. Of that we are certain. 

So then why was he running around on the street? Sheri says that when she grabbed him on the sidewalk he was so scared and confused that he jumped into a car, idling and double-parked, at random, surprising the passengers before being pulled back out by Sheri. It’s obvious that he was in a car just before he was lost. He’s looking at every car, every vehicle that passes by, almost as if to check the make and model, hoping against hope it’s the one that left him in this frightening place.

I think back to a woman I used to care for. I was volunteering for an agency, ComForCare, seeing to social needs for seniors, primarily those living alone. She lived in an elder care facility in the Upper West Side. She wasn’t all that much older, but she had a severe case of schizophrenia, for which she was heavily medicated. She was a lovely lady with a sense of humor and a deep appreciation of art. We used to go to the movies and to the Met. She had difficulty holding conversations for a sustained period and she hoarded. It had been bad enough that her old apartment had needed to be professionally cleaned out. I saw it once and was given a window into what real hoarding looks like: stacks of books up to the ceiling, along with opaque grime on the walls. Still, she was lucid and functional enough to be able to take her car out when she wanted to go for a drive, she could order food and sit through a movie and extemporize about it afterwards and she could use the bus if she needed to commute around the city. 

It occurred to me that, had she been moved to, she could have had a dog. She could’ve seen to its needs, fed it, stroked it, watered it, and otherwise cared for it. But the dog would, like Sammy, have borne traces of a style of care that is not regarded as, shall we say, complete. 

My theory was that someone with a condition misplaced him. There’re all sorts of humane concerns regarding cleanliness and desexing which take only a couple of Google searches to discover. Therefore, so I reasoned, though Sammy was loved, he nonetheless had been neglected, and only a mental illness may account for the discrepancy. This person likely became disoriented in an unfamiliar neighborhood; perhaps they’d needed to pull over unexpectedly, and hadn’t realized that all of a sudden Sammy wasn’t in the car and drove away. They hadn’t realized it until it was too late, and were now frantically searching around for him, most likely not able to make the right calls to the right places, for “obvious” reasons. The poor owner, I thought, unable to do the right thing. Or maybe they were about to make the call to us. Who really knew? We were just theorizing. 

Or maybe I had it all wrong and it was actually much simpler. Maybe the owner just straight up forgot about Sammy. 

Sheri’s put up fliers within a two-block radius of where she found Sammy. She’s gone into several vets office’s in the area with news of the found dog. Bernie takes a picture of Sammy on our couch, staring at the camera as though his owner might pop out of the lens. He looks lost, even though he’s been found. He is lost, of course; but we have found him. And we’re seeing to it that he gets to where he belongs. So we follow suit with Sheri’s efforts and post the picture of Sammy with a notice on the largest Facebook group for lost dogs in Manhattan. We also register him with a local shelter which will post his photo and his information on their website. We’re like scientists at the SETI Institute, sending out radio waves into the vast ether, expecting a response from the deep, hoping that if there’s anyone out there searching for us, they will now be able to find us.

We’ve given Sammy a much-needed bath. I didn’t want to just throw him into the bathtub after all that he’s been through, so I waited several smelly hours while he lay next to me before we scrubbed him down. He ran around the apartment like he had a rash, scraping and rubbing his body against any surface he could find, the bottom of the sofa, the rug, the futon, while we chased him around with a towel, trying our best to alleviate that weird feeling dogs get when they’re wet. Casca, ever the Ewok, just sits, enraptured by the sight, like an older brother watching from the sidelines. After Sammy calms down I do my best to brush his hair but the dreadlocks make a proper brushing impossible. Still, he looks much better. In light of everything else it’s pretty inconsequential, but I go ahead and schedule an appointment with Casca’s groomer. I want Sammy to look as spiffy as possible in case the owners don’t show and we need to start finding him a new home.

Bernie takes off from work and brings Sammy to the vet. We need to find out if he has a HomeAgain microchip, that tiny piece of tech injected in between a puppy’s two scapulae, often during the first vet visit, the universally recognized system for canine and feline identification. If he has a microchip, it will lead us to his owner. They could be just a phone call away. 

Bernie’s away for hours. Patients are not permitted inside the vet’s office during the pandemic and instead must wait outside while the dog is seen indoors. Vets are overloaded (everyone’s getting a dog for companionship during quarantine). Wait times are much longer than usual. She’s basically gone half the day. I’m sitting in the apartment with Casca, who is oddly quiet. I know him well enough to know the kind of quiet he’s in. It’s the “where’s Sammy” type. I have it too. I’m actually missing Sammy.

But it soon won’t matter that Sammy, indeed, has never been given a microchip. 

It’s the day after the vet visit and I’m sitting with Sammy in my study, his head resting on the futon by my side. Bernie comes in with the news: “Sheri says that the owners have contacted her.” 

My heart sinks. It’s Day Three of the Sammy Show and I take note of my awful disappointment, how crestfallen I now am, that the possibility he may be out of our lives very soon is here. 

“Sheri’s asking them questions, to prove they’re the rightful owners,” Bernie adds. 

“Yes,” I respond, in a tone not unlike hasty justice seekers at a trial convinced that the murderer has been found and that the jury must cast its verdict responsibly. “We need to see pictures and they have to confirm the color of his harness and leash.” 

I catch myself sounding stern and paternalistic, like an eye witness to the crime defying an alternative account. Who are these people claiming to be his owners? I’m not about to let him go. The killer has been found, I think to myself, Sammy was abandoned and justice demands that he be fostered and adopted. Whoever says otherwise—like the killer claiming innocence—has the burden of proof against them.

Sammy senses something’s afoot. We know this about him already. Earlier in the day Bernie had gone out on an errand and about a minute before she returned, Sammy had “sensed” that she was headed back and sat upright with his ears pricked. One of my favorite thinkers, a spiritualist-scientist by the name of Rupert Sheldrake, ran a study about this phenomenon and published his results in a book called, unironically, Dogs that Know When Their Owners are Coming Home. Apparently, it’s a thing, and Sammy, by my estimation, is particularly tuned to this frequency. 

He’s whining and agitated all of a sudden, as Bernie and Sheri are on the phone with each other to compare notes on the photos the owners claiming him have sent. He really knows something’s up when we bring his harness into the room to compare it with the photo. He’s hopping off and back on the futon in a restless state that seems to signify his premonition that the family he loves dearly is one step closer to him finally. This is a dog who has not let go of his owners and has stayed vigilant, even as he’s been nothing but a sweetheart during his stay, a stay that is now painfully coming to an end. 

The photos lineup perfectly. He looks a little different, but that’s because they were taken when he’d just been groomed. But his harness is identical. There’s no denying it. These are the owners. 

Bernie and I look at each other and shake our heads. Like some waking dream, we become aware of a journey, a kind of psychic binge, for which we’d previously had no awareness. Without knowing, we’d consented to fork over our brains and our hearts to go on an emotional rollercoaster, a ride that is now slowing down and edging into the landing bay. It had all been going too fast for us to take real notice of what it was all about. Only in the end do we now see that we’d lost ourselves. 

Now that we know that Sammy will be back with a family who loves him, whom he wants to be with more than us, that we are no longer Sammy’s protectors, we let the judgement rip: 

“What the hell? How do you lose a dog? I can’t believe this! This is so upsetting. The negligence!” 

Things go negative. 

It never mattered while he was in our charge. Negative thoughts were like passing clouds. We wanted to keep the skies clear for Sammy. He was our responsibility and we wanted to protect him. He’d already been through enough. So we didn’t care too much for passing judgement. After all, we weren’t even sure who these people were or what were the circumstances. It was all speculation. What mattered was Sammy’s safety. 

But the moment has arrived and therefore we feel free to be angry. We want justice for our pains. We want accountability. All of a sudden, we are keenly preoccupied with the wages of the vast emotions we have expended on Sammy. 

Then it passes, the initial blast of ire gives way to reason. We come to our senses. 

“Of course mistakes happen.”  

And who are we to judge? 

And so we are left with the brutal phenomenon, unadorned by the needs of the dog, the care which we’d now finally finished giving. He is safe now. We can be free to look after ourselves. The only thing that’s left is grief. 

“Tell them to come meet us as soon as possible,” I tell Bernie, meaning that she should tell Sheri, who’s in contact with them. They are desperate to get their dog back. A couple who live in New Jersey. The husband is texting with Sheri, begging to be allowed to pick him up. His family has been broken by the loss and he wants to heal, he says. I can’t deny the obvious show of vulnerability. I want the reunion to happen as soon as possible. But first I need to eat.

The tears flow down my cheeks swiftly. We finish dinner in silence as Sammy watches us patiently from the sofa. I have to look upwards to try to think of other things, to stay the onrush of salty teardrops. We gather our things and put on our coats and I almost lose it and let a couple quakes of my sternum pass through me before pulling myself together. 

It’s that old feeling again, like when my old boy Gaius passed two years ago from lymphoma after just having turned thirteen. That sudden loss. That sharp removal. The very quick evacuation of something within, and the consequent hollowness that emerges, as though you were a sack of something meaty and full, a container that held large books or hefty Christmas toys, only for that container to be suddenly relinquished of its contents, contents which evaporate somehow, now nowhere to be found, leaving you with a newfound emptiness. 

What is this bond, this decade-and-a-half long relationship that severs with such sudden brutality? 

Why do we do it, undertake to care for these creatures? Creatures, by the way, who inevitably will betray us with their short lives, and, furthermore, whom we shall likewise betray by replacing them with descendants after they die, with heirs to their vests and doggy bowls and chew toys and harnesses who are themselves doomed to renew the fifteen year cycle. We can’t refurbish our pets, so we hand them in to God and buy a new one from the breeder or adopt one from the shelter. They last as long as the average car, which we also replace with a shiny, new version. When Gaius passed I lasted only a month without a dog, unlike, say, some of my neighbors who could not live down the memory of their old dog, who could not so readily renew the pact. 

Sometimes I see my rush to replace as a sign of disingenuousness, for if the love were as true as I say to myself and the world that it in fact is, how could I replace my dog? Aren’t I lying to myself in thinking that Casca, who came into the house as a two-month-old ball of fur, practically on the heels of Gaius’ deathbed, receives an authentic love? Isn’t love more weighty? doesn’t it come with heavier strings? Are these just playthings that garner my obsession and adoration, but not my true heart? Isn’t this a fantasy? Aren’t they just animals, expendable lifeforms, just pets? When I exchanged those pregnant glances with Sammy on my futon, wasn’t I just staring into the eyes of a mere animal? 

There lies an epistemic gulf between Homo sapiens and Canis familiaris. It is a relation bereft of semiotics. They don’t even know what is happening around them. We, as their keepers, hold the light of truth, we grant them access to the benefits of our civilization, the very same benefits that first brought them to us, when scraps thrown from the Paleolithic hearth lured those friendlier wolves, those beasts who’d decided to sever their Darwinian program and break for the humans, who’d opted for the good life outside the law of the jungle and chose to linger with these powerful pack leaders in control of fire and food. They will never know any of this. Unlike our children, whom we may teach our ways, into whose brains we implant the needs of our legacies, whom we teach our languages and whose cooperation we induce, who will be free to continue it or change it or revolutionize it as will be their wish after we pass, our dogs share no such beneficence and will live out their days in the dark, their small brains incapable of absorbing the mandates of our times. Everything they live for dies with them. Nothing gets left behind. No records. No tapes. Nothing they can fashion in their names, no society they can consciously call their own to leave behind. 

The fact, then, that, in the midst of this gap, this uncrossable line, something does indeed cross, makes the thing that crosses, that special communication, that comprehension of which Melville spoke, all the more special. Even as there is nothing to say between us but that nonetheless just about everything is said speaks to the power of connection. 

Whenever a dog looks into your eyes it is saying this: 

I have no need for your ways. They are nothing to me. I do not even know what they are. 

And I do not care. I only care about this. 

The artist Banksy used to share uplifting memes on his Twitter account. One of them showed a picture of a man and a dog on a hillside overlooking a bay with ships on the horizon and two thought clouds positioned over their heads respectively. The human’s thought cloud was full of worry and preoccupation: will they call back? Have I paid the rent? What should I do after this? The canine’s was simply a facsimile of the very scene before which the two were sitting: a bay with ships on the horizon. The caption read: And we wonder why they are always the happy ones. 

With each glance exchanged, a dog returns to sender (without opening) the merciless crux of our hubris and ambition, throughout history, throughout life. The dog says, “No thanks.” It does this by reaching into our souls with the only truly meaningful thing in life: connection. Despite your best efforts, the dog says, I am still connecting with you.

It says nothing suspicious that we replace these creatures after they die, that we invite new babies into the home, even as their predecessors have only recently passed. You still need friends and relatives when someone near and dear has passed. The same goes for animal energy. Another dog is only the continuation of the much larger bond between the species. It is a way to honor the very possibility of the bond in the first place. At least it was for me. I almost felt that Gaius, were it possible for him to express the conditional, would have wanted me to find another dog, to renew the pact between us in the form of another one of his kind. 

The grief is worth it, if only to repay the species for what it bestows us, the respite from the constant distraction of civilization, of society, of rules and of niceties. It is worth it for the love they bring, hermetically encased from all that would corrupt it from without, right to our doorstep. It is worth it for the break. For the truth.

 We lead Sammy back to Sheri’s apartment. Or rather, he leads us. He’s tugging on the leash. He knows he’s headed home. Sheri’s organized his triumphant return to the family with whom he belongs and with whom he is desperate to be reunited. I am still holding back tears as I try to keep him at bay, as he continues to zig and zag. Casca keeps approaching him, almost as if to ask, Hey man this has been so much fun I hope we can be pen pals. It’s cold and noisy in the streets.

We arrive at Sheri’s and stay in the lobby and the family comes in and Sammy sees them and runs at them at full speed, his tail vibrating like a tuning fork. He jumps up and they catch him. It’s a man and a woman, a couple, and their adolescent child, hanging in the back. The man tries to give us a reward but we refuse. We don’t wish to deny him the opportunity to be grateful, but we also don’t want to take money for what we’ve done. If anything, we should be giving him a reward. 

The woman recounts the story of noting the day of his grooming appointment and that he was still missing and she starts crying. Apparently, Sammy has a brother who’s been missing him, though they didn’t bring the canine with them. Bernie hands the gentleman an envelope with all of the info from Sammy’s vet visit: he now has a microchip and some shots. They can sort out what to do next for Sammy. He’s only eighteen months old, the woman says, so it’s not too late to get him neutered. Sheri needs to spend some time emphasizing how jumpy Sammy is and that he requires incredible vigilance. “He’s a flight risk,” she says, making sure they know what she’s trying to say to them, that is, to be more careful. 

This prompts the man to recount the story of how he lost Sammy. He dropped off his daughter just down the block and got back into his car. He drove through New Jersey and into Pennsylvania and only then noticed that Sammy was not in the car. Believing that he’d lost him at a rest stop in Lodi, New Jersey, he sent out his notices over there. It only occurred to him several days later that Sammy had jumped out of the car in Manhattan, after which he consulted the Facebook page where we’d posted his photo and was able to finally locate his dog. 

He tells this story with a nonchalance I find insufficiently penitent. The anger starts to curdle within. Every time I get in the car with Casca, I think to myself, I am looking at the back seat to see if he is ok, every five minutes, or less. How do you lose a dog and cross two states and only then realize your own dog is no longer in the car? How is that even possible? It escapes me, and because it escapes me it makes me want to scream at the guy, scream at the family. I think about how terrified this dog was and the distinct possibility that he didn’t have to be as lucky as he was, that he could’ve easily been discovered by others not disposed towards canines as much as we all were, and what then? What could have happened to this very lucky dog then? I want to scream all of this in his face.

Sammy jumps up to the adolescent and the kid grabs Sammy in midair and he’s licking his face all over and the kid is very happy to have his dog back. “Can I bring him into the car, mom?” he asks the woman. When she nods he goes through the door and I never see Sammy again.

We finally conclude all the talk and wish the family well and they are off. Sheri, Bernie and I keep talking in her lobby, while Casca sits on his side looking wanly through the doors to the outside. As Sheri departs she says we should all get together for some grub as soon as the vaccine gets distributed and some sense of normality returns. There are so many of these rain checks these days. I can only imagine it’ll be a nationwide feast once the masks are removed and people can feel it’s ok to breathe on each other again.

Bernie and I pick up a Christmas tree on the way back home. Plus a wreath. It’s cold outside and I don’t have cash and I run across the street to the ATM and then it occurs to me just how lucky I have it. I’m buying a tree without thinking about it. Something not everyone can do. I have privileges. Not everyone has the same opportunities. What’s more is not everyone has the same way of ambling about things, the same way of making one’s way. Some people, quite plainly, are just more forgetful. I remember a story someone told me of a friend of there’s who forgot their own kid in a public square and took a bus back home without the child. He noted that he loved his kids very much but that didn’t stop him from having a super lousy memory. 

I feel stupid for my initial theory about the owner having a mental illness. I was wrong about that. They were just forgetful. 

Obviously there are humane concerns. These dogs need to be cared for. But we have to care for each other too. And, in this case, that means accepting that everybody is struggling and everybody is hurting and everybody is surviving, and therefore compassion is the key.

Homo sapiens is an animal species too. When I look into the eyes of a fellow human, I am also looking into the eyes of an animal, as they are when they look into my eyes. We are animals. We are animals that have to take care of each other, too.

I can be angry that someone was negligent to a poor canine. But I also have to let it go. Who am I to judge? 

As I purchase the tree and grab the wreath, something of the Christmas spirits wafts into the scene, and my ire lifts. Bernie, Casca and I are now free to return to our lives with all of the time and space that this pandemic allows for processing momentous events such as these. 

How apt, we say to ourselves on the way back, remarking about Sammy’s real name, which we learned when the owners were initially claiming him, that he was called Lucky.