#i am of the firm opinion that if anyone should be purposefully sleeping around for information it's Boss

[vinkumakkara]

some disjointed observations about Boss and Shaundi that’ve been rollin around in the back of my head

the Shaundi - Boss dynamic in sr2 is like hmm... outside the campaign i know some of the female boss voices actually express some appreciation towards her, calling her cool and such, while mboss 1 and 2 talk about how they wanna fuck her in a really weird roundabout way that features a fetish for sombreros because of course. its a 2008 dudebro game, the player must be informed of how very heterosexual this character is (only if it’s a dude though because bi girls are hot!!!1!!!) mboss 3 however, being the resident homosexual manifestation of this person that they are, does not express any deeper opinion on her one way or another outside the campaign. i use this particular voice so the way i see their relationship is uhh not very good! in the campaign Boss does not trust her, openly referring to her taking part in any jobs as “babysitting”, like the whole SoS arc is basically Shaundi trying to navigate around Boss’ stiff preconceived notions about her and her capabilities because of the Veteran Child thing. she definitely outsmarts them too more than once, it just doesn’t... really get resolved. Boss is someone who appreciates raw strength and Shaundi does not and probably never would be able to impress Boss in that way. Shaundi rightfully calls them out on it at the end of the arc too, calling them an asshole, and they just shrug it off.

i think it’s made even worse in the epilogue where Boss basically tells her to go work the corner in exchange for info on the Pyramid. like is that what her ultimate purpose is in the Saints, at least in Boss’ eyes? they’re so goddamn disrespectful towards her and it feels like doubly insulting that Volition just pretended like Boss was basically like her confidant in sriv or some shit like that, just the absolute exact opposite of how they wrote these two characters previously. it is so transparently about her being a woman too, like Pierce is free to shove his foot down his throat as much as he wants with Boss but he still gets to actually do stuff - his problem was just that he didn’t really have enough room in the story to feel a bit more fleshed out as a character. it was Shaundi who ultimately deserved “some love” as one Saint puts it but she never ever got any from this series at any point beyond sr2 trying to at least set up stuff that could be resolved later on. instead they have her fuck animals and robots and whatever in the later games because you know if you have a lot of sex that means you have to be ready to fuck anything, how very funny wacky

[ed-edward-blackbeard]

Fanfic Author Meme.  Keep Reading after question 2 for 3-50.

1. What was your first fic and could you stand to reread it today?

Jesus Lord, no.  I’d die of secondhand embarrassment before I got halfway through it.  It was never published online, thank Christ.  It was called … ugh, I don’t remember what I called it, but it was a line from Edmund Spenser.  (Don’t judge.)  It was an OC female character and Autolycus, from Hercules and Xena, played by Bruce Campbell.  It was… a SHAMBLES.  Self-insert, wish-fulfillment of the worst kind.  But, my friend Alicia read it at the time and she told me how great she thought it was, and I should keep at it.  So, thank you, Edmund-Spenser-titled-fic.

2. What’s your most recent fic and how far do you think you’ve come?

It’s called “i commit sins every day but i never give my soul away”, and it’s on my AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/22951009.  And I actually don’t have a unit of measurement for how much I’ve improved.  But it’s also been… God, I’m 43 today,  so it’s been 27 years I’ve been writing.  Almost thirty years.  Shit, I’m old.

3. In your opinion, what’s your best fic?

Oh, man.  Tricky question.  If by best you mean technically written, most enjoyable?  I’d say maybe wasting the dawn.  Definitely By Inches We Fall.  But to be totally honest with you?  I think my best fic, the one that got me, personally by the throat, shook me, and hasn’t let me go?  Shoah.  It’s one of my earlier fics, from the Sentinel fandom, but man.  Writing this was rough.  I did my research on concentration camps, and I couldn’t sleep right for weeks.  Lisa and Patt were holding my hands over AIM practically every night when I was sobbing that I couldn’t finish it, that I couldn’t do it, that it was too much.  (I’d have been about fucking seventeen, maybe nineteen, when I was writing it.)  I bit off way more than I was prepared for, but I didn’t quit.  And I’m proud, quite frankly, that I even finished the damn thing, but even this far removed from it, I still feel that gut-punch when I go back re-read it, which is why I don’t.  And haven’t for a couple of years.  

4. In your opinion and without looking at any numbers, what’s your most popular fic?

It’d probably be Consortio.

5. Is there any fic that makes you super happy to reread and remember you wrote that?

I actually feel that way about 99% of my stuff.  Even some of the older stuff, I re-read it and I get really happy because not only do I see myself changing and maturing, I realize I was harder on myself than I should have been.  I didn’t suck like I thought, and I get the warm fuzzies.

6. Is there any fic that makes you super embarrassed to reread and remember you wrote that?

Er, not really?  I mean, there’s some cringey shit I wrote when I was like, twelve, but not even I know where those notebooks got off to.

7. What’s the fic you most want to continue (unfinished or no)?

By Inches We Fall.  It’s my only Game of Thrones fic, and I feel like I really want to continue the story of Jamie and Brienne and their kids, and of Jaime being Hand to King Jon and Queen Sansa.

8. What’s the oldest (longest since last update) fic you most want to continue (unfinished or no)?

How Firm A Foundation.  It’s a Deadwood fic, and I (many years ago, when Deadwood was actually on the air) actually sketched out how every chapter would go.  There’s a few things I’d change today, if I started it again, just because I can plot better than I could ten years ago, but I think the thread of the story is gone forever.

9. Have you ever written for a fandom without watching/reading/playing the source material?

Yami No Matsuei.  A friend of mine was actually heavily into YnM, and I wrote several stories for her.  Later I’ve watched some of it, and I realize I did okay on my characterizations, but there’s always things I could have done better.

10. Have you ever written for a fandom without reading other fanfic for it?

Pretty much every fandom I have ever been in.  I don’t read a lot of fanfic, because I’m afraid (almost paranoid, in fact) that I’ll internalize something I’ve read and later spout it out in my fic, and I don’t ever want to copy anyone, deliberately or otherwise.

11. Have you ever written a fic for a concept you know someone else has done before? How did it impact your writing process or feelings after posting?

I have, and I didn’t publish it for the reason above; I didn’t feel like my take on it was original enough to bother.

12. Have you ever written a fic and decided never to publish it? Why?

Lots of reasons, actually.  Sometimes I write with the intention of not publishing, it’s something just for me.  I’ve also written a few fics that I ended up absolutely hating, and they’ve never seen the light of day.  I’ve also done some that I felt wasn’t original enough, or they were written about the trope du jour, and I had nothing else to offer that ten other people hadn’t already done.

13. What’s the biggest change between your style when you started in fandom and today?

Sentence style and structure.  I used to do the whole, “He said.”  “In reply, she said.”  “The sky was blue when he rode in.”  And then a few of my better friends (and betas) took me in hand and showed me how to mix it up, chop my comma addiction in half (seriously, I once had a single sentence run on for twelve lines.) and I feel like I get a better grip on characterization.

14. What’s the biggest change in your taste between when you started in fandom and today?

Sex.  I used to write it in everything.  And then the more I wrote, and the older I got, the less I wanted to write it (or read it, or talk about it.)  So I’m a lot more comfortable writing non-sex stories than I used to be.

15. Have you ever purposefully written one fandom/fic idea over another because you knew it’d be more popular?

Of course.  I think everyone has, at one point or another.

16. Have you ever stopped writing a fic/for a fandom because it wasn’t receiving enough attention?

Anything I’ve ever abandoned was lack of my own attention, not anything else.  I’m kinda used to not getting a lot of attention.

17. In your opinion, what’s your most overrated fic?

What He Wants.  It’s pretentious wankfic, for a pairing I don’t actually like all that much (Lucius/Harry), and I just feel like everyone loves it way more than it deserves.

18. What’s your most underrated fic?

I’m gonna pick on Shoah again, because I feel like it just doesn’t get enough love.  I’m biased, because of how emotionally attached I am to the fic, but I feel like it’s ignored.

19. If you had to pick one fic/scene/chapter of your work to describe your entire portfolio to a stranger, which would you pick?

Wasting The Dawn.  It’s a Magicians fic, and it showcases every character from the show, and I think I did a passable job of hitting every voice.  So I’d be proud to show that one around.

20. Have/Would you ever rewrite a fic? If yes, would you take the original down?

Would I rewrite it?  Sure.  Would I take down the original?  Um, that’s a little more difficult.  On the one hand, I’m not really ashamed, as such, of anything that I did.  But having two copies of things would get really complicated and onerous.  I might actually start a second pseud, like maybe kelex-originals or something like that, and move the originals over to that, and leave the rewrites on my main, with a link to the original in the notes.  Yeah, that’s probably what I’d do.

21. If someone starts kudosing and commenting your fics in a spree and has a few works of their own, would you go look through theirs?

HELL YES.  Mostly because I’m always looking for shinies to read in fandoms I don’t write for.  I also kind of like to read their stuff and get a feel for who they are and why they like what I’ve got.  But mostly, I just love it and it makes me giggle watching someone go through my fics and like EEEE THERE YOU ARE AGAIN.

22. Has there ever been anyone who’s made you freak out because they read your work and followed/favorited/reviewed?

Fucking scads of people, actually.

23. What’s the nicest review you’ve ever gotten?

Oh man, I’ve got a fuckton of good ones.  But the one that I always get a kick out of is on one of my Gotham fics, and the comment was along the lines of, the tag mentioned bed-sharing and they thought that was all it was going to be, but it was so much more and they got caught up in it and it was wonderful.  And that’s my favorite (if not the nicest) because I love the fact that I was able to give someone something they enjoyed, even more because it was unexpected!

24. What’s the meanest review you’ve ever gotten? Do you think the reviewer intended it?

It was a review back in the days of OneList, and I was told that my pencils should be broken and my keyboard taken away because I was a terrible writer.  And yes, I know they meant it.

25. What constructive criticism, however well-meaning, always makes you feel bad when you see it in a review?

It’s less a concrit and more a crit.  But it’s always, “why did you do X?  It was out of character!” and that makes me grit my teeth.  Mostly because I feel like I’ve always explained, thoroughly, why I’ve done something (whether in dialog, in the writing itself, or heavily implied in monologues), and that question always makes me want to throttle someone because either they didn’t get it, or I didn’t.  

26. What aspect of your writing do you most enjoy to see praised?

Humor.  I’m a sarcastic bitch, and when it’s appropriate (and sometimes when it isn’t), I have funny characters or have characters deadpan things.  And it delights the fuck out of me when someone highlights that as one of their favorite parts.

27. If you could only ever write crossovers or single-fandom fics ever again, which would you pick?

Single fandom fics.  I’m not a fan of crossovers, though I’ve written them from time to time, and probably will again if I think it’s appropriate.  I just prefer not to cross the streams, as it were.

28. if you could only ever write for a single crossover or a single fandom again, which would you pick?

Good Omens.  Hands down.  So. Many. AUs.  So many ideas.  So many delightful characters.

29. Does the division of your writing across fandoms line up with your reading? What’s the biggest discrepancy?

It does not.  I read far, far less than I actually write.

30. Do you continue to write for a fandom after you’ve moved on or do you focus solely on the new one?

I usually focus on the new one, however, I’ve occasionally re-visited a fandom after I’ve left it, because inspiration hits me, or I’ve gotten back into it.

31. Who’s the one character you’ve just never managed to get perfectly right?

Margo Hanson, from the Magicians.

32. Who’s the one character who shines without you even trying?

There’s a few.  Eliot Waugh, Lex Luthor, Jack O’Neill, the Doctor (9 & 10 mostly)

33. Is there any particular character whose scenes always wind up being longer/more frequent than you expected? Does the quality hold up?

Not really?  Characters and scenes are as long as they need to be.  I do think the quality holds up, though, because honestly, by the time they’re done, I’m done.

34. Was there any fic that you wrote that really surprised you in the fandom reaction? Was it just by the numbers or did they take it an entirely different way?

Not really, or if there was, I don’t remember it.

35. Have you ever written a ship into a fic without meaning to?

Yup.  It snuck in there, especially in the background early on, and by the end I was like, what the fuck, I don’t even ship you, YOU DON’T EVEN GO HERE.

36. Have you ever sincerely written a ship you do not support into a fic?

Nope.  If I don’t like a ship, I don’t write it.

37. Have you ever purposefully bashed a character/ship in a fic?

No.  Not as a writer.  But like, I have written a character saying “I don’t think X belongs with Y, they belong with me!” because that’s pretty much how the actual relationship went down.  (Spike, Buffy, Riley most specifically.)

38. Have you ever purposefully written something you know your readers would find uncomfortable/would not enjoy? If yes, why?

Very, very, very many years ago.  I wrote it just to see if I could.  I could, I did, and I haven’t written it again.

39. Do you consider yourself to have a readership?

No.

40. Do you feel like you put out enough content?

I feel like I put out what I need to.  Is it enough?  idk.

41. If you cross-post your fics on multiple sites, do you have a favorite? Are there certain fics you would only post on certain site?

AO3 is, hands down, my favorite.  For awhile, I was posting to WWOMB (Wonderful World of Make-Believe) but I’ve stopped there, sadly.

42. How many views has your most popular fic gotten?

Consortio is my most popular fic, and it’s gotten 21,658 hits.  Although the fic is multi-chapter, so I don’t know how to break that down into individual hits. In fact, four of my five most popular are multi-chapters.  The only single-chapter fic is What He Wants, clocking in at 6,743. 

43. Your least popular?

The Rose and the Yew Tree, with 0 hits.

44. Do you follow/favorite/kudos/comment/review more stories than you have received?

Unfortunately, no.

45. If you had to call yourself an author of a single genre (besides fanfic) what label would you give yourself?

Pornography.

46. Do you consider yourself a diverse author?

Diverse as in fandoms?  Yes.  Diverse as in style?  Not so much.

47. If someone you know in real life who isn’t involved in fandoms asked to read your work, would you let them? If yes, what would you recommend they read first?

I’ve done that before, and I’ve tailored it to the person and what I know they like.  For example, my old boss got me hooked on La Femme Nikita (the Peta Wilson one), and so when she wanted to read my writing, I gave her my LFN fics to read.

48. Does anyone you know from outside of fandom know you write fanfic? Are they involved in the same fandom too?

Yes, and some of them.

49. Has anyone in your life ever read your fanfic just because you wrote it?

Yes.

50. Has writing fanfic had a significant impact on your life? Would you say it’s entirely positive?

It has had a very significant impact, and no, it hasn’t been at all positive.  Some of my best moments, as well as my worst, are because of fanfic and fandom, but fanfic in particular.  Fic’s brought me close to people, fic’s pushed me away from people, and it’s made people change the way they look at me.

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 22

AO3 link here

Harvard is, in some ways, everything Drea wanted. She’s on her way, she's gotten to this place, earned her spot: as supportive as Mom is, she would never allow herself to use whatever friends or influence she might have to get special consideration, and Drea would never want her to.

Everything is different from high school. It’s easy to find people who love learning the way she does. They’re everywhere. There are trust fund kids and legacies, of course, plenty of them, but there are also talented people who want to make the future. And all the sorts of things Rose talked gleefully about when she started college - staying up until 4 AM one night to write a paper then staying up again the next to go see a band, people being so casually passionate about this cause or that protest, sliding with your friends into your regular booth at your regular off-campus pizza place, having a regular off-campus pizza place - it’s all happening for Drea too, just like she had hoped.

In some ways it’s just as bad as she feared. Worse.

She’s gone from being one of the youngest in her class to being one of the oldest, and she feels like she should be wiser for it. She has stories to tell during icebreakers or house mixers; when called to it, she can speak honestly about the year she took off between high school and college. When it's her turn, she talks about volunteering and getting a different type of experience before coming back to the classroom. She can see that it impresses the people around her, both professors and fellow students. It makes her different and special and interesting in a way that’s acceptable.

She never talks about the parts with doctors or surgery, the relief of it and the pain. Keeping her business to herself has always been second nature, and she had thought it was something she was used to, going on with that background tension, that worry. All those years of carefully using school bathrooms and accepting rare sleepover invitations...It’s not the same as living with suitemates. She had thought that having her own room would be enough. She wasn’t prepared for the emotions of it: not being able to go home at the end of a day or maybe two, to the people who knew everything, who she didn’t have to put up walls around. Even as she makes friends and laughs with them, joins study groups, finds a favorite spot in the library, it feels as if she is more guarded than ever.

Those blending-in tricks that she taught herself still work, and she starts using them more and more. Each time she puts on a blouse instead of a T-shirt, laughs and says that of course she couldn’t have a second bowl of ice cream, she feels a bit less exposed. She has a deft hand with makeup now, and when the boy next to her calculates the tip wrong at the pizza place, she doesn’t say anything, only puts in the extra money herself. She makes little errors, doesn’t try as hard as she might on exams or papers, averages somewhere between a B and B-plus instead of her high school As. Her group of friends gives in to tradition, going to see the Red Sox play a Saturday afternoon game, and she doesn’t cheer without looking purposefully at the others, never gets up to shout at a batter, doesn’t list off any of the stats or rules that are still in her head. But there’s a frustration even with feeling the need to do those things. College, for everyone else, means pushing boundaries and exploring who they really are. Drea thinks she knows who she is, still, beneath it all, but digging it out and showing the world seems so dangerous a proposition.

There’s a group for gays and lesbians on campus, small and pretty quiet, but she could find out where they meet if she wanted to. She thinks they might understand, at least a little, but she can’t bring herself to do it. Even beyond the fear of calling attention to herself, she isn’t gay or lesbian and she won’t pretend to be just so she can talk to people who might have experiences something like hers. These are people who know lies well; she won’t add more. And she does not know whether they would be any more accepting of the truth than anyone else - perhaps even less, if they considered her a distraction, someone who would only serve to confuse their cause to outsiders.

She isn’t ready to be a cause. She’s trying hard enough to be a self.

The last week of April, people start talking about their summer plans, none of which are even being planned anymore, all foregone conclusions: travel, a job, summer classes, going back home to laze around or help with the family business. In some ways Drea craves the idea of home more than anything in perhaps her entire life. She imagines lying on her old mattress in Maryland and thinks that she would sleep for days as soon as she touched it. She wants Dad to hand her a bag of green beans to tip while he makes Surprise Meatloaf simply because he knows it’s her favorite, wants to talk politics with Mom and ask how she works with people who are vehement about opinions that are just entirely wrong. She wants to be shocked at how tall Nate is getting and go to the roller rink with Emma. She wants Rose to talk to, even when she’s pretending that she doesn’t. She wants everyone back in their place, how it was. She wants to be back in her place.

“If I come home,” she tells Dad one night, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to make myself come back.” It is late and she knows that she’s woken him, but this is the only time to take a turn on the hallway phone without anyone overhearing. She shivers a little and tucks herself closer; her nightshirt is fairly thin and she forgot to bring her robe.

“You worked so hard for it, and you've nearly exhausted the library here anyway. You need a challenge for your mind. A few months and I think you’ll want to go back.” He says it gently, lightly, but with such confidence that she can’t bring herself to tell him that just hearing his voice makes her throat feel thick and teary, that just saying the words “come home” gives her an ache along her breastbone. Never mind how Harvard is important, how she did work hard for it and has found things to enjoy despite it all. Never mind that once she makes it through, no one can take it away.

But he must hear something in her breathing, in that extra beat of silence. “Let me talk to your mom,” he says. “I think she’ll have an idea.”

She hadn’t realized until now just how much she’d missed hearing that.

Mr. Jarvis wears glasses now. He gazes at Drea over them, then looks over at Tony, who seems entirely absorbed in assembling an elaborate structure using blocks.

Jarvis doesn’t look convinced by his demeanor. Drea decides that she won’t either. She knows for a fact that the blocks are only a last resort anyway; Aunt Maria said that the chemistry set and the electronics kit aren't allowed to stay in Tony’s room until he's at least nine.

“Well, I shall leave the two of you to it,” Jarvis says. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you to remember your manners, Master Stark?”

“I always remember my manners,” says Tony with solemnity, still stacking busily. Jarvis makes a dubious “hmm” sound as he leaves, but Tony waits until he’s out the door before adding, “But sometimes I don't want to use them.”

Drea snorts, then coughs to cover it up. To Tony she’s an adult, and she’s pretty sure that means she isn’t supposed to think sassing the other adults is funny.

Tony looks over at her. She suspects that he’s seen through the cough.

Crouching on the floor beside him, she picks up some blocks herself, trying to add them in places that won’t disrupt the careful architecture. Tony watches her silently for a minute, then seems to decide that she’s foolish but fairly harmless and goes back to his own work.

“Are you supposed to be my babysitter?” he asks after a minute.

Drea pauses, nudging a block carefully into place before answering. “Kind of, I guess. Just for the summer. I think Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis have other work to do.”

The Jarvises have been somewhat old for practically Drea’s whole life, but there’s a difference between general fitness despite graying hair or a little slowness to the limbs, and the energy required to keep up with Tony. Mom always says that one shouldn’t underestimate the Jarvises, but at this point even they seem to be open to the idea of some type of help, at least to tide them over until Tony starts school. She just has the feeling that she wasn’t exactly what they had in mind.

“What kind of babysitter are you?” Tony asks, as if he's interviewing her for the position. She doesn’t think he’d take kindly to her reminder that she’s already gotten it (on the merit of a call from her parents to Uncle Howard, but still).

“A pretty good one,” she lies, trying to inject some reassuring boisterousness into her tone. Her childcare resume is fairly sparse - her own siblings don’t count - but he doesn’t need to know that. Tony looks her over consideringly.

“I hope,” he says, prodding another block into place, “that you’re different from your sister.”

He means Rose, who has watched Tony along with the rest of them when they’ve gone away together to Maine or when the Starks have come to visit and the parents have gone out for the evening. Rose has very strict ideas on exactly who needs to listen to her, and how immediately, with which Tony has fundamental disagreements.

“I’m not exactly like Rosie.” She stops one of the pillars from toppling, straightening the blocks. Tony evaluates it and then gives a firm nod. “But if you want a really good babysitter, you should get Emma. She’ll bake you cookies, and maybe even teach you her secret recipe.”

“Do you bake?”

“Sure, but I don’t have a secret cookie recipe.”

“Not a secret’s okay too.” He blinks at her.

She finds herself grinning over at him. Drea doesn’t do that a lot; usually she just gives nice little smiles. “You want to go bake some cookies?”

The remaining blocks shed off his lap as he stands. “I have a better idea, actually. It’s all mostly just chemistry anyway.”

An hour and a half later, the big kitchen downstairs is covered in powdery white - flour and yeast and baking soda all floating into a snowy layer. It’s drifted even onto the pages of the still-open cookbooks that hadn’t offered what they’d needed. Drea rests the tray of hot pretzels on the counter just as Jarvis comes in and looks around in dismay.

“The baking soda is important,” Tony tells him. “It’s how the outside gets crispy and the inside stays soft. Just like for bagels.” He reaches to break off a piece, but Drea pushes his hand away, looking up to shrug at Jarvis.

“I have to support his science education. He can’t fall behind just because it’s the summer.”

“Or because he’s a child,” Jarvis says, raising a wry brow, and hands them damp clothes while he goes to fetch the broom.

They go to Central Park often, and Drea lets Tony think it’s her first time being there. He shows her all of his favorite things, a surprising number of which involve nature for someone who is being raised by one of the foremost technological minds of the century and seems happy to follow in his footsteps. He frequently requests a picnic basket for them to carry to Sheep’s Meadow or Cedar Hill, standing on a stool at the kitchen counter while Jarvis suggests sandwich fillings as if they are a Victorian lady and her cook putting together a dinner party menu, selecting fruits only after careful consideration, a miniature and bull-headed connoisseur.

Tony eschews the zoo in favor of the birds and bugs and flowers of the Ramble, the turtles in their pond. She can’t find it in her heart to tell him that all of that is human-created nature too. Though perhaps, she thinks to herself as Tony crouches to silently watch a butterfly land on a branch near him, taking in the careful and beautiful converging details of abdomen and wings and coloration, nature has taken over here anyway and made it all its own.

“How come you’re always fancy?” Tony asks as they stand at the edge of the Gill, watching the stream flow away. This deep in the park, it’s hard to remember that she isn’t in the woods back in Maryland. “It would be easier if you wore pants. Then you could get really close and not be worried about getting dirty.” He frowns at the way she has edged back from the mud and water.

Drea switches the picnic basket to her other hand. It’s gotten lighter since she made a rule that he has to carry it for one minute per every ten that she does. “I’m just being safe. What if you slipped and fell in? I’d want to be able to make a plan and rescue you instead of falling in too.”

“I wouldn’t fall in. And anyways, it isn’t that deep.” He crosses his arms. “What the real reason?”

“I’m just more comfortable this way,” Drea says, the basket in her hand preventing her from crossing her arms too. It’s too hard to explain the difference between her actual comfort, and the comfort she gets from avoiding scrutiny. “Now, come on, let’s go have lunch.”

They visit the Planetarium with frequency, clearly not Tony’s first time there. One of the attendants greets him with a smile and a welcoming sweep of the arm, nodding a cheerful “Mister Stark” as they enter the theater. Another watches them approach with eyes glaring, muttering “Mister Stark” through clenched teeth and trying to glance toward Drea with some sort of solidarity as she passes.

“The universe is so big,” Tony says with satisfaction as they sit, still staring up, after the show has ended one afternoon. The rest of the visitors are getting to their feet around them. “I bet there are aliens out there, huh?”

“I wouldn’t be too surprised,” Drea says. “Anything could be out there. There's plenty right here, after all.” And, to her own surprise, she laughs.

Each Wednesday, Tony goes to spend the day at Stark Industries with his father. It’s been a tradition since Tony was little. There’s a famous picture of Uncle Howard sitting at a big table during a presentation, a baby seat set up next to him. Uncle Howard is pointing to something, and baby Tony is leaning forward in his seat to do the same.

Among the SI scientists or outside contractors coming to pitch ideas, agreeing to a meeting on a Wednesday is seen as either extremely confident or extremely foolish, or both. Tony has a habit of interrupting with loud questions, and Uncle Howard has a habit of making decisions based on whether his son falls asleep or wanders off during a particular presentation.

Drea uses her Wednesdays for herself. She takes long walks down the city streets, and even as she revels in not having to answer a million questions a minute, she misses the way Tony makes her think and how his chatter quiets her mind. Settling herself into the oddly wonderful smell of books and old carpeting at the New York Public Library, she pages through the favorites of her childhood and doesn’t think for a moment about getting a leg up on class readings for next semester. (She does think, however, of her favorite carrel deep in the confusing stacks of the Widener.) Once, she goes out with Aunt Maria to the rehearsal of a play called Mrs. Murray’s Farm at the Circle Theatre, which they both agree probably won’t have very much success off-Broadway, much less on. Another time, she’s invited to some sort of philanthropic lunch. When she declines, Aunt Maria just laughs and says, “I’m sure you’re having plenty of opportunity to get involved with causes at school and you don’t need to listen to us prattle on.” Drea gives something like a smile and crosses her arms and doesn’t mention that she’s scared to attend protests and even sign petitions. It feels as if it would call too much attention to her, and she’s ashamed of herself.

Tony is actually fairly well-behaved in museums, chattering, pointing to everything, but not throwing tantrums or incessantly requesting to leave like some of the other children she sees (unless she really overdoes it). Still, there are some exhibits which hold so little interest for him that making him attend would be selfish. She goes by herself, walking with slow steps through the galleries, trying to take in all the art and history. She sends her dad a postcard of the prints from the Museum of Modern Art: It’s not the same, she writes, without getting a lecture about shading or how lithographs are made. And, of course, it’s no National Gallery.

Some afternoons she makes her way to the Stark Industries building too, giving her name and waiting for Uncle Bucky or Aunt Layla or both to come out and join her for lunch. There’s something grown-up about walking beside them with a pocketbook over her shoulder, asking about what they’re working on and telling them about Tony or something she read recently, as if they are fellow adults out for a bite to eat together. She’ll be twenty in the fall, voting next year, and she still isn’t quite used to that sort of feeling.

One morning in early August she sleeps in, spending several hours reading lazily in bed and then taking a long bath sometime in the afternoon. In some ways it’s relaxing. There are several bathrooms back at home, but she rarely gets to lock herself in for an hour or more without being disturbed, having someone pound on the door and beg (or, in Rose’s case, order) her to just get out of there already. Also, the Starks have much better bathtubs. Even the one adjoining her guest room feels like a small swimming pool.

She holds her breath beneath the luxuriantly hot water, eyes open, long hair billowing outward. She finds herself wishing that Thursday would come already, so she will have Tony’s whims as an excuse for laughing and expelling her energy and getting messy.

When she gets out, she puts on her robe and sits on the edge of the bed. She holds the remote control in her hand, but doesn’t turn on the television set.

There’s a knock on the door and she startles a little, settling when she hears Ana’s light, chiming voice saying through the wood, “I have your blouse, dear.” She had asked Ana a couple of days ago to repair a tear for her; she does know how to do it herself, but Ana is fast and neater.

She stands to answer the knock, smiling at Ana as she takes the blouse without bothering to examine the stitching. “Thanks,” she says, going to close the door again.

“Oh, Drea, dear,” Ana says quickly. “I see that you’ve washed your hair. Would you mind—It’s been a long time since I had a chance to braid someone else’s hair. Could I possibly try my hand with yours?”

Ana’s hair is always so carefully arranged. As hard as Drea tries, her long, dark hair never seems to lie as evenly or stay as neat and pretty.

“Oh,” she says. “Okay, I guess.”

She’s directed to sit on the floor while Ana sits on the bed. It’s quiet except for the sound of the brush working through her hair. Ana’s concentration seems to be on smoothing out the knots and tangles. It actually feels very soothing.

“Sometimes,” Ana says, still untangling, “even today, a person will make a terrible remark in front of me about Jewish people. And when I say that I am Jewish, they will say of course I’m not, because they know those people and I don’t act like one of them.” Her voice with its familiar slight accent, still there after all this time, is calm. Even the non sequitur feels dreamy and relaxed. She sets the brush aside and picks up a comb, tracing out sections along Drea’s scalp. “And sometimes, I will tell a person that I am Jewish and they will ask then which synagogue do I attend and where are my Sabbath candlesticks and my Jewish husband.” Her hands work gently with the strands of hair. “But no matter what these people or those people think, I still am who I am and very proud of it.”

She must hear Drea’s intake of breath but she does not pause to allow for any sort of answer or interruption. “I know very well how dangerous it can be to reveal yourself for the world. My friends, members of my family, were hurt or killed as people began to say that they were fooling everyone by pretending to be ordinary Hungarians. People who were kind can become cruel, even if simply with their words or by turning away with sympathy in their eyes. But caring so much for the way that others’ think and look at you, changing yourself and trying to pretend it all away - what kind of life is it to live?”

The braid is weaving into formation behind her. Drea feels tears in her eyes. “It’s too dangerous,” she whispers. “It could ruin everything. I know I should be brave and say to hell with everyone, but I can’t. It’s terrible, sometimes, trying to be just what people expect from a girl, but it’s so much easier, too.”

“Hmm.” Ana’s cheek rests briefly against the top of Drea’s head. “I understand. But there are so many different types of girls, the way that there are so many different types of Jews, and we are allowed to be a little of this and also a little of that - multitudes, as the poet says. Letting the person you are out into the world, perhaps just a little, might not be as dangerous as you think.”

The next Wednesday, Drea goes to Central Park by herself. She starts up one of the trails of the Ramble and before she knows it, she is running. Despite her skirt, despite what people might think of her, despite the man who yells, “Are you alright, young lady?” as she passes - she runs until she is panting, until she is laughing, broad and triumphant, until she has no breath.

She goes home for the last two weeks of the summer. Tony expresses his disapproval both vocally and by planting himself outside her door the day she is meant to leave.

“I’ll come back,” she promises, allowing him to keep a hold on her wrist even as Jarvis pulls the car around and parks.

“Next week?”

She ruffles his hair. “Try next summer, kid. I have things to do until then.” He has that mulish look back on his face, so she adds, “And so do you. You think three months of activities are going to plan themselves overnight? You have to show me a good time. I need you thinking about this until next year.”

“How very delightful the next months are certain to be,” Jarvis says dryly, picking up her suitcase and hefting it into the car.

She knew that Dad was going to come get her at the station, but Nate is there too, and Emma, and Mom, and even Rose.

“I don’t start again until next week,” her big sister says as they pile into the car. “And I couldn’t exactly leave without seeing you.”

There’s news to share all around, and souvenirs to hand out. They ask so many questions that Drea feels like a traveler back from exotic lands rather than the familiar premises of the Stark mansion.

Dad has made Surprise Meatloaf, and she doesn’t even have to tip the green beans. “Well, there’s always tomorrow,” he tells her with a wink, and she laughs.

There’s no chance to speak to him and Mom alone until late, when she comes downstairs from talking with Nate in his room to find them having a cup of tea together and probably waiting for her. There’s a third cup sitting empty; Mom pours, adds sugar, pushing it across the table as Drea sits down.

She stirs her cup thoroughly, staring into the cloudy heat of it, before she starts. “I’m going back,” she tells them. “Because I deserve to be there and to make the most of it. Because I want to. But I’m also—” She takes a breath. “I want to start seeing someone. A psychologist or a counselor, whatever you want to call it. There has to be one who’s safe to talk to, because I don’t know that I can keep everything hidden away anymore.” They are both watching her with care, neither preparing to interrupt, but she barrels on as if they might. “I know that you'd be here if I wanted to talk. And I know that you’ve worked hard to just let me be an average girl, and so much of my life has been normal and wonderful for it. But I’m not really average, I never will be, and I need some help dealing with that.”

Her parents trade glances. They don’t look upset or betrayed or anything of the sort, but Drea can’t bring herself to relax just yet.

Mom stands, and walks over to the front hall. Drea starts to get up to follow her, but Dad places a hand over hers, and she sinks back down. Her mother is back in only a minute, holding a manilla file folder.

“There are five in the area who seem reliable, but if you find someone else you’d prefer, I can certainly look into them as well.” She hands the folder over to Drea, who flips it open. “And if you’d like, we can contact the group at Hopkins to see if they might have former or potential patients who live close by who would be willing to speak with you. A bit more of an insider’s opinion.”

The list is neat and slightly clinical: names, office addresses, educational and occupational history. The typed Gs are a little wonky - Mom’s typewriter in her home office makes them like that; she’s been complaining about it absently for years without actually finding a replacement.

“I’ve put blue stars beside the ones that you would have to travel to using the bus system, and red stars for those accessible by subway,” Mom adds. “And tracing those routes was truly a nightmare. Why anyone would live in such a poorly designed city is outside of my comprehension.”

Drea looks at Dad, a bit of a question in her face. “Well, don’t expect me to stand up for Boston,” he says, eyes crinkling softly at the edges as he looks at her. He squeezes her hand.

It was this she was missing all year: being able to collapse, to allow truth into the open air, and to know that someone would have some sort of answer or at least be holding her hand after it all.

She’s the second one to arrive at the new suite in September.

Her parents help carry her things up to the fourth floor, take her for lunch, put up her posters where she directs them, lay fresh sheets on her bed. It’s several hours before they prepare to leave. Her mother holds her tightly. Her father kisses her forehead. “Have a good year,” he tells her, looking her directly in the eye, and she nods.

“Did you have a good summer?” asks Marnie, leaning in the doorway as Drea goes to finish unpacking once they’re gone. They had been roommates last year too. Alice won’t arrive until tomorrow. Kim had decided that she wanted a house close to the Yard instead of the Quad and joined another group instead, so a new girl called Bethany will benefit from their four South singles and big common room.

Drea tucks an orange T-shirt on the top of the pile and slides the drawer closed. It’s bright and sort of ugly, and will be the perfect thing to stand up wearing the next time they go to Fenway. “Yeah, summer was good. But I’m glad to be back.”

More chapters here

[emulateharry]

Story of my Life

Chapter 20

A/N:  So.  Here it is.  The final chapter of Story of my Life.  Roughly 84,000 fairly cohesive words.  I have never written anything this long before AND this one wouldn’t have happened without the encouragement and support of quite a few people.  So thank you so very much for believing in me and prodding me to continue. @irish-nlessing, @aggresivelyfriendly, @squirrely83, @lucyvanpelt78, @the-well-rested-one. 

I have the best betas in the world. They are phenomenally talented writers who share their time and opinions with me.  You ladies make me smile on the daily:  @whoopsharrystyles and @melissas173. 

Finally, none of this would have seen the light of day if not for the handholding and counselling and faith of my beautiful friend Alex ( @niallandharrymakemestrong).  I still can’t believe that she actually talks to me. 

Okay.  Enough preachifying.  When we left off, they were about to meet THE GIRL...

Wednesday morning found Kacey, Harry, and Clarissa sat in the office of Amelia Williams, the Crown Prosecutor.  After offering them something to drink, she glanced at DCI Sheppard before continuing.

“Ms. Day, Kacey, I wanted to make sure you were aware of the disposition of this case.  The defendant, Carol Pinkerton, has made a plea of ‘not guilty by reason of insanity.’  She has been examined by a panel of psychiatrists and has met all the requirements for the M’Naghten Rule.  She will spend a year under the supervision of her personal physician with monitoring by the court.”

“That’s bullshit!” Harry blurted out, his hands fisted on the arms of the chair.  Kacey reached out and put her hand on his arm.  “She almost killed Kassidy! And she gets no punishment?”

“I understand your frustration, Mr. Styles, but she met all the requirements,” Ms. Williams explained. “If her defense had not raised the issue, then I would have had to.”

“I cannot fucking believe this.  You think the law is there to protect you and then--” Harry growled, throwing his hands in the air.

“Harry,” Kacey said quietly, tugging on his arm.  “Harry, look at me.  Please.  We don’t know what her struggle was.  It’s not up to us.  No matter what happens with her, it doesn’t affect us any longer.  Please try to let it go.”

Harry looked at her and saw her eyes welling with tears.  He felt guilty for upsetting her, for making this stressful day worse.  He cleared his throat and said “I’m sorry, baby.  DCI Sheppard, Ms. Williams, Clarissa, please forgive my behavior.  Hearing that this girl would be out and free to try again is a shock.”

“She is not a threat to anyone when she is on her medication,” Ms. Williams said.

“How can you be sure that she will take it regularly?  She stopped once before and no one noticed until she tried to kill my girlfriend,” his tone was firm with a hint of sarcasm.

“She will be required to have routine blood tests to monitor her compliance along with regular visits to her physician.”

“And what if she skips one.  Or two?  What then?  How long will it take the people monitoring to find her and bring her into compliance?  Will she have enough time to find Kassidy and finish the job? She stabbed her FIVE TIMES.  Broke four ribs.  Gashed her head open.  She almost bled to death.  I saw all the blood!” his voice broke and he covered his face with his hands.

Kacey’s tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks.  She reached to hug Harry, resting her head on top of his.  Clarissa snatched several tissues from the desk and handed them to her.   They sat there for several minutes comforting one another until they could regain their composure.

Kacey looked at Clarissa and asked “What about a restraining order...or whatever you call them here?”

“Yes, we could apply for an AntiSocial Behaviour Order.  I will explain all the steps and schedule an appearance before the judge this afternoon.

Ms. Williams looked at the clock on the edge of her desk and said “We should move to the conference room to get settled.  The girl will be here soon.” * The conference room at the Crown Prosecution Services office was much like any other.  There was a large table surrounded by 14 chairs with several more against the wall.  The neutral color of the walls, a dull shade of beige, was relieved only by a picture of the Queen.  It was boring and quiet and empty apart from a carafe of water, a set of glasses and several boxes of tissues placed strategically around the room.  Kacey walked in, moved to the far side of the wide table, and sat with her back to the wall and the windows.  The thought that the girl would walk in behind her frightened her; she wanted to face her from the beginning.  Clarissa sat down next to her but Harry walked to the far corner of the room.   He was not happy about the situation at all and wanted to keep as much distance as possible between himself and the girl.  He wasn’t sure that he could control his anger and was staring out the window to try and focus.  Ms. Williams sat at the head of the table.  They had just settled in when there was a knock on the door.

As it opened to admit the girl and her family, Kacey’s heart was pounding.  Time slowed and every sense was sharpened.  Her peripheral vision had disappeared creating a tunnel with her at one end and the door at the other.  The sounds in the room were weirdly amplified and bounced around in her head, echoing in time with the racing of her heart.  She couldn’t seem to get enough air in her lungs and gasped in an attempt to fill them.  Tiny drops of sweat began to ooze out of her pores and coalesce.  A tremble began in her fingers and had spread to her hands when she felt a warm pressure on her left hand.  Harry was holding firm and had leaned in to whisper “Breathe, baby.  Just breathe.” Closing her eyes, she swallowed hard and focused on his voice.  The echoes faded and the trembling abated.  When she opened her eyes, people were just entering the room.  

The first person through the door was a tall, middle aged woman with iron gray hair wearing a severe suit and a frown, carrying a briefcase.  She bustled purposefully to the chair across from Clarissa, nodding as she pulled it out to sit down. Just behind her was another woman, a bit younger and softer, clutching her designer purse tightly to her side.   Wearing a pained expression, she moved to a chair across from Harry.  She was followed by a tall man who ambled in with hunched shoulders, his hands inside the pockets of his well-cut suit pants.  He acknowledged Harry but studiously avoided looking at Kacey.  With each person entering the room, Kacey’s heart beat faster.

At last a teenaged girl walked in accompanied by DCI Sheppard.  She was of average height, though her slumped posture made her seem shorter, and somewhat overweight giving her a doughy appearance.   Her dull brown hair was lank and hung down in her face.  Her face was blotchy and puffy and her wide eyes darted around the room, skimming over Harry and landing on Kacey.  She sank heavily into the chair directly across from Kacey, unable to take her eyes off her.  

Harry was gripping Kacey’s hand tightly, rubbing his thumb over her fingers trying to comfort them both.   He squeezed as the woman in the suit cleared her throat.

“Miss Day, Mr. Styles, I am Penelope Ainsworth, barrister for the Pinkertons.  I want to thank you; I understand what a difficult experience you have been through and know that you did not have to agree to this meeting.”

Kacey could feel Harry tense beside her and looked at him. He was sitting ramrod straight in the chair, deep lines between his eyebrows and his eyes were narrow as he glared at the lawyer.  Kacey placed her hand on his arm and patted gently.

“Miss Pinkerton would like to address you now,” she finished smoothly.

The girl sat with her hands folded in front of her, her attention solely on Kacey. “Miss Day, I am Carol Pinkerton,” she began, her sweetly melodic voice quavering.  Tears filled her eyes as she continued. “I am so, so sorry.  I know that will never be enough for what I did to you and I wish that I could do more.”  The girl paused and took a deep breath before continuing.  “I was diagnosed with schizophrenia last year.  I had trouble distinguishing between what was real and what was on TV and in movies.  I couldn’t concentrate at school and started having trouble in my classes.  I would forget to brush my teeth, to take baths and even to eat.  I couldn’t sleep.  My friends started avoiding me.  I had just entered sixth form and had no friends.”  The girl coughed and Ms. Ainsworth poured her a glass of water.  Taking a drink, she turned back to Kacey.

“I tried four medicines before we found one that would let me sleep and eat without being sick.  My mum and dad sent me to another school but I had trouble fitting in there.  The medicine made me gain weight and messed with my coordination so that I couldn’t play cricket without tripping over my own feet.  I had a hard time making the words come out right when I tried to talk.  The kids started making fun of me.  They called me names like Porky Porkerton and Clutzy Carol.   I decided that the medicine was not worth it, and I stopped taking it but didn’t tell anyone.”

Kacey was listening intently, trying to keep her face clear of expression, but little frowns broke through.

Carol Pinkerton went on, turning her attention to Harry. “I rode the bus to school every day and found out that the stop was right next to Harry’s, I mean Mr. Styles’, house.  I have been a fan since I saw you on the X-Factor and I couldn’t believe it when I saw you drive out of your house one morning when I was waiting for the bus.  I waved and you waved back.  One day you brought me a cup of tea and asked me how my classes were going. It got to be a routine, every day I would wait for you at the bus stop and you would come and talk to me before the bus came.”

Harry stared at her, mouth open in shock.

“I know, you never really did that.  When I stopped taking the medicine all at once, it caused me to have these…delusions.  I remember so clearly having tea with you every morning and you would hug me as I got on the bus and call me your girl. But none of it ever happened,” her voice was soft and full of regret. “I remember when I started seeing Miss Day at your house.  I was upset that you picked her over me but you seemed to be happy so I convinced myself that it was okay.  I saw you together and you were always laughing and smiling.  Just after the Christmas holiday I was waiting at the stop as always.  I was really surprised to see Miss Day come over to the bench and sit next to me.”  She turned to Kacey before adding “You sat right next to me for ten minutes and you never even looked at me,” she said sadly.

Kacey winced.

“When you got on the bus, you asked the driver how to get to Heathrow then you sat in the first seat and stared out the window.  I didn’t see you again for weeks.  But I saw Ha--, um, Mr. Styles the day after you left.  He came flying out of the house in his car and sped away.  I waved but he didn’t wave back.  He looked like he had been crying.  I saw him almost every day after that and he looked so sad.  I didn’t see him smile even once.  I was walking past the wall one morning and I heard him yelling at someone that ‘she was gone’ and that he needed to find her.” Miss Pinkerton took another drink of water then looked at Kacey.

“The sadder he was, the angrier I got.  How could you treat him that way?  I felt like I needed to do something to make it better.  I convinced myself that if you were gone and completely out of his life, he would be free and then I could make him happy again.”  The girl blushed furiously and took a sip of water.

“I was on my way home from school and I saw your yellow car parked across the street.  I remember walking up to you at the door in the wall and then I followed you in.  After that it gets a little blurry; it’s kind of like a dream, or a nightmare--” her voice cracked and she choked on a sob.  She tried to compose herself but her tears would not stop.  Her father reached out to put an arm around her shoulders as she fought to calm herself but failed.  

Harry watched as she crumpled.  For the first time he saw her not as the monster who had brutalized Kacey but a little girl who was devastated by her illness.  Kacey was crying beside him and he pulled her close, holding her protectively.  

It was several minutes before Carol Pinkerton’s sobs eased and she was able to catch her breath.  Dabbing her eyes with a tissue, she turned to Kacey again.  “I woke up in hospital and they told me what I had done.  I just wanted to die.  I still want to.”

“No!” Kacey’s shout caused everyone in the room to jump and look at her. “No, that is never the answer.  Life is worth living; it is a gift.  It’s not always easy but you are here for a reason.”  Kacey reached her hands out to the girl and took hold of hers.  Looking at her intently she said “Don’t throw away that gift, use it to make a difference.  You don’t know why you’re here.  You don’t know yet what you are to do in this world.  Don’t give up before you find out what that is.”

Carol began to cry again, holding onto Kacey, her head resting on her arm on the table.  Her parents broke down too, hugging their daughter. 

Harry was staring at Kacey.   He was in awe of her compassion for the girl and her determination to make her see that she could move on.   His heart swelled with pride and love for the woman who sat next to him.  If she could forgive the girl, then surely he could.  With a heavy sigh, he did just that.  He let go of all the anger he had been holding towards her, all of the fear.  He even managed a small smile.

Kacey felt the tension leave him and turned to see him smiling at her.  He leaned forward and whispered in her ear “I love you Kassidy Day,” before kissing her temple.

* Harry opened the door to the dining room and held it for his mum and Robin.  Harry had just picked them up at the station and brought them to the house.  He had asked them to come down for dinner and a short visit.  Kacey came to the door to greet them, hugging both warmly.  They chatted about the trip down on the train as they walked into the lounge.  Gemma was already there sitting on the settee drinking a bottle of water.  Kacey got Anne and Robin some refreshments and then Harry, who was bouncing around like a small child on Christmas, told them to sit because he had a surprise.   Once they were all seated, he took a deep breath and began.

“Okay, lately I’ve been going a lot to meetings.  Not all of them were business meetings or writing sessions.  Quite a few were auditions; I auditioned for a movie.  And I got a part.”

There was a chorus of excited congratulations.  Harry continued “It’s going to be a big movie.  Christopher Nolan is making a film about the Miracle of Dunkirk.  Ken Brannagh, Cillian Murphy and Mark Rylance are all in it.”

“What part are you playing? One of the women waving the men off to war?” Robin asked with a smirk.

“Oh, ha ha.  No, I’m going to play one of the soldiers.”

“Oh Sweetheart, that’s so exciting! When did you find out?”  Anne asked.

“Yesterday.  That’s why I asked you to come.  I wanted to celebrate with you. I made reservations at Clos Maggiore in an hour.”

“Well done little brother.  I am impressed.  Christopher Nolan has done some remarkable work.  I wonder why he picked you,” Gemma said, poking him in the ribs.

“What does my girl think?” Harry asked turning to Kacey.

“I think it’s wonderful.  You will be amazing.  But, I assume you will have to get a haircut? I will miss this…” as she ran her fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, I’m a bit nervous about that.  I’ll wait as long as possible before I get it cut, it should be long enough to donate.”

“When do you start?” Anne asked.

“We start in May.  I’ll be in Dunkirk and then the Netherlands and then back to England before going to LA for some more work.”

After exchanging hugs they gathered up their things and headed out to Harry’s Range Rover for the trip to dinner.  Pulling out of the security gate, a lone pap in a car across the street snapped off a few pictures as SUV headed down the road.

Harry spent the trip talking about all the things Chris Nolan wanted him to do to prepare for the role.  He found a parking spot across the street from the restaurant.  The maître d’ escorted them to the private dining room and then summoned their waiter and the sommelier.  

They spent a lovely two hours lingering over dinner and dessert before preparing to leave.  The private dining room, located in the secluded side of the building, had no views of the street.  As they walked to the front door, they saw dozens of paps outside the building and on the sidewalks opposite as well.  Pausing out of sight, they tried to decide on a plan to get to the car unheeded.  Harry was furious that he hadn’t thought to call and have Andy drive them.  Now, thirty or more paps were milling about Covent Garden waiting to pounce.  Robin, assuring them he was the least recognizable of the group, offered to go get the car and pick them up at the rear of the restaurant.  Harry asked the maître d’ if they could exit out the back but he was told that the alley in the rear was impassable due to holes necessary for some utility repairs.  Gemma, taking charge, told Robin to escort Anne out and to the car.  She and Harry would flank Kacey.  They would keep heads down and move steadily.  

With a nod, Harry’s stepdad took his wife’s arm and they walked briskly to the vehicle.  The paps paid them little attention until one recognized Anne.  The street looked like it was hit by a bolt of lightning.  Flashes were everywhere but Robin got his wife into the car safely.  The paps, now warned, turned to the restaurant entrance primed and waiting for Harry.  

Holding Kacey’s hand tightly, Harry said “Just keep your head down, love, and don’t let go of me unless I tell you.  If I stop, Gemma will get you into the car.”  

Gemma squeezed her other hand and said “Okay, let’s get through this line of arseholes.”  

Kacey giggled from nerves and, taking a breath, they hustled out the door.  Their progress was slowed immediately by the paps crowding them and shoving cameras and flashes at them.  There were shouts of “Harry!  Over here Harry!” as they kept moving towards the car.  Gemma had pulled Kacey close to her as Harry lagged behind to block as many as he could.  A particularly burly photog shoved his camera in front of Kacey, the flash blinding her and she stumbled.

He laughed as he kept snapping pics, “Got drunk at dinner, eh Kacey?  I’d get drunk too if I was disfigured like you.  A real case of Beauty and the Beast, yeah?  Except you’re the beast in this story.”

Gemma, barely managing to refrain from spitting on him, kept moving and finally got them to the car.  Kacey climbed into the back between Anne and Robin who shielded her from the paps and flashes coming in the windows.  Gemma was in the driver’s seat with the car running when Harry managed to get into the passenger seat.  She gunned the engine to show them she meant business and then pulled out of the parking spot and whipped down the street.  Kacey sat in Anne’s embrace trying to get her eyes to adjust to the dark again.  Robin was patting her awkwardly on the back trying to comfort her.

“Are you okay, Kassidy?” Harry asked, concerned.

Kacey could only stare at him wide-eyed in return.  

“I’m so sorry everyone.  I should have called for a car and driver.  I just didn’t think it would be bad.  They’ve backed off at the house.”  He turned to stare out the window as Gemma deftly maneuvered them home.

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into the courtyard at Harry’s and waited until the gate was closed securely before getting out of the car.  Everyone was quiet but Kacey was unusually subdued.  

Once inside she mumbled some regrets and excused herself to go up to the bedroom.  After watching her go, Anne patted Harry’s shoulder and sent him up after her assuring him that they would have time to visit in the morning.

Kacey was in the shower standing still under the hot spray when Harry walked into the bathroom looking for her.  He stripped off his clothes and joined her, pulling her to him.  As he gathered her into his arms, she began to sob.   He just held her tight and stroked her back.  

Harry was rubbing lotion on Kacey after she dried off, trying to massage some of the tension away.  When she turned so that he could get her back, he saw several long deep scratches that were oozing blood.  Near her shoulder were some red fingertip sized marks that were beginning to purple.  All down her left arm were similar red marks.  Harry took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm his anger.  The fucking paps had mauled her.  When he got through with them they would regret the day they were bor—

“Harry?”  Kacey said in a small voice.

He shook himself and said “Sorry love.  You’ve got some scratches here.  Let me get the antibiotic cream.”

*

Kacey was quieter than usual the next morning.   She had barely spoken at breakfast and Harry caught glimpses of pensiveness beneath her smiling countenance.  She hugged Anne and Robin fiercely as they left with Harry to catch their noon train home.  When Harry returned after seeing them off, he found her on the sofa in the lounge waiting for him.  She stood up abruptly massaging her fingers.

“Harry? I need to talk to you.”

A heavy sense of dread fell over him as he sat down in front of her.

“Um, I’ve been thinking.  Maybe…I think I need to go home,” she said tentatively.

“To your flat?” he asked, hopeful.

“No.  To the States.  I just…I don’t know what to do.  I m,ean I literally have nothing to do.  I don’t remember how to write, I have no job, I just sit here all day and read or clean.  You are never here, and I understand that!  But I’m lonely.  I have no friends here, at least none that I can remember, and everyone has a job or something to do.  Except me. You’re going to be travelling and working on the movie…then I’ll be completely alone.  I can’t leave this house without worrying.  I don’t remember people.  It’s terrifying!  Anyone could come up and pretend to know me…I can’t…” she trailed off.  “At least in the States, I know who I know.  I’ll be with Laura and my dad and my friends. Maybe I can get my job back at the hospital.”

Harry’s eyes prickled.  He knew that if she went to the US he would lose her; she would never come back.  The pressure of the grief rising in his chest was crushing.  He took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair.  Moving them back to his lap, Kacey saw that they were trembling.  His hands were trembling.  Trembling…

When she fell quiet, Harry looked up to see Kacey staring at him, a look of alarm on her face.  She didn’t move.  “Kassidy?” he asked concerned.  She was still staring but he could tell that she wasn’t seeing him.  Expressions passed over her face: confusion, anger, sadness, surprise, fear.  “Kassidy?  Baby?”  She stood unmoving.  Harry worried that she was having a stroke or a seizure.  What did you do for someone having a seizure?  He didn’t have a clue.  Maybe it was a panic attack.  He reached for her hand but she didn’t respond to his touch.  She was breathing rapidly, the muscles in her face twitching with each new emotion.  Harry pulled his phone from his pocket and was about to dial 999 when he looked up at her again.  She was crying, her eyes locked on his.   Swallowing hard she said “Your hands.”  He looked down at his hands and then back at Kacey.

“Your hands were trembling.  Because of me.  I noticed them.  That’s when I decided that I would do whatever I had to do to make you feel comfortable with me even though I was freaking out.   But I pulled myself together.  And you asked me to dinner.  And I could not contain my excitement, I felt like my cheeks would split from my smile.  And then James wanted to take a picture.  And you put your arm around me.  And I never wanted to move from that place again.” Harry was staring now.  A slow smile beginning on his lips.

“You remember.”

“I remember.”

Harry pulled her into his arms on his lap and held her tightly as he rocked back and forth.

“Oh, Harry, I love you so much.”

“I love you Kassidy.  Baby I love you,” he murmured against her temple.

*

It was evening and they were snuggled in bed just holding one another.  

“Do you remember coming to the show in Indianapolis?” he asked.  

“I do!  It was so great.  Oh!  And you fell!  I was worried because I could tell that it hurt.  Then those girls behind us kept making remarks about you being clumsy.  I just wanted to slap them but Laura wouldn’t let me.”

Harry laughed.  “What about your birthday and our trip to Middlethorp?”

“That was so lovely.  Just the two of us and all that beautiful time together.  Oh.  And then going to Cheshire and me being a complete idiot.  Oh god.  I wish that some of these memories hadn’t come back,” she said, blushing.

“You didn’t do anything wrong Kassidy.  It was a misunderstanding.  I think that is the second biggest lesson I’ve learnt recently; communication is so important.”

“What’s the first?”

“To cherish the people you love because you just never know what will happen.  Anything could happen to anyone at any time,” he said before pausing.  “I love you Kassidy.”

“I love you Harry.  I am so fortunate.  I got to fall in love with you for the first time---twice.  And make love to you for the first time twice.  Just to be with you is so...I said it at Christmas.  You are the best gift ever.”

Harry kissed her gently.  She reached up to stroke his cheek, smiling.  “I can’t wait to see how the rest of the story unfolds.”

“What story?”

“The story of my life, silly.”

“As long as I get to be in all the chapters…”

“You’re on every page.”

[sonoflucis-archive]

This is long af and honestly really really deeply personal and highly opinionated. This is about love, but it’s a hard love. It’s the love I learned from Angrboda, mother of monsters like me. Some love is sharp and has teeth. Insisting that love is only soft and sweet is a disservice to everyone who has lived the experience that that is not always true. 

warning for mention of sexual assault. Nothing graphic, just referring to a point in time when things happened. 

I went through hell to become who I am today. To have control of my thoughts, of my reactions. 

I went from being in a situation where I was literally tortured ( ah yes, I was reminded of a lot of things when you asked me where that scar on my back came from. Some of them have fun stories attached. That one doesn’t ) and literally sexually abused for anything I might have done when I pissed my partner off (he bragged to my ex-bff about raping me when I upset him. I was with him for almost six years), to being passed around multiple partners as a glorified concubine who there was never enough of ( but they all needed more, more, more to feel that I really loved them--) to being told that my hypersexuality meant I’d never have long-term relationships (which I already have) to... this. 

I get to decide what “better” is. I get to decide what love looks like when I give it. And I do give it. I have a huge amount of love in me. Tbh? I’m probably like 80% ARO. I’m pretty homosexual but prefer other trans/genderweird ppl as partners. The fact that I’m ARO af and see no point or necessity in separating kinds of love shouldn’t diminish mine. My personal code and beliefs come before anyone. No one, even my soulmates get put ahead of that code and my duty to what I MUST do. That is something I make pretty clear about myself, I think. 

I have romantic notions. In fact, I am so fixated on them that they’re virtually all I can write about. That is largely because of the fact that it’s not something I experience much for myself. 

The way I see it? I love everyone who is good to me at a baseline level. I love and respect their humanity. Your youness, your autonomy is literally holy to me. If you are someone who I talk with regularly, or occasionally share something I found for because I thought you’d like it? I love you. Especially if you’re someone who I just enjoy existing with. I don’t want or need anything from people. I just want to coexist and laugh together. That’s literally all I need. The only thing that separates that from being with me in a “relationship” sense is the conformation, the choice, the esoteric importance of words and language that will re-frame that love. 

And that’s it really: I see most loves as the same, though every relationship looks different (and honestly should). I can tell you that at any given time I’m dating my best friends. They are my best friends first and foremost. Always. I don’t see any sort of problem with having a sexual relationship with a friend, or a non-sexual relationship with a lover. I don’t give a single shit about what a relationship is “supposed” to be or look like. In my reality, in the bubble of space-time that I inhabit, I don’t have any understanding of “rules” for that and I don’t want to. I experience love without limits.

I want to be free, and I want the people I love to be free. I will NEVER ask you to fill the holes in me, though everyone runs into weakness and slips up sometimes. You can’t really do that (demanding) without devouring others. I have always believed that “Suffering and compromise is love!!” stuff is bullshit. Yeah, you have to work to work things out, but you also have to have your own shit in hand. The moment you feel entitled to someone’s emotional labor I think you’ve gone too far-- and no, you don’t get a free pass. You shouldn’t be suffering with the person you love long-term, or demanding they do the work for you. 

There are times when my brain is screaming; voices, hallucinations, you name it-- but I don’t show it outside of a placidity or a need to sleep it off. in those moments, I think: If I don’t get fucked, fucked up, or bleed RIGHT NOW I’m going to die. But I don’t. In those moments, I could make the undignified choice to seek those things out- outside of my sphere of safety,and sometimes I slip up and fall off of the wagon-- but I do my best to choose not to. It is NO ONE’S job to provide me with the kind of attention I want, no matter how much I want it. It’s great when I do get it,but it means fucking nothing if it has to be forced. It means nothing if it’s an obligation. It means nothing if it’s something only offered because you’re afraid of losing your person. Acts of sacrifice are well and good, but they should never be the basis of your love. If they are, you end up with nothing to give. You end up a thrall to what you love. That mentality fucked me up so bad that to this day, I still don’t know how to show romantic affection outside of surrender. Sitting at someone’s feet. Making their meals and caring for them in the places their parents’ should’ve taught them to care for themselves. Literally offering my body as an act of worship. These are the only things I know, though I like to think my repertoire is growing. 

I believe that I am good and worthy. I have fought, bled, and suffered through HELL to earn that. I like myself. I like who I am, and my beliefs are firm. I refuse to be punished for that. They were not handed to me; they are not based on emotion, but on logic and careful self examination. They are not built on a me-centric view of the world, but in respecting everyone around me’s humanity and worth. My beliefs are firm not because they were handed to me by my caregivers, but because I had to build them from the scraps of my world through careful trial and re-trial. I will always believe that my code, my honor, my strength is better than something built out of fear and knee-jerk reactions. 

Just as much as I respect and love and uplift those that call me friend, I am a double edged sword. I will cut out poison quickly and viciously. No plague on the tree of my world will be allowed to survive for long. 

As I came out of high school I developed the framework that would keep me alive for another decade. Three rules: 

1: Have no secrets that you wouldn’t tell your mother/most respected person/significant other. I may have a hard time communicating, but I never purposefully hide anything. It’s really as simple as that, and the rule casts a vicious bright light: If there’s something you want to do that you’d keep secret ask yourself why. It will teach you everything you need to know: Are you ashamed of it? If so is it merely a matter of ego or is it genuinely something you would consider wrong? Are you afraid that they will attack you for it due to a disagreement on that morality? If so, reconsider the level of trust or reliance you’ve assigned to that relationship... no matter how painful that might be. If it comes back to your own embarrassment: Work on it in yourself. Examine it. Force yourself to face it. Do battle with it. Always be honest and you won’t have to keep track of any lies. 

2: Never stop walking. It’s okay to cry, but not to sit down and stop moving towards your inevitability. You’re a shark. If you stop swimming you’re as good as dead. Cry while you walk. Mourn with your whole heart but don’t stop. 

3: Expect nothing. You are entitled to nothing from no one. You are born alone and you die alone. Remember that in those times you will be your only company. Learn to like it, or you will suffer. 

I know what I’m doing, and I know that I have to keep moving forward, regardless of anyone staying with me. No one has to understand for me to be on the path that I chose, that I was meant to walk. I remain a Warrior of Light. That crown is mine and mine alone to bear as it has been before and will be again.