1968 [Chapter 2: Hera, Goddess Of Childbirth]
A/N: Enjoy Chapter 2 a little early! See you on Sunday for Chapter 3 đ„°
Series Summary:Â Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemondâs chronically delinquent brother Aegon.
Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.
Word Count:Â 5.4k
Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji
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You are buzzed at a private party in the Rainbow Room of Rockefeller Center, Midtown, February 1966, chandeliers and candlelight, pink and red hearts made of paper hanging from shimmering strings and littering the floor. Your roommate Barbara Nassau Astorâyes those Astors, Astor Avenue in the Bronx, Astoria in Queens, âthe landlords of New Yorkââbrought you along tonight, and the chance to be swept up into her glittering existence is precisely why your father sent you to a school like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart. Barb knows people who know people who know other people and every single individual in that grand design is wealthy and worldly and could possibly lead you into the generous arms of your future husband. You are from Tarpon Springs, Florida, heiress to a sea sponge fortune, and your father nurses powerful ambitions of intermingling his blood with the Northeastern elite.
You scan the selection as you sip your Pink Squirrel. You could marry a doctor and sit in the living room waiting for him to come home at 9 or 10 or 11 p.m., fix him a Whiskey Sour or a Sazerac, listen to him bemoan the complexities of nerves and veins before accompanying him to bed and repeating the whole process the next day. You could marry a lawyer or an advertising executive, and your fate would be much the same. Your own parents are partners in life and business, but you have seen enough to know how rare this is. These men of the Rainbow Room, 65 floors above icy streets radiant with headlights, want a wife whose hands will stay manicured and idle: nannies will tend to the children, maids will clean the house, mistresses will massage the knots out of the muscles of his back. And youâa relative upstart, new money among ancient bloodlinesâwill have no right to demand otherwise.
A man interrupts your reverie. He wants to know about the pendant you wear around your neck. You sigh before you turn to him; you resist the instinct to roll your eyes. And then you see him. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with a curious intensity and a teasing little smirk, an Old Fashioned in his grasp like molten gold. You donât know it yet, but he is a senator from New Jersey, very recently elected, victorious yet still hungry. He steals the oxygen out of your lungs. He drowns you in the amber-musk warmth of his cologne.
âItâs Athena,â you say, touching your fingertips to the silver medallion self-consciously; and you are rarely self-conscious. The black polish has been scrubbed from your nails and replaced with a soft, shimmering champagne. You spent two hours this afternoon having your hair painfully teased and arranged into a Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo.
âGoddess of wisdom.â
âAnd war and peace. And math.â
âMath?â He is intrigued.
âThatâs what Iâm studying at school. Math.â
âAnd yet you are not disinterested in the humanities. You know Greek mythology.â
âWell, Tarpon Springs has a lot of Greeks, and thatâs where Iâm from, so.â
âStudies math. From Tarpon Springs, Florida. Iâm learning everything about you.â He smiles, this magnetic stranger who has captured you like a moon lured into a planetâs gravity. He swallows a mouthful of his Old Fashioned, moisture glistening on his lips. âDo you like Greek food?â
You canât seem to follow his words. Blood is rushing into your face, hot and dizzying. âWhat?â
âGreek food. Have you tried it? Hummus, tzatziki, gyros, spanakopita, horiatiki, baklava.â
âOh yeah, Iâve had it. Itâs great.â
âMy family owns a house on Long Beach Island,â he says casually. âWe eat a lot of Greek food there. You should join us for dinner sometime soon.â
âReally?â
âYes. Very soon. Maybe this weekend. Are you free?â
No, youâre not; but youâll cancel plans until you are. âUm, okay. Sure. And whoâŠsorry, I might have missed it, butâŠwho are youâŠ?â
âAemond Targaryen.â And he shakes your hand like youâre someone who matters. âIâm a senator. Iâm trying to end the war.â
With him, you could be a part of something magnificent. With him, you could help save the world.
~~~~~~~~~~
Asteria is the goddess of falling stars, but the home of rising ones. On the north end of Long Beach Island, New Jerseyâonly 100 miles south of the sleek bladelike skyscrapers of Manhattanâlies the sprawling Targaryen estate. The nine-acre property features one main house and another three for guests, a swimming pool, a tennis court, a ten-car garage, a boathouse, a pier, and an ample stretch of beach that abuts the Atlantic Ocean, open water with nothing interrupting the infinite, miles-deep blue from the East Coast to the Iberian Peninsula. It is the first week of July, 1968, and your 23rd birthday. You are lazing in a lounge chair on the emerald green lawn and eating your third slice of melopita, a cheesecake-like dessert made with honey and ricotta. It originates from the Greek island of Sifnos.
âYou two canât murder each other while Iâm gone,â Aemond says. Heâs sitting between you and Aegon. His stitches have healed, the worst of his pain has subsided, his poll numbers have only improved since the assassination attempt. He has a glass eye that he can insert for public appearances, but he dislikes it; at home he wears a leather eyepatch that still unnerves the children. Tomorrow, Aemond is flying to Tacoma to campaign ahead of the Washington State Convention on the 13th. Most of the family will be joining him, with only three Targaryens remaining at Asteria: ailing Viserys, useless Aegon, and you, officially too pregnant to travel by plane. You are wearing a floral, flowing, two-piece swimsuit. The sun is blazing in a clear sky. The record player is piping out Time Of The Season by the Zombies.
Aegon waves a hand flippantly, then adjusts his preposterously large blue-tinted plastic sunglasses; he is shirtless, flabby, very sunburned. âIâll barely be here.â
Aemond looks over at him, amused. âOh yeah? And what pressing engagements do you have to attend to? Iâd love to know.â
You take a bite of your melopita and scatter crumbs across the swell of your belly: seven and a half months along. âIâm sure the prostitutes miss him.â
âThey do,â Aegon snaps. âIâm their favorite customer.â
âWell youâre a reprieve for them. Itâs always over so quickly.â
Aemond is snickering. Aegon says to him: â23, huh? A 13-year age difference. She could almost be your daughter.â
âAnd 17 years younger than you. She could definitely be yours.â
âThatâs how Aegon likes his girls,â you say. âToo inexperienced to recognize end-stage degeneracy. Still stumbling their way through Shakespeare for English class.â
âWhy canât she stay at the brownstone?â Aegon asks irritably. Aemond owns a historic townhouse in Georgetown for when Congress is in session, though heâs rarely been there since he announced that he was running for president.
âBecause Doxie is here to make sure sheâs taken care of,â Aemond replies. Eudoxia has been the head housekeeper of Asteria for decades, a formidable battleaxe of a woman who speaks very little English and has a seemingly endless supply of patterned scarves to wrap around her ink black dyed hair. There currently arenât any permanent staff stationed at the brownstone, and Aemond does not trust strangers. âAnd because my future first lady is hosting a tea party on the 10th.â
âA tea party!â Aegon gasps, mocking you. âSurely that will patch the wounds of our troubled nation. Sheâs an inspiration. Sheâs motherfucking Gloria Steinem.â
âSheâs Aphrodite,â Aemond says, beaming with pride, his remaining eye fixed on your belly. Heâs lost one piece of himself, but in a month and a half heâll gain another. âGoddess of love.â
âThere must be a more appropriate mythological character. Medusa, perhaps. Lyssa was the goddess of rabies, Epiales was the goddess of nightmares.â
âAegon, I had no idea you were soâŠâ You search for the right word. âLiterate.â
âIo was turned into a cow.â He grins at you, toothy, malicious.
âSheâs also one of Jupiterâs moons,â Aemond muses. He draws invisible orbits in the air with his long, graceful fingers. âBeautiful, celestial, pristineâŠâ
âA satellite,â Aegon says. âMindless. Aimless. Going wherever sheâs told.â
Aemond insists as he twists the bracelet around your right wrist, a delicate gold chain he bought during your honeymoon in Hawaii: âAphrodite.â
âDidnât she fuck around with, like, everyone?â
âMaybe you should be Aphrodite,â you tell Aegon.
Mimi appears, tottering across the lawn with the straps of her sundress sliding off her shoulders and her Gimlet sloshing precariously in its glass. The children are playing in the surf with the nannies and Fosco, who is entertaining them by diving for seashells and delivering his treasures into their tiny, grasping palms. Criston is supervising from the sand, though he steals frequent glimpses of Alicent as she feeds a wheelchair-bound Viserysâmuch diminished after a number of strokesâhis own slice of melopita, one careful, patient spoonful at a time. âCan weâŠâ Mimi bursts out laughing and almost falls over. She claws her way upright again using the back of Aegonâs chair. âUmâŠI was thinkingâŠâ
âWhat?â Aegon asks, annoyed, avoidant. If theyâve ever been happy, it was a transient epoch that came and went long before you joined the family. It was before the asteroid killed the dinosaurs.
âWe should go back to Mykonos. We had such a nice time in Mykonos. Didnât we? Didnât we just adore Mykonos?â
Aegon sighs, glowering out over the ocean. âYeah, we sure did. Ten years ago.â
âExactly!â Mimi gushes, oblivious. âWhen can we go? Next week? Letâs go next week.â
âMimi, you and the kids will be in Washington, remember?â Aemond says. Alicent will have to be her handler; usually itâs your job to make sure Mimi is ready for photos, eats enough to stay conscious, doesnât trip over her own feet, doesnât talk too much to the press.
âWashington?â Like sheâs never heard of it.
âThe state. Not the city. For the convention.â
âOh right. Right.â She gulps her Gimlet. You could set your watch by Mimiâs drinking. Tipsy by lunch, drunk at dinner, crawling on the floor chasing the dogs around by 8 p.m. The Targaryens keep a drove of Alopekis, small and white and foxlike. âWellâŠmaybe some other time.â
âAfter the election,â Aemond says with an abiding, encouraging smile. He tolerates Mimi because he needs her: happy wholesome family, American Dream. Down at the waterâs edge, the nannies are giving towels to Fosco and the children as they scamper out of the frothing waves, Mimiâs five and Helaenaâs three: Daphne, Neaeraâno one can ever seem to spell her name correctly, least of all the six-year-old girl herselfâand Evangelos.
Mimi departs, on the hunt for a fresh Gimlet. Aegon reaches into the pocket of his swim trunksâHawaiian print, royal blueâand pulls out a joint and a Zippo. He sticks the joint between his teeth and goes to light it.
âNo,â Aemond says immediately, yanking the joint out of Aegonâs mouth and stomping it into the earth. Then he points down the beach towards the sand dunes. âYou know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know weâre never truly alone out here.â
âThey canât tell what Iâm smoking!â
âDonât argue with me.â
âYou know there are teenagers getting their limbs blown off in Vietnam right now? I think society has bigger problems than me smoking grass.â
âAnd yet to solve those bigger problems, I have to win in November. And the suburban housewives will not vote for me if they think I support legalizing marijuana. Trust me, I know. Iâve met them.â
âI wouldnât want those peopleâs votes,â Aegon says derisively.
âYouâd rather Nixon get them?â
Aegon doesnât have a speedy rebuttal this time. He contemplates the Atlantic Ocean, the wind tearing at his hair.
âItâs hot as hell,â Aemond says to you, gathering up the newspapers heâs been leafing through, never not thinking about the election, never not strategizing. âCome on. Letâs go inside.â
As you accompany Aemond towards the main houseâand of course you follow him, always, anywhereâAlicent waves you over to where she and Viserys are sitting to wish you a happy birthday again. From this vantage point, you can just barely spot Otto and Helaena strolling through her garden, a jungle of butterfly bushes and herbs. The stricken Targaryen patriarch beams at the swell of your belly. Viserys likes you, you are his favorite daughter-in-law, though perhaps this is not so lofty an achievement. Moreover, he likes that you are carrying the child of his decent son. Aemond has already decided on the babyâs name: Aristos Apollo. If it is in fact a boy, you suppose youâll call him Ari, but he doesnât feel real to you yet. He belongs to Aemond, to the Targaryens, to the nation, but not quite to you. He is more myth than flesh.
âNothing is more precious than children,â Viserys tells Aemond, raspy and frail. âI would have had at least five more if I could.â Alicent bows her head, an acknowledgement of her failure in this regard. Viserys expects it. You and Aemond politely avert your gazes.
âThank God for this baby,â Alicent says. âAfter the year weâve had? That the whole world has had? We all need something to be grateful for.â
âYes,â Aemond agrees, smiling. It must be the promise of a son that has made his maiming go down smoother, and maybe it is his soaring poll numbers too, and maybe it is gratitude that he escaped with his life, and maybe it is even the fact that he has you.
But long after dusk when youâre getting ready for bedâslathering yourself in Jergens, stepping into your chiffon nightgownâas you pass through the sliver of light pouring out of the bathroom, you catch a glimpse of something that stops you. Aemond is standing in front of the mirror with his hands on the rim of the sink, his eyepatch slung over the towel rack, his voided eye socket exposed and gory and irreparably wounded. Thereâs something in his scarred face that you canât recall ever seeing before. There is a seething, secret, animal rage. There is fury for everyone who has ever denied him anything.
You remember who you were before you met Aemond at the Rainbow Room in Manhattan at a party you were almost not illustrious enough to attend. You wore your hair long and loose, you downed shots, you smoked, you swore, you slept through class almost every Monday; and then you packed all of this away in your allegorical attic and became someone who could stand beside a senator, and then a candidate, and then a president, someone who could tip the scales of fate.
And you think as you lurk unnoticed in the doorway: Maybe heâs been hiding parts of himself too.
~~~~~~~~~~
July 10th, 10 a.m. Heâs snoring on a couch in the living room, the one patterned with sailboats. Heâs hugging his acoustic guitar like a child clinging to a teddy bear. Sometimes he plays it for the kids: Get Rhythm, Twist And Shout, Stand By Me, You Canât Hurry Love. Thatâs about the extent of his involvement in their lives. He has a law degree from Columbia that his father bought for him. Aside from a brief and disastrous stint as the mayor of Trenton, he has never been gainfully employed. You pour the cupful of ice cubes you collected from the freezer all over his bare chest.
âWhat the fuck!â Aegon screams as he startles awake. âWhat is wrong with you?!â
âThe guests are arriving in two hours. And youâre going to help me host.â
âIâm not slobbering at the feet of those manicured elitists.â
âItâs easy to say âvive la rĂ©volutionâ from your familyâs mansion that you reside in as a professional failure.â
âYeah, youâre right, Iâm so worthless. If only I spent more time hosting tea parties.â
âI canât small talk with governors and congressmen, so I have to charm their wives instead. Thatâs how it works, you idiot.â
Aegon rolls off the couch and rubs his forehead, wincing, hungover. In the dining room, Eudoxia is readying cups and plates, polishing silverware, folding napkins. The caterers will be here soon, and there are also three dishes that you made yourself: stafidopsomo, a bread with raisins and cinnamon; rizogalo, Greek-style rice pudding; and baklava you spent hours chopping walnuts for. At least one show of domestic prowess is an expectation, two is impressive, three is above and beyond, something for the other political wives to chatter about. You know the importance of making a good impression on them. They are as much a part of their husbandsâ careers as the speech writers, communication directors, fundraisers. âI need a Bloody Mary,â Aegon groans.
âYou need to pull your goddamn weight. Everyone else is working to get Aemond elected. Your five-year-old kid is out on the campaign trail and you canât walk around with a tray of hummus and mini spanakopitas? Are you serious?â
âIâm dead serious,â he says, standing with some difficulty and then shoving by you. âFuck off, Miss America.â
âAegon!â
But heâs padding off towards the kitchen with his bare feet, tiki print boxer shorts, bedraggled hair. You follow after him in your spotless white heels and sundress patterned with common blue violets. Your earrings are pearls. Youâve wrangled your hair into a tidy French twist. Aegon is getting a pitcher of tomato juice out of the refrigerator, a bottle of vodka from a cardboard Apple Jacks box. He keeps booze and pills hidden everywhere; youâre always stumbling across his caches.
You open your mouth to unleash something hurtful, something hateful, but then you feel the cold flare of liquid on your thighs as the ocean breeze gusts in through the windows. My dress, you think, alarmed. What did I spill on it? One of the ice cubes you threw at Aegon must have caught on the skirt somehow and melted. Thatâs your first guess, and it is welcome; water doesnât stain, and you arenât sure if you have another outfit that is both formal enough and will still fit you. But when you reach down to touch your legânow the liquid reaches your kneesâyour hand comes away red.
You look up at Aegon. Heâs staring back at you, thunderstruck, horrified. His Bloody Mary ingredients are now forgotten on the countertop. He shouts for the housekeeper: âDoxie?!â
There is indistinct, cantankerous Greek grumbling in return.
âDoxie! Call an ambulance!â
âI donât understand,â you say to Aegon, bright clotless blood dyeing the whirls of your fingerprints. I ruined my dress, you think nonsensically. âIt doesnât hurt. Shouldnât it hurt?â
âDonât move, donât do anything, just wait for the paramedics.â
But the edges of your vision are going dark and hazy, and the room spins like a flipped coin. Your knees and ankles fold, bones turned to paper. As you drop, Aegon dives for you. You clutch at him, but thereâs nothing to grab onto, no suit jacket, no tie, only skin that glows with sunburn. âIf I donât wake up, tell Aemondââ
âYouâre not dying, bitch. My luckâs not that good.â
But his eyes are panicked; and they are the last thing you see before you black out.
~~~~~~~~~~
Arteries of cement, bones like lead, heavy eyelids opening to reveal strange white walls.
Am I dead?
But no: you hurt all over. Heaven isnât supposed to hurt. There are needles pierced through the backs of your hands, a splitting rawness in your throat.
Was I intubated? Did I have surgery�
You try to sit up. The pain is blinding; the severed and sutured latticework of your abdominal muscles is a pit of glass. You gasp, moan plaintively, fumble for the nurse call button on the wooden nightstand.
âWill you stop moving?â Aegon says as he walks into the room. Heâs slurping on a straw that pokes out from a Dairy Queen cup. The fluid inside is clumpy and red. Instantly, you think of blood, and a wave of nausea punches through the shredded gore that was once your belly. Aegon flops down into the salmon pink armchair beside the bed and props his combat boots up on the ottoman. âThey sliced you up like the Black Dahlia. Youâre gonna rip your stitches.â
âThey did a c-sectionâŠ?â
âYeah, you had some kind of uterusâŠthing. I donât remember.â
The baby?? Is the baby alright?? âAn abruption?â
More slurping. âNoâŠI think it started with a P.â
âPrevia?â
âYeah, that one.â
You remember waking up a few times: on the kitchen floor as men were lifting you, in an ambulance as the siren shrieked. Someone said you were being taken to Mount Sinai in Manhattan. And that makes sense, that would have been Cristonâs plan. Mount Sinai is one of the best hospitals in the country. You look around the room for a bassinet or a crib. Instead you see a wheelchair and a myriad of flower bouquets; word has already gotten out, and so the customary well wishes are pouring in. Lady Bird Johnson sent bluebonnets, the state flower of Texas; Abigail McCarthy sent lilies of the valley; Muriel Humphrey sent roses, traditional, safe, uninspiring; Pat Nixon sent blood orange gladioli. Mrs. Wallace, newly deceased, neglected to call a florist. âWhereâs the baby?â
âHeâs fine. Heâs downstairs in an incubator.â
Ari, you think, though he still doesnât seem real yet. âWhatâŠ?â
âHis lungs are underdeveloped. But the doctors think heâll be alright. You want a Mr. Misty? Thereâs a Dairy Queen like two blocks from here.â
âNo, I donât want a Mr. Misty,â you say, incredulous. âI want to see the baby.â
âWell they canât move him and they canât move you, so youâll have to wait.â
âIâm going to see himââ You swing your feet off the bed and feel daggers, fire, a splintering like someone has taken a hammer to your bones. You almost scream; it takes everything in you to choke it down and only gasp as your flesh becomes an inferno. I want a joint, you think randomly, an urge youâd believed you had exorcised from yourself, an archaic relic of a past life.
âTold you,â Aegon says smugly.
You lie panting, helpless, glancing at the phone on the nightstand. âAemond knows?â
âOh yeah, Iâve called everyone. He knows.â
âGood. So heâll be here soon.â
âSure,â Aegon says, perhaps a tad noncommittally.
âOkay.â Youâre still trying to catch your breath. Tacoma is a six hour flight away. Even if Aemond doesnât leave until morning, heâll be here by sundown tomorrow. âYou can go now.â
âGo?!â Aegon exclaims, then laughs, one of his reckless, taunting cackles. âOh no. Iâm not going anywhere.â
âYou definitely are.â
âNo, Iâm not,â he insists, grinning. âFor once in my life, Iâm the person whoâs exactly where heâs supposed to be. Iâm the honorable one. The sacred heir of the favorite son has just been born, and the blessed mother has been sawed in half like Saint Simon the Zealot, and where is Aemond? Where is literally everyone else? Across the continent shaking hands and forcing smiles to win him the great state of Washington. Iâm not going home. Iâm collecting every second I spend here like coins from a slot machine. I won the jackpot, babe. No one is ever going to be able to call me the family fuckup after this.â
The pain is horrible, insurmountable; you canât think through it. You close your eyes and try not to sob, to wail, to split yourself open in body and soul. I canât let him see me break down.
âWhatâs up?â Aegon asks. âWhatâs wrong with you?â
âI want a Mr. Misty. Go get me a Mr. Misty.â
âOkay,â Aegon says doubtfully. âWhat flavor?â
âI donât care. Not red.â
âThey have orange, lemon-lime, grapeââ
âJust pick one!â you shout, tears brimming in your eyes. Get out, get out, get out.
âCalm down, psycho!â he yells back, heading for the door.
As soon as he crosses the threshold, you snatch the call button off the nightstand and press it frantically until a nurse arrives. You get more morphine and sink into a stillness like deep water, down, down, down.
~~~~~~~~~~
Itâs dark outside, stars and a crescent moon. On the television is grainy footage from the Battle of Khe Sanh. American soldiers younger than you are dragging their wounded brethren to a Chinook helicopter for evacuation: bandages, burns, missing limbs and faces. Aegon had dozed off in his chairâassisted by an ample amount of Vicodin, surelyâbut is stirring awake now. He blinks groggily at the screen.
âItâs so fucking awful,â you say, and Aegonâs eyebrows shoot up; itâs the first time youâve ever sworn in front of him. You trained yourself to stop when you met Aemond. â30,000 Americans dead, God knows how many Vietnamese peasants, Buddhist monks setting themselves on fire, and for what? So we can say we did everything we could to stop communism? So we can humiliate the Russians? There is no liberation of Vietnam. All weâre doing is making those people hate us. And weâre destroying ourselves too.â
âI didnât know you cared about the war.â
You look at him, mystified. âEverything I do is about the war.â
âBut you never really talk about it.â Aegon yawns and stretches, reaching up towards the ceiling. âYou talk about Chanel dresses and tea parties.â
âWell yeah, because itâsâŠitâs unseemly, I guess. For me to speak on the war. Me specifically.â
He snorts. âBecause youâre a woman? Who told you that? Aemond?â
You hesitate, watching the television again. Now there are napalm bombs incinerating villages and rice paddies. âI had a boyfriend before Aemond, you know.â
âWhat, in kindergarten? Chasing each other around the playground? Illicit snuggles beneath the slide?â
You chuckle, shaking your head. âA real boyfriend.â
âNo way. You did not.â
âI did,â you insist, smiling a little. âWe met at a party my freshman year of college. He was at NYU studyingâŠoh, I always forgot, that was one of our jokes. It was either archaeology or anthropology. I actually thought I was going to marry him for a minute there.â
âScandalous.â Aegon is gazing at you with his murky blue eyes, grinning, playful. âWhat happened?â
âHe had a moral crisis about poor kids getting shipped off to Vietnam to be slaughtered while he was tucked safely away in his ivory tower. So he enlisted, and honestly it was shocking how quickly I started to forget about him. We exchanged a few letters, it didnât last long, I think he was forgetting about me too. But he ended up getting killed in action in October, 1965. His old roommate told me.â
Now Aegon is thoughtful. His crooked grin dies. âIâm sorry.â
âItâs his parents I feel bad for. He was an only child. I heard his father drank himself to death.â
âYouâve been carrying a story like that around with you and you never used it? Not in an interview or an article, not at one of your asinine little tea parties?â
âI canât,â you confess. âAemond doesnât want me to. He doesnât like to be reminded aboutâŠyou know. That there was someone else before.â
Aegon throws his head back and cackles, combing his fingers through his disheveled blonde hair. âAs if Aemond was a virgin when you met him.â
But itâs not the same. It isnât to Aemond, and it wouldnât be to the rest of the world either. It is your eternal disgrace. It is something you will be expected to atone for until youâre in the grave. âGive me a joint.â
Aegon is amazed. âWhat?â
âI know you have some, you always do. I want one. Give it to me.â
âYou smoke grass?â
âI used to. Then I gave it up. But Iâm making an exception.â
He gawks at you for a while, then slips a joint out of one of the front pockets of his green army jacket. He places it between his lips, lights it with his little chrome Zippo, and inhales deep and slow. Then he offers it to you.
âI donât want herpes.â
Aegon laughs. âI donât have herpes. I swear.â
âNot yet, maybe. Give it time.â
âAre you gonna smoke or not?â
You take the joint and fill your lungs with earth, floral notes, a tinge of spice. Itâs been years, but it comes rushing back in an instant as the high hits your bloodstream: calm quiet weightlessness, a sense of wellbeing that fills the honeycomb hollows of your bones. âI need to see the baby.â
Aegon stalls. âThe doctors were really insistent that you stay here.â
âAnd all the sudden you care about rules.â
He considers this, drumming his palms on his thighs. His jeans are ripped; heâs biting his lower lip. Then abruptly, he stands. âAlright.â He grabs the wheelchair and pushes it up against the bed. âLetâs go.â
You take another drag and then discard the joint in your empty Dairy Queen cup. You throw off your blanket and try to touch your bare feet to the cool linoleum floor. It hurts, it feels like razor blades, but you keep going. Then you remember you still have one IV in the back of your left hand. âWait, how am I going toâŠ?â
âYouâre in luck. I am well-versed in needles.â Aegon holds out a palm. Nervously, you give him your hand. He peels off the medical tape, takes a moment to examine the vein, then slides out the needle so smoothly you donât feel it at all; it barely even bleeds. He balls up a Kleenex from the box on your nightstand and secures it to the wound with the same strip of tape. âYouâre welcome.â
âJunkie.â You try to lower yourself into the wheelchair and a yelp rips from your throat.
âOh, this is pathetic,â Aegon says, but not quite unkindly. âHere.â He leans down in front of you. Too desperate to be prideful, you link your arms around the back of his neck. Aegonâs shaggy blonde hair tickles your cheek; his hands skim gingerly to settle on your waist, steadying you without too much pressure. He helps you into the wheelchair, where you collapse gasping and sweating bullets.
âIf you ever mention this again, I will guillotine you.â
He winks. âRelax, little Io. I never kiss and tell.â
âIâd assume youâre usually too plastered to remember the details.â
âBe nice. I could roll you down a staircase.â But he doesnât; he rolls you into the hallway instead.
The lights in the corridor are dim for night, for dreams. You see a few nurses shuttling in and out of other rooms from a distance, but none seem to notice you and Aegon. He steers the wheelchair into the elevator and you ride it down two floors, then cross another hallway and pass through a set of doors. There must be a dozen incubators, half of them occupied. The nurse on dutyâcurrently cradling a tiny infant in her arms, a girl judging by the pink hat, and feeding her from a bottle of formulaâgapes at you.
âMaâam? You arenât supposed to beââ
âShut up,â Aegon tells her, and the nurse doesnât say another word.
Aegon pushes the wheelchair down the line of incubators until you reach the one with a name card labelled Targaryen, Aristos Apollo. And there he is: unmistakably fragile, impossibly small, blue veins like a roadmap beneath translucent skin, tangled in tubes and wires. In his sleeping face you donât see Aemond or even yourself, but rather an inexplicable familiarity. You feel like youâve met him before. You feel like youâve known him all your life.
You press your hand to the clear, domed wall of the incubator; shadows in the shape of your outstretched fingers fall over Ariâs face. âHeâs real.â
âOf course he is.â Aegon is watching you; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, a blur of blonde hair and high cheekbones. When you turn to him, he immediately looks away.
âWhat?â you ask.
âNothing.â But his voice is distracted, bewildered, like someone fumbling for a light switch in a dark room.
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đ- A memory about one of their loved ones, happy or sad
Well. Saga was back in the lair, and he remembered his brothers, and they'd gotten the empyrean out of his system. And things were....good! Fine. Better than fine, even. He was....settling in. He thought, at least. They hadn't hauled him out on his ass yet, so clearly he was doing something correctly, something that didn't make them hate him or see him as a burden the way everyone else seemed to at some point.
No, no. He couldn't think like that. That was....what was it. Skewed thinking? Seeing the negative in everything? Whatever term Mikey had used for it, really. Everything would be fine. He....he didn't have to fear being punished for things around here. He knew that. So why....why did he somehow feel like he was going to be. Like at any moment, they were going to say that he was doing something wrong, or--
Raph wouldn't. He knew that for a fact. Raph would never hurt him. Saga remembered how distraught he'd been when they'd been children, when they'd been sparring and a spikey bit of his shell had poked Saga in the shell the right way, and the fact of the matter was that the snapper would rather have plucked his own eye out before he willingly hurt a single member of his family. Saga knew that to be true. It was just that sometimes.....
Sometimes Raph looked at him like he was....fragile. Like he was something worth pitying, or.....it felt that way, at least. And Saga knew he was unlearning many bad behaviors that he hadn't realized were bad, knew that Raph would be patient with him above all else and likely didn't see him that way, but it still made some small part of him bristle defensively. He wasn't weak. He wasn't a failure. Was he? It was just that things were hard sometimes, and he was trying, and--
It had come to a head that one evening, at dinner. Mikey had made him a generous portion of....some food that he couldn't remember the name of, and Saga still wasn't used to having portion sizes that big, or even thinking that he deserved to eat freely, and it looked so good but his brain was trying to convince him that it would be repulsive if he dared to eat it, and all he could do was sit there and stare and try to will his stupid brain into actually letting him shovel food into his face hole, because he was going to let Mikey down if he didn't and--
He finally managed to at least choke down a bite or two, pushing it away from himself, but when he looked up everyone was looking at him in that same sad way, especially Raph, and he couldn't stand it anymore, he left the table and muttered some excuse and shut the door to his rather spartan lab space behind him and tried to involve himself in work so he wouldn't concentrate on how he was failing all of them--
Settling in well, his ass, what did Three know, he still felt like such an outsider and now he couldn't even eat anything without feeling panicked and--
There was a form in the room when he swiveled around again, and he gritted his teeth, trying his damn hardest to not let out an irritated hiss. "Leo, if I've said it once I've said it a million times, do NOT barge into my--oh. Raph. Kind of in in the middle of something, what is it."
"I....just noticed you didn't eat much at dinner." Despite his huge bulk, Raph seemed to huddle in on himself then, fidgeting nervously.
Ah. So that was it. Saga glanced away, then, his voice suddenly tight. "I'm. Not hungry."
"We can save it for later, then?"
"That won't be necessary, Raph. Really. I'm fine. I had a snack earlier in the day." And he had. He'd tried to convince himself that maybe food was fine by having a granola bar, earlier in the day. Sure, he'd squirreled it away out of Leo's personal stash and hadn't told anyone and had hidden it for fear that it was going to be taken away from him, but....a snack was a snack, right?
"Yeah, but you can't last entirely off of snacks, Don." Don't get angry. Don't get angry, he reminded himself as he stood there. Raph was just looking out for him. Raph was just showing care, in his usual way that never really managed to stray into being patronizing or coddling. So why did he feel his hackles raising anyway, the longer he stood there and listened to his big brother's words, the longer he--
Ooooooh, you're going to be PUNISHED, he's going to take you away and lock you in a room or BEAT you or--
No. No, shut up, Raph would never--
"It's alright. I'm alright. It was too big of a portion anyway."
"Well, how much of a portion are ya used to havin'? 'Cause I can tell Mikey to make it a little smaller. Or you should tell him, actually, he thinks he didn't make the food good enough for you and he feels bad-"
Great. As if this day couldn't get any better, now he'd made Mikey disappointed in him. He was letting them all down, he was being a disappointment, he--
"Can we just drop it, please?" He hadn't meant for his words to come out so sharp, or to make Raph minutely flinch at them, but Saga kept forging on anyway, the shame rising up in him like a tidal wave. "I'm fine. I'll eat something later, if I'm hungry."
To his credit, Raph didn't try to push it--only muttered a quiet agreement, turning to leave almost as quick as he'd come. Which somehow made Saga feel worse, as he sat there and tried to swivel back towards whatever he'd been working on. He almost would have preferred if Raph had screamed at him in that moment, or done something other than just numbly going along with--
No. It was fine. Everything was fine. Surely he could....find a solution to this. Start with smaller portions, or keep sneaking snacks throughout the day, or just force himself to eat, or something. Then they wouldn't look at him like he was broken anymore. He'd be doing something right. He--
....it would all be fine.
***
Until it wasn't. Until low blood sugar from too many missed meals had him turning to do something or lurching upright far too suddenly, and his vision tunneled distressingly and then went black and then there was nothing--
Wait. Now there was something. Ow. Wait, what the fuck. Why were the lights in his room suddenly so bright and why was Maias hovering around and looking so worried and why--
Oh god oh god there was a NEEDLE in his arm there was sharp sharp sharp bad BAD no no NO get it out get it out GET IT OUT--
Hands went over his, then, gentle but firm, and he hissed, almost snapping out before he realized. "Hey, hey, Don. I know you hate needles, but you gotta leave that in, okay?"
"Raph?" His voice coming out shaky, Saga barely paid any attention to Maias huddling into his arms comfortingly, glancing around the medbay. "What the....why am I. Why is there a NEEDLE in my....get it out, please get it out-"
"I know it sucks, but we can't, Don. Not unless you start tellin' the truth." Raph sat next to him, then, leveling him with a stare that made him feel uncomfortably like a bug under a microscope. "You haven't been eating, have you. Or at least not eating enough."
Oh god. Oh god, oh god, he'd worried them, they all knew, he...he had to play this off, somehow. Quick. Do what Leo does. Disarming smile, quick. "Uh. No, Raphela, I've definitely been eating and meeting all my nutritional parameters. He said, without a hint of falsehood."
"Don."
The sharp tone made him huddle into himself, hissing under his breath as he glared defiantly. "So...so what if I haven't been? What, are you going to punish me? You....you think I can't take it, somehow?"
His eyes would hopefully tell Raph what he couldn't, though, in that moment. Please. Please don't punish me. Please don't yell at me or throw me out or treat me like I'm some broken useless thing, I'm trying, I swear to god I'm trying so hard to be perfect for all of you, please.
Thankfully, Raph seemed to realize that, both his tone and gaze softening. "No. No one's gonna punish you. But it's not 'so what', either. You passed out, Don. We're worried about you. We need you to start tellin' the truth. Why haven't you been eating?"
Saga shrank into himself, the gentle tone somehow making him feel even worse as he twiddled his fingers together. "It's....it's not because Mikey's food is terrible or something, before you say anything. It's....actually kind of the best food I've ever had."
"Is it sensory stuff?"
"No! No, I went over a list of all my potential sensitivities with Mikey, he knows better than that. No, it's...." He rubbed at Maias's shell briefly, hissing under his breath out of exasperation. "It's stupid."
"Tell me anyway."
And the tone was so soft, so non-judgmental, that Saga found himself opening his mouth even in spite of himself. "I'm....I don't....I don't feel like I....like I deserve to eat so much, which is stupid, I know I can eat here, I know it's safe and it won't be taken away from me or something, but....but I had to be in good physical condition to fight and carry out their commands, food was.....few and far between, I never got a meal that nice, and it was wasteful to eat that much and my brain keeps telling me it still is, so I just eat a bit and have snacks between because I'm convinced it's going to be taken away from me, which you guys would never do and I know that, I do, so why--"
Breathe. Breathe, you idiot.
"--and I don't know why, but my brain keeps convincing me that if I put it in my mouth it's going to taste horrible, and I know that's not true because I've tasted Mikey's food before and I just...I know I should be eating more than, like, two bites of it, I know, but I just can't, I'm trying to, but I just can't eat that big of....that's what the snacks were for, to try and force myself to eat, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm trying to be better and my STUPID brain won't-"
"Don. Don, hey, breathe for a sec, bud, okay? It's okay. Watch what I'm doin', okay? Try this. Make your hands into little fists, like this, see? Now squeeze and release...."
Right. One of the techniques that Raph had learned a long time ago, to try and control the anger issues he'd had as a young child. Maybe it would work with....oh. Hey. It actually did. That, combined with Maias's musical chirping as she sat in his arms, was actually helping him to regulate his breathing and keep his surging emotions to a low ebb instead. Saga inhaled, shakily, turning his gaze up to the ceiling and screwing his good eye shut. Breathe. Inhale, exhale. "I....I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"
"No, Don, I'm sorry. We shoulda noticed that you weren't....none'a that's your fault, okay? 'M not a scientist, but I know brains are....weird sometimes. And I know you went through a lot. So you'll probably need reminded, but we're not gonna take your food away or punish you or think you're lettin' us down if you can't eat it. Okay? We'd just like you to say something about it, so we know. That's all."
"But I....I'm trying so....I'm disappointing Mikey, he probably thinks his food sucks and it doesn't, I'm sorry, I can't eat that big of....I want to, but my brain keeps saying it'll make me sick, so that's why I keep eating snacks but I didn't think it would....I--"
"So we can get Mikey to make you smaller portions and work you up to bigger ones. Okay? Whatever you need. You're allowed to have issues with food, but you're also allowed to eat whatever you want when you want it. Mikey'll understand."
".....It'll stop being this way eventually. I just. It's."
"I get it. Not a hundred percent, but I get it. Just....just maybe eat enough that this doesn't happen again, okay? We'll make you peanut butter toast. That's what Leo eats when he gets a stomach bug. Nice simple food."
"....that does sound nice. I....I'm. I won't scare you like this again. I promise. I was being dumb."
"You're okay. You're allowed to have good and bad days, okay?" Raph pulled him into a hug before he could stop him, chuckling at Saga's mock-offended squawk. "Just let us know about them sometimes, bud."
"I can do that. Thanks, Raphi---I mean. Raph."
"Awww. You called me Raphie again--"
"I did not! It's the IV fluids making me loopy!"
"Don, IV fluids don't make you loopy. Even I know that."
"Well, maybe I'm having a rare allergic reaction to them or someth--NO NOT THE NOOGIES ALRIGHT RAPH STOP MERCY--"
And as Raph put him into an affectionate, brotherly headlock to keep him from wriggling away, and as he sputtered in mock offense, Saga found that he suddenly didn't care so much about being a disappointment. About whether or not he was measuring up.
....Raph always knew just what to say, didn't he.
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