#if she reaches out over email ill be professionally mean

[candlewitches]

cannot sleep mostly because of pain but also bc i am still full of rage at the former (and now current again LMAO) execs of my former larp. like literally. “i can excuse (alleged) mismanagement, fraud, and embezzlement, but i draw the line at a sternly worded announcement”

[mysticalhouseofcards]

✨🔮✨Bts romantic soulmates / future spouses current energy reading ✨

Hi guys 👋 I hope everyone is good 😊 I decided to do future spouses readings since all of the BTS members seems like they'll get married to their romantic soulmates except Namjoon who his romantic soulmate is a different person from his future spouse and that's why I did both romantic soulmate's and future spouse's current energy reading for him ! For those who haven't seen the pendulum reading about them getting married to their romantic soulmates click -> here

Kim Namjoon's

✨Romantic soulmate's reading✨

Current Energy

I got ✨Judgement ✨this card indicate taking responsibility for her actions and her life, being a good judge of character, seeing the truth and knowing what she wants. Judgement t card often shows up when you need to step up . It can also mean that she is getting out of a karmic circle and see more clearly around her , maybe her awakening has begun.

Hopes and Fears

I got ✨The Tower ✨This card shows me that she is afraid of the unknown , generally the feeling of being unsure and she's very much afraid that something will happen that will open old wounds of hers and that her life will get messed up once again .

How to Release

✨Page of Cups reversed ✨Reversed, this card could be advising to “get real.” She has to get her head out of the clouds and plant her feet firmly on the ground.Her emotions may be all over the place. She needs to do her best to practice emotional restraining.The Page of Cups reversed can also symbolize emotional immaturity , as advice, this card may be saying: time to grow up girl.She may also need to practice emotional detachment from a past situation.

Future

✨Page of Wands ✨With this card I'm seeing good news coming for her in the future through phone calls , emails , texts . They could be good news about any kind of situation . Also this card indicates being creative ,working on new ideas or projects with a lot of enthusiasm and passion , healed inner child and very playful attitude .

✨Future Spouse's reading✨

Current Energy

I got ✨Five of Pentacles✨,in a general context, the Five of Pentacles is not a great card to get as it represents hardship, rejection or a negative change in circumstances. She may be feeling like the world is against her and nothing is going her way. It can signify bad luck, struggles or adversity. Unemployment, alienation and poverty are all represented by this card and it can also signify health problems, breakups or scandals causing turmoil in her life. She might feeling like she's left out in the cold, but, she has to remember that this situation is only temporary and then ask herself if she's reaching out for any help or support that is available. There is help out there for her. It may be in the form of moral support from friends or family, financial assistance from social welfare, or even the kindness of strangers but whatever it is, she has to take it. Nothing lasts forever and this hardship too shall pass.

Hopes and Fears

✨Six of Cups reversed ✨ With this card I feel like she remembers past events of her life , maybe her childhood , some with nostalgia and some others with sadness . Maybe she didn't have the most easy childhood and there were moments that she needed to left her child self back and be more mature . As it seems she is being in a difficult situation at the moment so with this card I could say that she hopes to find help from her family and friends.

How to Release

I got ✨Strength ✨She has many challenges before her at the moment but she is more than ready to face them. She has to rely on her inner strength at this time and remain calm. She’ll master the situation she has to be brave! Her courage will see her through. She needs to take matters into her very capable hands. She has got the power to get this situation under control.

Future

✨Nine of Swords reversed ✨In a general context, the Nine of Swords reversed represents seeing the light at the end of the tunnel after dark times. When reversed, it is a card of recovering from depression or mental illness or issues improving, letting go of negativity, releasing stress and learning to cope. It signifies opening up, accepting help and facing life.

Kim Seokjin's

Current Energy

✨Two of Pentacles ✨In a general context, the Two of Pentacles can indicate that she is trying to find or maintain the balance between various areas of her life. This card represents the ups and downs of life and indicates that she is resourceful, adaptable and flexible enough to get through them. However, it can be a warning that trying to juggle too many things at once and not prioritising what is important can lead to failure and exhaustion. She has to try to evaluate where she's putting her energy and cut back on what is not necessary in order to maintain a balanced and happy life. The Two of Pentacles can also indicate that decisions need to be made and making these choices may be causing her stress. It can also signify partnership and the struggle to find the right balance between her needs and the needs of someone else.

Hopes and Fears

I got ✨Eight of Wands✨ This card shows me that she chose to see life with a positive and hopeful eyes and she hopes that everything she wants and have in mind can have progress and come to life . She feels very energetic , positive and enthusiastic about her ideas , she might plan to go on a travel . She is working very hard and she believes and hope that her hard work will be paying of and that she'll be ahead of the game . Although I am sensing all this positivity I think she's kind of afraid that she's becoming obsessed with someone or something.

How to Release

✨The Hanged Man reversed ✨ Let go is the advice this card gives . No one gets spiritual by hanging on to a situation or a person or an idea. Sometimes we need to let go.This card can also be suggesting learning to land on your own two feet. Have faith in herself.Instead of being still, the Hanged Man advises to take action. The time to wait is over now it’s time to move! If she has been making too many sacrifices, she has to stop. She doesn't have to be a martyr or a saint. It’s okay to put her needs first.

Future

I got ✨The King of Swords ✨ I'm seeing achievement, this tarot card denotes a professional who is at the top of their game (it seems like she'll get what she wants). She'll become someone who is an expert in their field and would have had to study to acquire this knowledge. She also may have plenty of practical experience in how to apply this knowledge in a very sophisticated manner till then .

Min Yoongi's

Current Energy

✨Two of Pentacles reversed ✨ In a general context, this card reversed can indicate that she biting off more than she can chew! She may be trying to keep too many balls in the air and finding it impossible to maintain the balance between the various areas of her life. This card also represents feeling overwhelmed,overextending herself and lack of organisation. Reversed can signify that she is making poor choices (I think that it's something that has to do with her career or future) because she is under pressure and may be getting herself into more of a mess than she needs to.

Hopes and Fears

I got ✨Judgement reversed ✨ I'm feeling like she is afraid of what others are or will be being overly judgemental or critical of her and her choices or maybe even blaming her for something that wasn’t her fault. This card can also mean that there are times she lets fear and self-doubt take control of her situation and that might happen because of bad past experiences she had .

How to Release

✨Temperance reversed ✨ This can be more of a warning than anything she might have allowed things to get out of hand or became a control freak ! Whatever it's happening in her life this card can be advicing her to get it together or chill the heck out.Temperance reversed can also suggest that it’s time to make a decision. She has to stop waffling on matters. Shit or get off the pot.

Future

✨Seven of Swords and Seven of Pentacles ✨ With Seven of Swords card I'm seeing her working hard and strategically towards her goals , that can also mean that she'll have to kind of trick some people but not in anyway to harm them in anyway (at least from the energies I'm getting). This card together with Seven of Pentacles tells me that her strategical way of thinking and hard work will pay off and she'll get the success she wants after feeling that her ideas /plans will never work and be patient for some time .

Jung Hoseok's

Current Energy

✨Ace of Wands reversed ✨In a general context, the Ace of Wands reversed represents delays, setbacks and disappointing news. When it's reversed indicates that she might does not have any “get up and go” in her at the moment as it represents lack of initiative,passion,assertiveness, energy, enthusiasm, motivation, & growth. She may be stopping herself from progressing or be slow and hesitant about starting or trying anything new. It can also represent creative blocks, wasted talent or potential and missed opportunities. She need to start taking the bull by the horns again. Alternatively, this card can indicate that she's so passionate, enthusiastic and motivated that she's a little too intense for some people to handle.

Hopes and Fears

With the ✨Four of Pentacles ✨ I'm getting that she may be afraid that she is holding onto things in an unhealthy, possessive, controlling or toxic way or someone may be holding onto her in such a manner. It can indicate that she need to establish your boundaries or respect the boundaries of other people. The Four of Pentacles can also indicate that she is afraid or gets stressed when there's a lack of openness, blocking or obstructing progress, keeping to herself or the others keeping to themselves or a sense of isolation in her relationships . It can also represent her fear of becomes greed, addicted to materialism and penny pinching.

How to Release

✨​Justice reversed ✨This card tells her that it may be hard for her to see what way to go at this time. She has to hold off on making a decision and give herself more time to examine her options.

Future

✨The King of Swords reversed ✨ it seems like that if won't take the right decision about something her everyday life will become boring and she'll just have to follow a daily routine that won't make her happy . So at this time she has to think carefully with maturity and see her options carefully and when the time comes she'll be able to decide what is right for her and her future.

Park Jimin's

Current Energy

✨Ten of Wands✨This is the card for hard work and taking on more responsibility. She's trying not to lose sight of the bigger picture, and keep on remember why she is putting in all the efforts. She is feeling burned out and weight down. Ten of wands tarot card can also mean that she is unable to say no, and people are taking advantage of her.

Hopes and Fears

✨The Magician ✨She hopes that she has all the skills and abilities she need in order to be successful and that the universe is aligning to bring positive changes her way. This card also shows that she feels that she has to use her intellect, concentration and willpower to make things happen but she is afraid that she is not strong enough.

How to Release

✨Death reversed✨ She might thinking of making a change in an area of her life but this card reversed advices her not to rush because it may not be the right time for change. Perhaps she's not ready or the circumstances aren’t favorable at the moment. Whatever the case may be,she has to pause before taking action.This could also be pointing out resistance or fear blocking progress. If that is so, the advice it gives her is to confront those issues, even if only internally.

Future

✨Three of Wands reversed ✨Three of Wands tarot card reversed indicates that will be delays in rewards and payoffs in the future. The environment might get toxic which makes it hard for growth. People might not like what she is doing and try to put second thoughts in her mind so she should stay focus on her ideas and dreams and make them come to life .

Kim Taehyung's

Current Energy

✨Queen of Pentacles reversed ✨I feel like this girl has lost the balance of her life maybe in things that have to do with her work place or family but to be honest I'm getting family issues going on mostly.  This card indicates poor taste and lack of sensitivity to other people’s needs. What she has experienced or she still is has made her to be someone who expects everyone to work as hard as she does and make the same practical choices. Queen of pentacles reversed denotes that she feels very insecure and has an inability to share with others her thoughts an feelings.

Hopes and Fears

✨Ten of Pentacles reversed ✨ Again with this card I'm seeing that something that has happened to her family is causing fear and great stress , maybe she is afraid that it will happen again , that she'll have to experience again the same challenges . Also I'm sensing that she might feel insecure on the financial part of her life , maybe she and her family are going through financial problems or she could possibly be worried about that she won't be able to pay for her responsibilities. Lastly feel that she might is stressed about something , she is feeling like she doesn't have enough time to do something and rush.

How to Release

✨Eight of Wands reversed ✨Slow down! is the message I'm getting for her, There is no need to rush at this time. She has to take time out to examine her plans.There is still work that left to be done before she can proceed. Go back to the drawing board and get that finished first.If she keep on trying to move things along too quickly, she may make critical mistakes. She has to watch her step and don’t be impulsive at this time.

Future

✨Ace of Cups ✨In a general context, the Ace of Cups signifies new beginnings, usually in terms of love, empathy, compassion and/or happiness. When this Minor Arcana card appears it indicates that you will be feeling happy, positive and good about yourself. Soon it will be a great time to begin new friendships and get out there and socialise. People will be very receptive, kind and friendly to her. It can also be an indication of good news, celebrations coming her way and getting back her creativity.

Two more cards fell while doing the reading for her so I think they have some messages or guidance for her ! The cards are Ace of Pentacles and the Chariot. ✨Ace of Pentacles ✨If she's asking about a potential investment, the Ace of Pentacles says: go for it! Same if she's inquiring about a new job, financial offer, or relationship. Aces are often an affirmative.This card can also advise to give as much as she can. Be generous.Check in with her values. What’s important to her? What matters? She has to let that lead her decisions.The right path is open to her now ,go forth with confidence.Give as well as she receives and vice versa.✨ The Chariot ✨This card tells her to take the reins in her hands and move forward with confidence, trusting that she will reach her destination. The key is to remain focused ,set her intention and direct her will , let nothing distract her until the goal has been accomplished.The Chariot also says: take charge! Assume a position of control. Lead, don’t follow.This card can also be suggesting a need for restraint or self control. If she wish to overcome a problem, she may need to apply greater self control.The Chariot also can advise leaving a situation. It may be time to move on and chart a different course. She has to put the past in her rear view mirror and look forward!Finally, this can also be a reminder for her to stay the course and do not get pulled in too many different directions. Move on. Her Victory is ahead and waiting for her in the future!

Jeon Jungkook's

Current Energy

✨King of Pentacles reversed ✨ King of pentacles tarot card reversed indicates being too conservative. King of pentacles reversed indicates difficulties in making the necessary changes. Falling behind is likely. King of pentacles reversed is likely to be a miser and a hoarder. This is someone who expects the best but lets others have the worst. Neglect of hygiene and poor health is indicated when King of pentacles shows up reversed. Her stubbornness and fear prevent positive change.

Hopes and Fears

✨The Hierophant ✨This card often denotes confusion about feelings because she feels that she needs to seek a deeper meaning in her life and this has priority over personal relationships , maybe that causes her stress. Also the Hierophant tarot card speaks of spiritual love and love that grows stronger with time. The Hierophant speaks of love that grows stronger by sharing a spiritual path maybe she's hopes that what she is feeling is true and at the same time she is afraid that she is depending on illusions.

How to Release

✨The Chariot ✨Like Taehyung's spouse she has to take the reins in her hands and move forward with confidence, trusting that she will reach her destination. The key is to remain focused. Set her intention and direct her will. Let nothing distract her until the goal has been accomplished.This card can also be suggesting a need for restraint or self control. If she wish to overcome a problem(maybe a phycological one or a past trauma), she may need to apply greater self control.The Chariot also can advise leaving a situation. It may be time for her to move on and chart a different course. Put the past in her rear view mirror and look forward!

Future

I got ✨King of Wands reversed and Five of Cups ✨In a general context, the King of Wands reversed can indicate that she'll lack the energy, experience or enthusiasm to accomplish what she has set out to achieve at this time. She'll be taking a back seat and will not being proactive in her life. She may feel that will not up to the task or won't be able to give away her power and setting a bad example for those who will look up to her. She may be worrying about other people’s opinion of her and she will may be afraid to be different or step outside of her comfort zone. She'll might also push people away from her and she'll end up feeling lonely. And that's something that the Five of Cups card comes to clarify here since the meaning of this card are the feeling of loneliness and disappointment (from the people she actually pushes away maybe unconsciously but she'll won't blame herself about it ). Lastly this card in a work-related situation that I feel like she already has some problems will worsen somehow!She'll might not be getting the recognition she deserve, or maybe even someone else is getting rewarded for her work and that will also make her feel disappointed and drained.

[carriecutforth]

The Shit

Tumblr is telling me to go ahead, put anything...so here it goes

I haven't been public about this for reasons that will be apparent but gonna start this with all the trigger warnings. I'm writing it here cause I can't talk to the majority of people about it cause most people can't even grasp, and then questions start, putting me in the situation of feeling like my GIANT SWEATER of trauma is being unraveled answering questions that lead to more questions and gah PLEASE DO NOT RETUMBL-- I just need to scream in the void This is the shit: On the day my sister-in-law's mother died she had to call form-1 my baby brother because his psychosis (undiagnosed mental illness which I will get to) was terrorizing their family (three small kids). My mother WHO IS SCHIZOPHRENIC had him released into her and my ANTI-VAXXER ANTI-MASKER narcissist father's care, but NOT before they found out, incidentally due to the FORM 1, he is ALSO really sick with leukemia. I only found out because I decided to dip into the special folder for emails called MOM that I try to avoid reading as long as they can FOR REASONS. But I felt for some reason an urge to, and then I had to try to parse out what had happened from her ramblings that are A LOT. Then I had to confirm with my poor sil who is at her wits end and was in no position to tell me herself. My dad stopped talking to me back in November when I called him for his anti-vax rhetoric as being EUGENICS when he told me it is just the flu and only killing old people and the disabled. I reminded him I've been immuno-compromised my whole life (he KNOWS this) and got chronic fatigue after a flu in late 2016 (he knows this), and did he not care if I DIED? (apparently not) But I was like lol, fine, don't talk to me anymore. Die mad about it for all I care. A lot of people are like: 'oh, that's tough, losing a relationship with your father' and I'm like YOLO (it really isn't if you knew him). SO THEN I have to reach out to my dad: "Why isn't my brother in the hospital being treated by medical professionals for YOU KNOW, HIS LEUKEMIA." My dad responded that the doctors were JUST GOING TO PUMP HIM FULL OF DRUGS! And that HE is treating my brother's leukemia with I dunno baking soda (he told me before it is a cure for cancer). THEN HE GOES RADIO SILENT. I have no idea where my brother is cause they got him an apartment somewhere in Toronto. *though I do have a Machiavellian plan to try to find out. The reason my brother has untreated psychosis is that even though I've begged my parents since he was a TEEN to get him diagnosed, they refused. It's like they have the opposite of Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy in that their ABLEISM is soooo bad they refuse to see he has been very sick, and even if he was really sick, 'doctors are stupid' <--quoting my dad. This is the backstory. My dad was always on the road for his job. My mom had my baby brother AGAINST all wishes of her doctor to ever get pregnant again. I'm not talking aborting, she got PREGNANT on purpose again to SERVE GOD'S GREATER PURPOSE even though it might kill her and said future fetus. So he was born with a lot of issues because of the very bad pregnancy's complications on TOP of the very hereditary bipolar/schizophrenia, AND everything else we got going on besides. After he was born, my mom went into a very deep depression for years and then would vacillate between that and mania. Which meant me: THE ELEVEN year old was forced to raise a baby that wasn't hers and had no ultimate authority over. I was called by everyone his *BROTHER'S NAME* SECOND MOM. *More on this later Our relationship is very strained because of this, particularly when at 17 I had enough momming a child while being constantly undermined by my parents absolute shenanigans. So there was resentment when I quit being his 'second mom' and that he equally resented for things like, trying to put him into bed, when my mom would come in and say let him stay up all night or getting him to eat something other than candy for breakfast (you can guess the dynamic with my parents here). Even if my disabled ass could sue my parents for his

care, he doesn't WANT me to be in charge of his care.

And yet still, I tried to advocate for him for years fighting my parents TOOTH and NAIL to get him on disability and out from underneath their thumb so he could have a measure of independence and autonomy. They had every excuse in the book not to get him diagnosed including expense. It was so goddamned awful fighting with them on this cause in their mind: he was going to live with either them or me forever (they decided this for me and my ex-husband and kids with no consultation), so WHY bother set up his future for him??? So when he was 20?, I hatched a Machiavellian PLAN: I got him, against my parent's wishes, into college for the sole reason of getting the resources for him to get diagnosed so that he could get on disability. AND IT WORKED! (kinda) Except my parents twisted him so much into only talking about his autism spectrum symptoms and NONE of the psychosis because their ableism is sooooo entrenched. (but I did manage to get him on ODSP). And subsequent times I forced my dad to take him to a psychiatrist, he's like: 'oh, I forgot to talk about the psychosis we just talked about the aspergers. Besides people with psychosis are untreatable, you can't convince them otherwise' (see again, my mom). Over the years, I have begged my dad to take my brother to get properly diagnosed and treated (I'm not meaning forced, my brother is also agoraphobic, and won't leave his place UNLESS he is driven by my dad and was living in a city far away from me). I said, I was very concerned for his kids but my dad always gaslights me (and tells everyone I'm crazy -- the IRONY). So now my mom is writing me emails about how this is all my sil's fault because 'she is on drugs' (she is not), 'she is sleeping around' (she is not), 'her kids are scared of her not my brother' (it's the exact opposite). WHICH IS A HUGE TRIGGER FOR ME because She did the exact same thing to ME with my other brother (a diagnosed PSYCHOPATH) who used to beat me and the rest of us mercilessly when my parents weren't around (and they never believed me, and told everyone not to believe me because I was crazy), who pulled a KNIFE on me and threw a drawer at me when I was NINE MONTHS PREGNANT, and how absolutely awful I was AS HIS SISTER to kick him out of my house with no place to live or go (cause he was living with me and my ex-husband at the time because THEY KICKED HIM OUT OF THEIR PLACE and didn't want him back.) Are you beginning to get a sense of the dynamic of my family? Soooooooo the last few weeks my brain has just been in total trauma mode going processing, processing, processing, processing as the final total realization of how absolutely awful my family is finally laid bare (I mean I knew but at least I can stop feeling guilty about cutting them out of my life). So back to the 'second mom' shit, as relevant to my trauma brain processing the last few weeks. This whole shit above is just the tip of the iceberg. I was raised as a Joho in which a lot of my trauma comes from a pedophile left loose on three generations of girls in my family over a thirty year period, and if anyone came forward they were threatened with disfellowshipment and there is SO MUCH there it would take me several Tolkien novels to get how absolutely awful, extensive it was, and how the coverup went straight to the top. ANYHOO. So who was calling me my brother's 'second mom???' Well since, I wasn't allowed to have any association with non-witnesses, it was my congregation. No one questioned that I was being parentified and it was a deeply abusive situation. NO WHAT HAPPENED instead was, this sister in the congregation told everyone (when I was fifteen and 80 pounds soaking wet at the height of 5'10 1/2) that my brother WAS REALLY MY CHILD cause it was so obvious the way that I was the one who took care of him. And the elders of our congregation MARKED me as bad association for loose morals for having a supposed child out of wedlock when I was ELEVEN YEARS OLD. AND NO ONE in my congregation would talk to me, and I had NO IDEA why, cause they never told me that I HAD BEEN

MARKED. But the caveat was I was not allowed to talk to people outside of the faith. And we only found out about this a year an a half later when she said the same shit back in my hometown where he was born to a sister who was at the hospital where my brother was born. AND NO ONE thought, hey: maybe if we think she had a baby when she was eleven we should um CALL CHILD SERVICES or some shit? So i was like 16 1/2, not allowed to have any friends OUTSIDE OF MY PARENTS, find out THIS SHIT, and then people wonder why I had my first manic episode at 17??? Yeah, so this is where my brain has been stuck the last month, complicated that I knew I would be at risk for hypomania with things opening back up, and I'm supposed to be shooting a pilot for a potential series I'm the creator/co-shorunner of, so now I've had to go BACK on seroquel and it's the worst while i try to acclimatize myself to the drugs and stave off hypomania at the same time. WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!

[shianhygge-imagines]

The Referral [Mentor Hannibal/Reader]

Fandom: Hannibal Word Count: ~ 2,782 words Genre: Drama Pairings: Mentor Hannibal/Female Reader ; Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham

With Netflix now streaming all three seasons of Hannibal, I've taken the time to binge watch my favorite TV show of all time once again. And then, I took a look at one of the one shot series that I had going on this platform and Archive of Our Own, by the name of "A Monster Among Monsters."

This is my attempt at rewriting the one shots to form a more cohesive story, whilst simultaneously providing myself with pseudo therapy.

If you like the content I create, please consider donating to my Ko-fi! Please help me feed my tea addiction!

|Masterlist Link|   

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Disorientating and out-of-place. That was what you felt as you sat down in the small and private waiting room across from a small wooden desk. The secretary, a fairly young Caucasian woman, had informed the doctor that you had just arrived for your five o-clock appointment and asked if you’d like a glass of water while you waited. You politely declined as you had a refillable water bottle stored in your backpack.

This was an entirely different environment than that of your previous psychiatrist, which had been a small office inside a brick building built in the 1980s.

The seat beneath you was a soft velvet plush intricately stitched into what seemed like hand carved oak wood. The shelves lining the wall behind the secretary-

Oh… I’ve already forgot her name… A-…Alissa?… Maybe not… but it definitely started with an ‘A’

-seemed excessive in their design.

In the small waiting room, full of grandeur and elegant tastes, only two things did not seem to belong: the secretary, and yourself.

The secretary, because despite how well-dressed and put together she was, you felt that the older woman felt distinctly uncomfortable in this setting. Her nail polish was chipped, her make up hastily done. The bags under her eyes barely concealed by the cosmetics likely indicated a lack of sleep, or trouble sleeping. She simply didn’t fit this setting naturally.

And then… there was you.

You were probably more out of place than the secretary you’d just observed. Still clothed in the ill-fitting school uniform belonging to your minimally funded high school, you looked more like the child of a patient, waiting for her mother or father to finish their appointment for the day, than a prospective patient to a renown doctor. You wondered idly if you should have packed a change of clothes before walking to school in the morning. At least, then, you wouldn’t have shown up in a navy blue polo shirt two sizes too large for your frame, and khakis bought from the discounted boys section of your local bargain store. Pairing the large clothes with your almost boyishly short hair, and it would not be too off the mark to say that you looked like a young boy.

I definitely stand out.

So much grandeur that surrounded you, and against your better judgment, you took in a deep whiff of the room.

When your father had dropped you off on the front steps of the building, promising to come pick you up once the appointment was over, you’d taken a moment to observe the exterior. Your first thoughts were that the building was rather old compared to the others in the neighborhood, that it was very well maintained, and that the good doctor must have been a man of renown and wealth to be able to afford the entire building. Now, when you decided to take a better look and smell of your surroundings, you noticed that contrary to your expectations, the old building didn’t smell like old musty wood, like you would have associated to your home town’s small public library.

Instead, the smell was that of newly treated wood, clean velvet, something floral, and a subdued sweet strawberry body spray. Your face is a carefully polite canvas even as your olfactory nerves detect the too sweet scent of the body spray, thankful that it seemed to be subdued despite it’s artificial sweetness. Your sense of smell was above average, highly sensitive to strong odors and scented perfumes, but not sensitive to the point of headaches. The strawberry body spray seemed to belong to the secretary, however, as you doubted anyone sophisticated enough to pick out the office furniture to find the the smell pleasant… Or, Dr. Dessai referred me to someone with odd quirks.

You shake your head of these thoughts and take a glance at the watch on your wrist.

16:43

You’re very early for your appointment due to your dislike of tartiness, a trait that certain members within your family did not share. All appropriate paperwork had been filled out through a form sent in via email, so there wasn’t much to do except wait for the doctor. With a sigh, you reach over to your school bag and dig out the reading assignment that your English teacher had assigned, “The Stranger” by Albert Camus.

“Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know. I got a telegram from the home: ‘Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours.’ That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday-”

Approximately 15 minutes later

It is the click of a door latch that catches your attention, pulling your eyes away from the novel in your lap to the dark wooden door as it is pulled open. You blink, once, twice, to refocus your eyes behind prescription lenses as a tall gentleman with greying dark hair steps out of the room. Subconsciously, you inhale deeply and discreetly for the second time in the span of thirty minutes. You’re barely given a moment to process what the man smells like before brown eyes sweep to meet yours and he smiles gently.

“Oh! Doctor Lecter! I would have escorted Ms. L/N into your office.” The young woman looked almost bashful as she stands from her chair.

You take the doctor’s lapse in attention to quickly gather your things and stand as well, compelled to action because of the etiquette lesson’s you’d taken for fun at school. “It is no trouble, Amanda. I prefer to greet first time patients at the door.”

Oh… Amanda… that’s what her name was.

When Dr. Lecter’s gaze settles upon you once more, your smile is practiced and polite as you lean forwards with a singular step and the outstretching of your hand. “Dr. Lecter, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” You are forced to look up at the well dressed man, dwarfed by both his height and his charisma.

The smile widens as Dr. Lecter takes your hand in his, grip equally as firm as your own as he replies, “Ms. L/N, the pleasure is all mine.” He steps a respectable distance back to clear the doorway into his office, gesturing into it with guiding hands, “Please, do come in.”

You enter his office with a polite ‘thank you’ inhaling deeply as you pass the good doctor and into his office. Citrus. You ponder, allowing your eyes to take in the room’s decor and layout even while Dr. Lecter guides you to a set of chairs just slightly off center from the middle of the room. Parchment, old books… something floral again.

“You have a very beautiful office, Dr. Lecter.” You state matter-of-factly as you take a seat in the plush leather chair, gently setting down your bag while your eyes remained transfixed upon the books lining the shelves of the upper level.

You barely manage to tear your gaze from the design of the office to see the pleased smile on the doctor’s face as he takes the seat directly opposite of you. “I thank you for the compliments, Ms. L/N. Please make yourself comfortable.” You have to force your eyes away from your surroundings when Dr. Lecter begins to speak, “Your mother and father informed me that my colleague, Dr. Dessai referred you to me for therapy during my appointment with them last month.”

You nod, eyes meeting the good doctor’s just like your mentor had instructed you. “Yes. Daniella-… I mean, Dr. Dessai, has been my therapist since I first started going at the age of ten. But, Dr. Dessai retired last year, so she referred me to you.”

Dr. Lecter’s smile softens as he straightens up in his seat, “Yes, your mother and father have informed me as to why they sent you to therapy at such a young age, as well as why you decided to stop attending sessions. What your parents didn’t know, however, was why you wished to return to therapy after three years. Your mother and father were both quite alarmed that you wished to return.” There is something disapproving about Dr. Lecter’s gaze even though his tone doesn’t show it. You know that look from anywhere. It’s the same one that your father wears when he doesn’t agree with something you do, but accepts it nonetheless.

You tried to smile, but it quickly turned into a grimace as you tore your gaze away from the rather handsome doctor. “I’m sorry.” The compulsion to apologize forces the words from your mouth. You close your eyes and shake your head with a heavy sigh, “No, I should probably apologize to my mother and father, but they are part of the reason why I wished to come back.”

“It would be best to clear the confusion between you, Y/N. If I may refer to you by your first name?” At your nod of consent, the good doctor continues, his accented voice somehow soothing. “Please continue, Y/N. Why have you decided to continue your therapy?”

Tentatively, you raise your eyes to meet his brown ones again, noting that something about Dr. Lecter’s gaze screamed ‘all-seeing.’ Something within you screams and yells at you to tear your eyes away, but you stop yourself, wanting… needing for someone to see you without the tiresome facade. “It’s recently come to my attention that I might have stopped going to therapy rather prematurely.” You stop and gather yourself before continuing, “I’m sure my parents informed you why they wanted me to go to therapy in the first place.” Dr. Lecter nods, though you barely notice it, your mind replaying moments from the past in short bursts. “Therapy was a relief for my parents, I think. They wanted a professional to observe their child to see if I was traumatized by what my brother did to me. The sessions with Dr. Dessai were enlightening and helped me understand my own mind, but I think I was too young for the sessions to have helped me deal with the incident. My parents and I agreed to stop seeing Dr. Dessai after four years because I didn’t show any signs of trauma.” You tear your eyes away almost shamefully, “I’m beginning to recognize the wounds and the scars.”

Dr. Lecter nods and quickly writes a few notes into the notebook on the glass table beside him. When he meets your gaze again, it is filled with sympathy. “I received a summary of what you’ve endured, Y/N, but I do not have access to the official record. If you’d like to talk about it this session, I will not protest, but-” Dr. Lecter pauses and leans forward ever so slightly, eyes meeting yours so that you understand him clearly, “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Y/N. What your brother did to you was terrible, but it was not your fault.”

Your smile is forced and your voice is hoarse even as you speak, “It’s easy to say, but…” The smile turns into a frown as you force yourself to get back on track, “There’s a lot of chattering in my mind, Dr. Lecter, and I don’t think talking to my family about it will help me.”

“Have you tried talking to your mother and father about your thoughts and feelings?”

You know that the good doctor already knew the answer to his question, but you answer anyways. “My father only listens to half of everything that comes out of my mouth, and I’ve tried to talk to my mother about it, but… it’s difficult to talk to her.”

“How is it difficult to communicate with her?” His face is like stone, showing no emotion even as his eyes twinkle with an analytic ease.

“I love my mother and father, Dr. Lecter, even when I’m one of the least affectionate people I know.” Your expression pulls at all ends as it begs for the doctor to understand, “And I wish I was able to speak to them about my problems, but… with my mother, whenever I attempt to speak to her about something troubling me, she always responds with something about her past as if she and I are comparable.”

“Could it be your mother’s way of attempting to relate to you?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so.” A heavy sigh escapes your lungs, “When I brought up that I wanted to go back to therapy, her first response was, ‘Why? Is there something wrong with you?’ as if having a mental illness was a prerequisite to going to therapy.”

“Her question could be interpreted as concern, Y/N.”

“I know that she was concerned, but then she continued with, ‘You know, when my ex-husband was beating me, I also thought about killing myself. But I didn’t. Because I’m stronger than others.’” There’s a frustrated stinging at the edges of your eyes as you force your tears away. “I don’t… How does one even respond to that, Dr. Lecter?”

“Well,” Somehow, Dr. Lecter didn’t seemed phased about your mother’s response. “Let us step back and think about this together. When your mother said what she did, how did that make you feel?”

“I felt… frustrated, belittled, aghast… betrayed… angry.” Even speaking about it now, the feelings are fresh, easily rising to the surface of your heart.

“And why do you feel these emotions, Y/N?”

“Because laid a part of myself bare to my mother when I told her that I wanted to continue therapy, and instead of asking me if I was okay or taking the time to sit down with me and talk about it, she makes light of my feelings by comparing it to her own experiences. As if saying that her situation had been more severe. As if saying I’m weak. As if implying that I don’t need therapy to solve the chatter in my head.” The more you talk the more you want to cry.

“You feel as if your mother dismissed your problems as insignificant.” It was an apt summary by Dr. Lecter, but if you were to be honest, what you had just described barely even broke the surface of your communication issues with your mother.

“When you put it like that, I feel like my thoughts were all pointless.” You sigh in exasperation.

The understanding smile on Dr. Lecter’s face makes you feel chastised, “I don’t mean to do that, but have you told your mother that you felt like she was dismissing your problems?”

“No.” The defeat in your voice and body language spoke for itself, “But I don’t know how to talk to my mother. She’s always busy with something, so I never have her undivided attention. And then, when I do manage to get a piece of her time and try to have a serious discussion with her about something, she always has to bring her own past into the conversation as well. Or, if she thinks she’s right about something, she completely dismisses any other opinion. And then, when she loses her temper, I lose my temper.” You look at Dr. Lecter, almost desperate, “And I’m no good in a heated argument, Dr. Lecter. Once people start yelling at me, I can’t help but start crying, and that definitely doesn’t help with anything. But mom especially, because she gets angrier when you cry.”

“Perhaps, Y/N, you should try to pull your mother away from whatever she has to do, and you must tell her that you want her to hear you out completely before she responds. Try to stay as calm as you can during your explanation, and if she starts to become too confrontational, take what she said and rephrase it in your head. Take a moment to respond. This way, you’ll avoid flaring either of your tempers.”

“And if she starts to get impatient?”

The smirk on Dr. Lecter’s lips has something mischievous about it, “Then tell her that your doctor instructed you to take your time. Do you understand?”

You breathe in deeply, taking in the scent of citrus again, the smell calming you. “I understand, Dr. Lecter…” Your eyes widen as you suddenly realize how sidetracked you’d gone. “Oh… um… I… forgot how we ended up speaking about this but…” The smile that rises to your lips is genuine, “I feel like a weight has been lifted.”

The older gentleman smiles at you, pleased. “I am glad, Y/N. We are here for you. So long as I can help lift that weight from you, then I believe that we are making progress. Shall we continue?”

The smile on your face widens as you take another deep breath, “Yes.”

Bergamot… He smells of Bergamot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[shitihaveheardatwork]

See You In Hell, Bratz Passion 4 Fashion: Diamondz!

Contrary to the opinions of many of my peers, I think weeding is awesome and I love it. There’s little I find more satisfying than an item of obviously low quality with no demand whatsoever coming into my attention and having the privilege of removing it from circulation.

Just to be entirely clear, we’re not talking about “extreme” or “controversial” content. I’ve had that conversation done to death a thousand classroom-polarizing times before. We’re talking about cheap. We’re talking about cash-grab. We’re talking about no artistic, cultural, spiritual, or even material value.

We’re talking about Bratz Passion 4 Fashion; Diamondz.

Some personal history first: I’m old enough that my last big toy phase before I reached the special level of adolescence where you have to openly condemn everything you once held dear as a child was Bionicles. I had the black bionicle from every generation up until that point, as well as a complete set of those little rolly-polly guys with the stretchy necks. I don’t know what they were called and I couldn’t be bothered to look it up for this lil micro-essay here.

What’s important is that they were cool. They did action-y stuff, I felt smart putting them together.

Waaaay Cooler, Smarter, Action-y, and REAL than my sister’s interests! Polly Pocket? Dumb! Pre-bronification MLP? Barf! Bratz? How fake can you get? Those were just shallow pieces of plastic made by toy companies. Not like my precious bionicles. So cool. So adult. So smart.

Then I watched the first Bionicle movie when it was on TV and realized I too was a cog in an elaborate toy commercial scheme. Something clicked in my horny mushy pre-teen brain, and I put away all my old favorite toys forever. It was now time to be shitty and elitist about intangible concepts instead, a hobby I’d keep until my early 20′s. But in addition to a change in hobbies, I also started to be a little bit less shit to my sister about her toys.

This confession out of the way, I don’t think my sister would have stopped me from throwing this DVD directly into the trash. My sister didn’t become a high-fallutin’ working-class intelligentsia asshole like her big brother, and we have nothing comparable in terms of media taste, but I think she would support me 100% if I told her I sent this DVD straight to hell. In fact I might call her later just to confirm. This disk was bad, is the moral of my story.

It took six paragraphs, but let’s talk about Day 3 on the job!

It was just me and Lisa today. I’ve upgraded from liking Lisa to absolutely loving working with Lisa. We talked everything from how her kids are doing to politics (she brought up Tr#mps latest satire-destroying phone call) to video-gaming to the history of animation. I genuinely like talking to her and it’s a shame she’s just filling in. If a job opens up at her branch, I’d apply for it, no question.

My boss Wallace, “Yer dad”-level queerphobe and Ron Swanson-esque libertarian, was putting out a metaphorical fire at another branch and I didn’t have to deal with him at all.

I did my opening routine. Checking the drop box, collecting the pull list, putting together holds, refiling returned materials, preparing ILL material, checking my work email, and the like. I was done with it all in about 90 minutes, with 4 hours left to go on my shift.

Wallace had told me to fill the time with anything I can qualify as “professional development” the week before, so I spent some time reading articles on the ALA website and googling “anarcho-librarianism” just to see what would happen. I found an abandoned blog and a twitter.

Then I remembered oh shit. I have to make a twitter don’t I

I don’t like twitter. I’ve tried to use it. I don’t get it. I’m too old to learn a new app. It’s impossible.

And yet I must. That’s where The Discourse is happening. That’s where the minds in my field are saying things. If I’m taking my career seriously, if I want to get a grip on the currents in my profession, I have to bite that checkmarked bullet. Stand by for updates on my professional twitter.

I got bored of being on the ALA site and ran out of productive things to google, and decided to look around the building for abandoned projects and mysteries to solve. It didn’t take long to find one, when I found a cart in the work room with a pile of DVDs in paper sleeves.

“Scratched” a post-it note on top said.

I asked Lisa if she knew how long these had been here, and she confirmed that they were in fact a hold-over from the previous staff that had left in a mass exodus some months before.

Well cool, I thought. I’ll see if these are too fucked up to play.

Commence with an hour of consuming children’s media, a few seconds of a minute at a time. I was fortunate that the work computers both had CD drives AND VLC media player! Thank you, past cool supervisor who put VLC on the work machines! Good call!

So I “watched” a few Dora The Explorers, a Care Bears film, that Trolls movie, Hotel Transylvania, and a Barbie horse adventure film, watching a few seconds before skipping a minute ahead to see if it would choke and skip.

See here’s the thing about scratched CDs. They’re weird. You can have a CD that’s fucked up completely (looking at you, my copy of Rollercoaster Tycoon 1) that still somehow plays fine like it just came out of the box. Sometimes scratches will seem totally superficial but goof up just enough microscopic binary that no machine will touch it. All these DVDs were ugly as sin, but that didn’t mean they were broken did it?

And it turns out a lot of them worked fine. That’s how I ended up watching Bratz Passion 4 Fashion: Diamondz which, unfortunately, played fine.

As I put the disk into the drive I remembered my sister’s participation in the Bratz toy craze. As an adult, a real one not the one I told myself I was at 13, I told myself that I might have a bias against this content, to just check the disk and not get judgy about what might be a kids favorite movie.

I uh... I failed to do that. BUT IT’S OK BECAUSE MY BIAS IS TOTALLY JUSTIFIED AND MY JUSTIFICATION IS RIGHT HERE

If you didn’t or don’t want to click the link, it’s a scene where the Bratz Diamonds are about to head out on some sort of fashion trucking marathon/race. Like any proper racer, the blonde at the wheel has a white-knuckle grip on the wheel, has just put their rig in gear, and in proper high-octane fashion, puts on a knowing smirk.

Except the smirk is, well... the animators just stretched the lips across the face further. I can’t do it justice, you just have to watch it, but I’ve done better animating just by pan-and-scanning around Windows Movie Maker.

This... isn’t content anybody needs. But I’m a librarian. I’m sworn to access. So the question becomes, does anyone want it?

I had to know, I had to know, how much circulation has this gotten? When was the last time this disk was in the hands of anybody at all besides me?

I popped it into Evergreen and behold: 15 check-outs since 2006 when it was released. No checkouts in the last 2 years.

I asked Lisa the proper procedure for removing something from the catalog, and in only a moment the deed was done. The case was repurposed, the disk trashed, the DVD cover recycled. It was time to go. I’d spent my remaining hours quasi-consuming children’s media.

I placed most of what I’d watched in a new pile, which I labeled “SCRATCHED BUT WORK FINE.” I placed one lone Barbie horse movie in a different pile labeled “SCRATCHED AND DOES NOT WORK.”

I felt like I’d accomplished something. I turned off the lights and I went home.

[mentalillnessmouse]

(p1) Hi, I'm writing because I feel there is no hope for me. I'm 30, I live at home where I get verbally mistreated (it was physical when I was younger.) I'm morbidly obese, agoraphobic, I literally didn't leave the house for a 2 year period and still rarely do. I have 0 friends and never had any except a few online ones who ditched me years ago. I was bullied constantly. I have self-harm marks all over my arms. I've NEVER had a job, or finished high school. I still almost never leave the house.

(p2) I’ve asked for help to learn to drive, but they tell me I can’t. I guess because they call me autistic and tell me I am not very smart and make jokes about me having ADHD. I took those comments seriously and they told me I was “looking for problems.” WHAT? I made the mistake of speaking with a few psychiatrists about it who shut me down because, in their words, I didn’t “look” like I had those issues. And that my parents had hard jobs so it made sense they would lash out at me. 

(p3) I deal with other issues too like menorrhagia. A doctor had me do an ultrasound (this was like my 3rd one since ‘06) and sent me to a specialist because they saw something. The specialist said she didn’t think anything was there and wasn’t going to actually examine me. I gave up. I’m afraid to speak up for myself, I genuinely don’t understand how to live, make friends, talk to people. I feel like I just have TOO MANY issues. And at my age I don’t see why anyone would bother with me anymore.

(p4) I have an appt with a psych at the same place as the others because I have my city’s free insurance and nowhere else to go. I don’t know if I can do it again after this? I just wanted somewhere to reach out at least one more time :( I’ve reached out to others (like extended family) who will talk to me for a bit then ignore? I can’t help but to feel damaged or like I’m doing something wrong I can’t figure out. I feel like a weak loser and I didn’t try good enough.I’m sorry this is so long

Hello Anon, 

I’m mod Bee and I’ll do my best to help you out, but I received help myself from the other mods to write you back. So this is a communal effort!

Thank you for reaching out, and I’m sorry you’re going though such a difficult and distressing situation. You sound strong and tenacious, and I’m proud of you for the way you keep trying to improve your life. 

We have some suggestions that we hope can be of help. They’ll concerne:

finding online communities/groups to hang out with

finding a professional that suits your needs 

looking for courses you can join 

thinking about possible job options 

Just an head up: this is going to be long, and it will contain tons of links. I’ll highlight one - that I think it’s most useful - for each section, but I suggest you to go through them all. 

1. finding online communities/groups to hang out with

Having friends is important for our mental health, but it can get difficult to make new ones, especially when we’ve been burned before.  

Online communities, forums, and groups, can be good places to start looking for friends again. You can approach them with as much caution as you need, and find those people you relate with the most.

If you like games, and rpgs in particular, there are online options that allow you to connect with other others all over the world. Activities like Dungeon&Dragons are based around players’ interactions, so you’d get to know people without putting the stress on forging new friendships. The article 10 Best Online Chat Rooms & Games suggests other equally fitting games. 

Forums and groups where you can share your experience and fears are another important tool you can use. I’ve looked into active ones and found Panic Disorder and Agoraphobia Forum, r/Agoraphobia/ (on reddit), bus (a self-harm support forum), Mental health support group and discussion community, Online Support Groups by Turn2Me, PsychForums (Psychology and Mental Health Forums), and the ReachOut app.

Trying with pen pals - a one on one exchange - could also be a good idea: InterPals and PenPalWorld are only two of the many websites dedicated to this purpose. Here’s some tips on how it works.

Finally, there are apps with the specific purpose of finding new friends, like Bumble BFF. Try to see if you there’s one of your liking in this list.

2. finding a professional that suits your needs

We usually recommend what it’s colloquially called “psychiatrist/therapist shopping”, the act of choosing a professional after inquiring what we need to know of their line of work, based on our own wishes, and asking this to more than one.

It’s difficult when insurance covers just a little portion of professionals, but not impossible. 

Can’t afford therapy? No insurance? Need low cost options? Here is a great list of ways to get help when money or insurance is an issue.

Therapy For Every Budget: How To Access It

9 Ways to Get Free or Cheap Therapy When You Don’t Have Health Insurance

Dial 211 for Essential Community Services: if you call 211, you can ask about free therapy options in your area, or how to work with you insurance to afford other professionals.

If none of these options work out, and you have to stick with the professional your insurance provides, there are measures you can take that might help making the sessions successful. Check out 21 Tips for getting the most out of each therapy session and How to Talk to Your Doctors When They Don’t Listen. 

If your new psychiatrist tries to dismiss you without hearing everything that you have to say, insist that they write on your record exactly what they did and why, and that you absolutely want a copy of it before you exit their room. It’s your right to have both your requests accomplished. I know it’s not easy to have them respected: you’ll probably have to stand your ground and that can be difficult, but I think it’s important for you and fundamental for what you can get out of this session. This is a post with links to various module you can complete to help you assert yourself, which I suggest you to start before going to your appointment, if you can. It can be useful to face your family, too.

Does your insurance cover a different specialist for the gynecological problem your doctor wanted you to check out? Is there any free or low-cost clinic near you, like Planned Parenthood or Free Clinic? You can inquire about their services through email.

3. looking for courses you can join

Online courses can be helpful for a number of things, like keeping busy, learning new stuff, feeling accomplished, and possibly getting some qualifications. 

There are some free options that end with a proper certificate, but not all are accredited, meaning that they’re not automatically accepted by employers (they can choose to consider them valid or not). Still, there are no downsides in joining such a course, seeing that it doesn’t cost anything but your time.

Not accredited certificates/no certificates:

Alison’s Diploma Courses and Certificate Courses 

FutureLearn doesn’t grant you certificates with their free courses, but it still provides learning access

edX’s Courses

Udemi, not free but it offers up to 90% discounts generally once a month

Learn how to code, a masterpost that lists different courses to learn coding

Free Online Language Courses, a masterpost that lists different courses to learn languages  

24 Invaluable Skills To Learn For Free

Accredited certificates

coursera offers some free courses, and/or the possibility to apply for financial aid

Online Degree require no tuition, no applications, and no interviews, and has worked so participating Universities around the country will consider the courses for credit, potentially finishing up to an entire freshman year of college

edX’s Professional Certificate Programs are not free, but edX offers up to a 90% discount to those who prove they cannot pay a full price.

University Of The People is tuition-free, which means there is no charge for teaching or instruction, only initial fees (around 160$) for each course. You can also apply for scholarships.

on StudyPortal - Scholarships, you can find a huge number of scholarships available in your country, and here you can find the easiest scholarships to apply to. There are also scholarships for online courses.

There’s also the possibility of completing high school through virtual courses, and if they’re organized by your State’s public school system, they should be free. You can find more info on this here. 

4. thinking about possible job options

Working towards finding a job is important for our own self-worth and feeling like a valuable member of society, and of course it can also help with looking for better therapy. 

It can be tricky when mental and physical illnesses are at play, though. That’s why I’d like to give you some online options here, too, that don’t ask for any particular prerequisite, and would give you enough free time to focus to get better. Jobs like data entry or app testing are doable from home, and may not pay much, but they’d allow you to start building some savings. 

5 Online Jobs That Require Little or No Experience

No Experience? Start One of These Online Jobs

Best Data Entry Jobs From Home

10 (Legit) Data Entry Jobs from Home

Work At Home Data Entry on Indeed.com

FlexJobs

Glassdoor

Whatever you choose, creating a strong resume is always a good step. I’m giving you some resources on how to do that:

How to Create a Professional Resume

How To Make A Resume 101

Help Everyone Find A Job In Their Field

And between checking out all these options we gave you, please try to do some of this Workout For Daily Life, because focusing on a screen for too long can cause so many aches!

You’re not a loser, you’re strong and you keep fighting for yourself, which is admirable. I hope these resources can be of help, and please do send another ask if you need anything else.

Take care,

mod Bee

[carmenlire]

Higher than the Big Trees Ch. 39

read chapter one

read on ao3

“So, you’ll be here tomorrow morning?” Alec’s voice is distracted as he accepts the glass of water from the stewardess with a nod.

“I land at 10:15 and by the time I find the driver and make it to Rosewood, it should be around 11:30. Does that work?”

Taking a quick sip, Alec relaxes back in his chair. “Sounds great, Underhill. I have the BBC Live Lounge in the morning but I should be back to the hotel a little after noon once I finish the interviews that Lydia’s scheduled. Think you can be ready by two?”

Underhill’s voice is dry as he responds, “I’m ready now, Alec. He won’t know what hit him by the time we’re done.”

Alec’s tone is grim as he all he offers is, “Good.”

Hanging up, Alec thinks through his itinerary as he’s thirty thousand feet in the air. While he wasn’t quite obnoxious enough to own his own jet, he had the habit of chartering for transatlantic flights-- it was one of very few true splurges he indulged in and while Alec still regularly flew commercial in The States, everything was just so much more convenient when he flew private.

The stewardess is attentive but she’s worked for him before and knows that Alec doesn’t expect hovering care-- she’s in the cockpit talking with the pilots and he’s left to his own devices.

The next six hours are full of opportunities, he thinks wryly. He could write a little, surf the web for a bit, or sleep. All sound like excellent wastes of his time but instead, Alec reaches for his phone.

He has a few demos to play through and as Alec put his earphones in, he selects the first one. He always listens through recordings at least a dozen times before releasing it to the label. Feel Something, the title track of the album, is just what he wants and the meeting yesterday at Institute Records had gone amazingly well, considering the last time he’d seen Jia he’d been experiencing the worst writer’s block of his career.

They’d agreed to a midnight release next week and as Alec does the math, he figures that he’ll be back in New York by then. They’ll be recording the music video for the single soon and while it’s not common to release two singles so close together, Alec finds that he’s excited for this next album and the new phase it will usher in.

Truthfully, he’s excited for Magnus’s reaction.

The past few days-- months-- run through Alec’s head and he finds himself smiling, stupidly and sappily. It’s been a good summer and while he still has a private reservation or two, he’s looking forward to the rest of the year and whatever it may bring. His birthday is next month and Alec remembers talking with Magnus about traveling-- he wonders if he could persuade Magnus to join him on a trip soon or if he’s moving too fast, after all.

Alec knows from personal experience that Italy’s beautiful in the fall. He bets it would be even better with Magnus at his side.

He puts his wandering thoughts on the back burner and focuses on the music. This was the latest incarnation of Feel Something and as Alec listens to the whole thing through-- several times-- he knows that he’s got it. He’d recorded this a few hours ago, spending the last of his day in New York at the studio, fixing the few critiques he and Meliorn had agreed would take the single to the next level.

It’s a little after ten now and Alec will land in London at eight in the morning and go directly to the BBC’s headquarters. He’ll perform a few songs-- including a cover and an original-- and then have an interview later on in the morning.

His afternoon is free, though, at his insistence. While London was almost a second home at this point-- what with all the business he’s done here over the years-- there was a more practical reason that Alec had been willing to spend a few days here that had nothing to do with his career.

Hence, Underhill.

But that’s all for tomorrow and Alec needs to catch what sleep he can if he has any hope of being useful tomorrow. He catches up on his email for a few more minutes, making sure that everything is up to date, and then he’s heading to the bedroom in the back of the plane and crashing.

To his surprise, he falls asleep almost immediately. It’s been quite the day on both his personal and professional fronts and Alec is exhausted but it’s the good kind of tired-- it reminds him of being on tour and he misses that energy more than he’d even anticipated.

He can’t remember the last time he was in New York for three months straight and while it’s been great, it’s also been an adjustment. Alec was used to moving, being constantly on the go.

His last thought before sleep claims him is that he hopes Magnus can deal with a grueling tour schedule but even in his sleepy haze, Alec figures that they’ll be just fine.

Alec sleeps most of the flight, catching four or so hours before the stewardess is waking him up and informing him that they’ll be descending shortly. Alec makes quick work of changing out of the sweats he’d boarded the plane in and into his outfit for the day. It’s nothing dramatic but it does make a statement.

It’s been awhile since Alec’s had to don this particular type of armor but it’s effortless and gratifying in being so.

Olive green chinos rolled up to expose his ankles paired with a white short sleeved shirt with navy pop dots. It’s elegant yet casual enough for a radio appearance and when paired with a Ferragamo belt and shoes, his look is coolly composed.

Alec’s played this game since before he was old enough to understand its rules. It wouldn’t do to appear too casual or half-assed. That would mean he’s suffering a terrible break-up and generally in despair. Looking too put together though-- say a suit or structured blazer-- that means he’s trying too hard to look unaffected, that he’s hiding his inner turmoil or whatever the shit, and takes him right back to square one.

This look is nothing out of the ordinary for Alec, even if he’s dressed it up a little more than he usually would. That’s the image Alec needs to portray as soon as the vultures get sight of him-- wholly unaffected, as confident as ever, not a care in the world. Because Alec can’t forget that even if he doesn’t give a shit about what they have to say-- he’s also responsible for the media’s opinion of Magnus, no matter how obliquely.

How Alec plays this week will be the difference between the media circling above them, smelling blood in the water, or deciding that there’s nothing overly interesting in Alec’s relationship with a man who so happens so have a little skeleton in his closet.

Landing goes smoothly even as his thoughts are preoccupied and Alec grabs his bag from the seat next to him as the attendants open the door.

He’d landed at a small, private airport north of the city-- Heathrow would have been a nightmare to get through-- and a town car is waiting for him as he steps onto the tarmac. Alec sees the half dozen reporters standing a football field away, just that side of the private property line and smiles a little, just to himself.

He knows that smile will be splashed on the internet in a few minutes and he hopes the photographers choke on their payday.

The truth is, Alec doesn’t care. It’s just another day to him. He’s weathered far worse storms than a boyfriend whose dad was a raging asshole-- and he’s done it, more often than not, alone. With his siblings in New York more often than not and Alec across the globe, he’s dealt with paps who would rather tear him apart alive than give up their inside scoop. Having Magnus to fall back on, knowing that he’s doing this for them, is all the strength Alec needs to ignore the media when otherwise he might’ve been filled with impotent rage and bitter resentment.

Alec refuses to give reporters the satisfaction of ruining what he’s found and for the first time, maybe ever, Alec feels confident. He may know how to play the game, but he still catches himself caught up sometimes over just how little privacy he has, how little regard the rest of the world has for him.

The driver takes his bag and Alec ducks into the back seat. It’s a smooth ride into the City and Alec spends that time on his phone. It’s unforgivably early in New York but Alec sends Magnus a text wishing him a good morning and letting him know that he's landed safely before switching over to his email and seeing the updated itinerary Lydia had sent over in the dead of night.

Shaking his head at the hours she keeps, Alec sees that everything looks in order for the next week and refreshes his memory for what to expect today. He spends the rest of the commute online, getting caught up on the latest news about him and Magnus and their scandalous relationship.

When the car pulls up to the building, Alec can see the crowd of photographers through the blacked out windows of the town car. Luckily, it’s a sunny morning and Alec doesn’t feel like too much of a douche as he slides his aviators on and smooths down his shirt. He doesn’t wait for the driver to open his door and instead gets out himself.

Out of the frying pan, he thinks and his expression is blank as he makes his way to the front door where an assistant is holding it open and looking only mildly out of her depth. However, what should have been a few second stroll turns into a minefield as the reporters inch into his breathing space.

The flash of cameras is blinding even through his sunglasses and Alec narrows his eyes at the door, each step slow for how the crowd is inundating around him.

“Hey, Alec!” A microphone is shoved in his face but Alec barely spares the reporter a glance. That doesn’t stop the man, though, from asking, “Is it true that you’re in a relationship with Magnus Bane, heir to Asmodeus Bane’s ill-gotten fortune?”

“No comment.”

It’s the standard response in the industry but that doesn’t stop the paps from coming even closer, as though Alec had just given them a million dollar soundbite.

Alec knows no comment is only worth a few thousand, in this case.

“Alec, how does it feel to be tied down? How can it be true that the most sought after bachelor in the music industry is spoken for?”

Another reporter laughs and it grates in his ear. “Tell us that we haven’t seen the last of Party Boy Lightwood. We at The Sun were heartbroken to find that someone had grabbed you up without anyone noticing. Tell us you’re smart enough to dodge an obvious gold digger.”

“Yo, Lightwood-- Brett from the Daily Mail. We heard that you’re whisking Bane away on a honeymoon next week to celebrate your private wedding ceremony. Can you confirm?”

Alec rolls his eyes internally but just repeats, “No comment,” in a cool tone.

But like sharks scenting blood-- even if everyone present is well aware that the accusation was nothing more than a play to get a reaction-- the reporters become just a little more frenetic. Gritting his teeth, Alec shoves his way through the paps and thinks that maybe he should have brought his bodyguard along. It’s been awhile since Alec’s been embroiled in the news so intensely and having security definitely helps keep things running smoothly.

Still, Alec’s made of sterner stuff and while photographers yell in his ear, trying to get his attention, and phones are shoved in his face for a soundbite worthy of a headline, Alec makes it to the front doors of BBC radio relatively unscathed.

The assistant holds the door open wide and as soon as Alec crosses the threshold, she’s turning on her heel to follow him while two security guards from the building keep the paps out and muscle the doors closed.

Alec hears the shutter of dozens of cameras even through the closed doors. The windows do nothing to temper the flash as everyone tries to get a photo of him through the glass.

Alec pauses at reception and the assistant takes over.

“Good morning, Mr. Lightwood. My name is Lacey and I’ll be your assistant today while you’re here at BBC Radio.”

Raising a brow at the calm, confident tone, Alec just offers a smile and replies, “It’s nice to meet you, Lacey. You can call me Alec.”

The two of them shake hands and Alec’s a little surprised to see that Lacey has a professional, steady grip. “How long have you been here,” he asks and tries to readjust his first impression of her.

From her reaction to the jungle outside, he’d thought that she’d be a nervous intern but while she had looked shaken as Alec fought his way through the wolves, here in the confines of the station, she seems ready for anything.

Smiling brightly, Lacey replies, “Three months but I have to admit that I’ve never dealt with a crowd the size of yours.”

“You get used to it,” is all Alec says and Lacey looks at him like he’s lost his mind before shaking her head a little and refocusing the conversation.

“You’re here for the next few hours and I’m your point woman. I’m the one that can get you coffee or whatever else you require and I’ll be the one to lead you through your schedule with us. We’re starting with the Live Lounge performance and you’ll have a few minutes for makeup and hair before we get you to the stage set-up.”

Alec goes along with whatever she says and doesn’t tell her that he’s performed or interviewed here so many times over the past ten years that he probably knows the building just as well as she does. He lets the hair and makeup team fiddle with him a little, making sure that he won’t look washed out under the performing lights, and then he goes to the recording room.

It’s not really a stage, just a dimly room with just enough space for a performer and their instruments. Cameras and TVs line one wall and as Alec shakes hands with the team and goes through a round of introductions, he settles in his spot in front of the piano. He puts his headphones on and rests his hands on the keys, taking a grounding breath.

He was only using the piano for the first song-- he’d use the stage band for his own music-- but part of the fun of the Live Lounge was covering artists with stripped versions of their own songs.

Alec warms up for a few minutes and then the cameras are rolling. He’s practiced this particular song for a few months and had brushed up on it yesterday after heading home from the studio.

As he’s given the cue to start from the producer, Alec eases into Coming Down by Halsey. Badlands had been one of his favorite albums the year it had been released and he’s held this song in reserve for a few years just for such an occasion.

The piano is a soft undertone and Alec leans into the notes. He hasn’t performed since May-- since Good Morning America all those weeks ago-- and it feels good to be back. He hasn’t taken so much time off since he was in high school and even if it’s a stripped version in front of half a dozen cameras and no fans, it’s still fun.

There’s no pressure here. It’s Alec and his passion in its purest form. Singing a song he loves in the silence of a dim room. Letting his eyes close, Alec ignores the people gathered, the staff that ensure everything runs smoothly and focuses on the piano and the notes.

The four minutes go by faster than Alec anticipated and there’s a short commercial break before Alec hears the intro music in his headphones. He hears the introduction for his next song-- one of the ones he’d recorded a couple of weeks ago that has almost a guaranteed spot on his next album-- and he counts off the beat with the drummer accompanying him.

This song is a little more lively and he’s breathing hard by the end of it.

There are a few more songs he performs, mostly old favorites with his latest singles mixed in, and then he’s moving back from the piano. Pulling the mic pack from his waistband, Alec hands that and his headphones to a member of the sound team and then Lacey is ushering him to the radio department.

Alec waits outside of the recording room, watching as Nick Grimshaw goes through a spiel of some sort before being ushered in. He’s known the radio host for several years and the two have a good relationship-- they’ve even gotten drinks while Alec’s been in the city. Grimmy never pushes when he senses a sensitive topic and he’s one of a handful of media personnel that Alec actually likes. He's talked to the man off record several times before and Grimshaw has yet to expose any of his confidences. All around, he's a pretty good guy in Alec's opinion.

He sits in his assigned chair across from Grimmy and gets hooked up with headphones. He asks Lacey for a cup of coffee and she returns almost startlingly fast. He’s a little surprised that it’s a great cup and it’s only then that he realizes that he hasn’t had any coffee this morning and it’s going on mid morning.

Just a few minutes later, Grimmy’s introducing him and Alec grins and relaxes into his seat, sipping on his coffee.

“Our next guest is a music industry legend-- and he knows it. He wrapped up his last tour in May and has spent the summer laying low in his hometown. Until this week, at least.” The host’s tone is scandalous as he continues, “Rumor has it that the most elusive playboy in New York has finally let himself be caught-- and by a professor, of all things. I’m sure everyone is very excited to hear that we’re spending the morning with Alec Lightwood. Alec, man, it’s been a little while, hasn’t it?”

Laughing, Alec leans into his mic. “It has,” he confirms. “I almost want to say it’s been over a year since I was last at BBC Radio 1 headquarters.”

“Too long,” Grimmy says sadly.

“Way too long. But I’m in London for a few days and thought it only right that I stop by.”

“Well, Alec, we appreciate that.” Nick takes a quick drink of his own coffee before going on. “How have things been with you lately? Catch us up on what the Alec Lightwood’s been up to the past few months.”

Nick raises a brow which Alec returns as he answers. His first interview being with Nick is definitely not a coincidence by Lydia and he resolves to send his manager a nice gift-- something with gold-- once he gets back to The States. Nick knew how to play the game and he was feeling Alec out. Alec would appease him-- after just a little bit more ducking and weaving.

“I wrapped up a world tour earlier this summer.”

“Yes,” Grimmy says dryly. “I heard. I also saw your GMA performance and saw a few fans post about a supposed private concert.”

Shrugging, Alec replies, “I like to do a few smaller events for fans during the year, Nick. You know that. My Good Morning America performance was fun, though. It was nice to perform in Central Park.”

“I would imagine. I noticed something, though, when I was watching it this week.”

Interest piqued, Alec just prompts, “Oh?”

“You were performing fan favorite Carousel when you did something a little unusual for you-- you dedicated a song.”

All of a sudden, Alec realizes what Nick’s building up to and he winces a little. He barely remembers the performance and had totally forgotten that he’d mentioned Magnus at all. Though now that he thinks about it, he definitely should since the move had been brazen even for him.

Still, there’s a game to be played. “A dedication,” Alec asks, frowning as he makes a show of thinking. “That doesn’t seem like me. I never dedicate songs. It’s almost always unbearably sappy and I wouldn’t put my fans through that.”

“Yeah, you’ve only dedicated one or two songs before but that’s what made this stand out. You dedicated that song to someone you met recently.” Grimmy sends Alec an arch look. “Apparently, you thought they could be a great friend.”

He emphasizes the end of the sentence and Alec rolls his eyes. “Friends are important to a healthy life, you know,” he says demurely.

“Well, Alec, you know everyone here in the studio-- and the world, I’m sure-- is dying to know. Who’s the friend you made a few months ago and do you still talk to him?”

Alec laughs a little, leaning close to the mic. “Well since you asked so nice Grimmy, I do still talk to him. His name is Magnus.”

Nick’s eyes light up, like he wasn’t sure Alec was going to give him the story after all, and Alec smiles and takes a drink of coffee.

“Magnus, you say?” He pauses for a beat before returning, “Is there anything to the story that you want to share, Alec?”

“Let’s see,” Alec starts. “What do you want to know?”

Nick glares at him, joking, and Alec smothers a laugh that’s probably caught on tape.

“Lightwood, what do you think I-- and everyone listening raptly right now-- want to know? Anything, everything.” Grimmy sweeps a regal hand in front of him. “The floor is yours, man.”

Humming thoughtfully, Alec finally says, “Well, it looks like you know Magnus and I were friends.”

Jumping on the reply, Nick asks, “Were?”

“You’re right, Grimmy. One’s boyfriend should also be a friend. That’s only healthy.”

“So, it’s true then? The illustrious Alec Lightwood is taken?”

Alec pauses dramatically before sighing in equal fashion. “I am,” he confirms. “I’m in a relationship with Magnus Bane.”

“You’ve heard it from the man himself, folks!” Grimmy tsks, shaking his head morosely. “I know a lot of men will be crying into their pillows tonight at the news that you’re off the market, Alec. So you know I have to ask-- what’s the story there?”

“It’s a pretty boring story,” Alec says, almost apologetically. “We met in a diner one night.”

“You do like a good burger,” Grimm says sagely.

Alec laughs. “You know me too well. But yeah, I was at this diner in New York and it was pretty late. I had just ordered my food when I looked up and saw him.”

“Oh? Was it love at first sight,” Nick prods.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Alec says, a little uncertainly. “There was just something about him, though. We talked for a few minutes that night and things were kinda left there. I didn't think I’d ever see him again.”

“But?”

“It turns out we go to the same coffee shop. I ran into him there a few days later and we talked a little more and ended up exchanging numbers. I’m telling you, it’s all pretty conventional. We talked and met up a few times and things just grew and changed until we realized that there was more than just friendship there. We talked and-- yeah, man,” Alec ends, grinning. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“I’m happy for you, Alec, but you know I have to ask-- are you concerned about his history?”

No matter that Nick’s a friend, Alec’s tone cools at the suggestion, even if he knows that Nick’s just doing his job. “No, I’m not concerned about anything having to do with Magnus.”

Grimmy winces. “You have to know how that looks, though, right? This guy comes out of nowhere and you start dating only for it to be revealed his dad is a is one of the most well-known conmen in the entire world? And Magnus apparently has a juvie record? That doesn’t look good for anyone involved.”

Alec laughs but it’s caustic. “Are you telling me that you’ve never done something you regretted, Grimmy? Fu-- goodness knows that I’ve gotten into a scrape or two that involved a lawyer. And we can’t help who our fathers are.”

Alec doesn’t say anything else on the topic and Grimmy is kind enough to stay away from the topic of Robert. Instead, the host says, “I just want to make that sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. You’re Alec Lightwood, for God’s sake. You can’t just date anyone, even if we’d all like to think we have a certain level of autonomy that extends to who we want to be with.”

“I’m choosing Magnus,” Alec says firmly. “We’ve talked about things and we’re together. I don’t care what anyone else has to say about my relationship, especially when they don’t know us.”

Raising a brow, Grimmy replies, “That sounds pretty strong, Alec. Can I take that to mean that you and Magnus are in this for the long haul, naysayers be damned?”

Smiling, Alec just says, “That is what it sounds like, doesn’t it?”

Thankfully, Nick takes the cue and with a huff of amusement and a silent nod in support of Alec, the show goes to commercial.

Taking his headphones off, Alec follows suit and the two of them enjoy a few minutes conversation off the air.

“Hey man, I hope you’re good. You know that I had to ask.”

Shaking his head, Alec waves him off. “We both know how the game’s played, Grimmy. This was nothing out of the ordinary for the two of us.”

“Well, that’s not quite true, is it? I never thought that I’d see the day you settled down with someone. This Magnus guy must be special, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Alec confirms. “Between you and me, I’m pretty gone over him.”

Nodding seriously, Grimmy just says, “I’m happy for you, Alec. You deserve this and I hope to hell that it works out for you two.”

They fistbump while Alec says thanks and they're back on air just a few seconds later.

The conversation moves onto his career and Alec talks about his plans for the next album for a little bit, bantering with Nick, before there’s another commercial break.

Carefully, he stands up and stretches, draining the rest of his coffee and requesting another. Lacey jumps to attention and Alec spends the next little while playing a few radio games and talking about other, less personal subjects.

When the show finally ends, it’s after noon and Alec feels his red eye catching up with him. Shaking his head to clear it, he thanks everyone and follows Lacey as she leads him to the front of the building where his car is waiting.

There aren’t as many reporters this time and Alec makes it to the car with a fraction of the attention his arrival to the station had garnered.

The ride to the hotel is uneventful and Alec scrolls through Twitter and responds to a text from Jace before going over to the New York Times and spending the rest of the drive reading a few depressing as hell articles.

Pulling up to the hotel's front entrance, the doorman moves smoothly to attention and Alec nods to him as he steps into The Rosewood. It was his favorite hotel to stay in when he was in London and most celebrities liked the privacy the hotel afforded.

Walking over to the reception desk, Alec’s greeted warmly and checks in without issue. The driver had taken his bag to the hotel earlier and as Alec checks his watch, he sees that Underhill should have arrived a little while ago. Getting his keys, Alec heads to the elevator and up to his room.

He has a suite for the duration of his stay and as he inserts his card, he hears the television on low volume. Underhill is sitting on the couch, sleeves rolled up and jacket thrown over the dining table chair. He’s watching a football game and looking through his phone.

“What’s up,” Alec asks, kicking the door closed and throwing his key onto the entryway table.

Looking up, Underhill shrugs. “I’m just wasting time until you get here. Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?”

“You know me,” Alec says dryly. “I love to live dangerously.”

Underhill snorts but doesn’t say anything. He also doesn’t move his feet and Alec swipes at them half assed as he moves around them to take the other half of the couch.

“He should be here in half an hour.”

“We’re ready,” Underhill says confidently. “I’ve got my paperwork and legalese all ready.”

“Legalese,” Alec asks, giving his lawyer an arch look.

Underhill just shrugs and they watch the rest of the quarter before turning the TV off. Standing, Alec moves to the liquor cart and pours a glass of whiskey for Underhill, handing it over before pouring a second for himself.

Underhill flips through a folder, skimming the contents for a few minutes before sighing and coming to his feet. He rolls his sleeves down and shrugs into his suit jacket. They set the suite to rights and Alec takes out his phone. Magnus must be up for he’s answered Alec’s good morning text sent so many hours ago and Alec can’t help his smile as he types up a reply.

“Focus, boss. The bastard should be here any minute.”

Rolling his eyes, Alec shoves his phone into his pants pocket and it’s at just that minute that the room’s phone rings. Alec picks it up on the third ring.

“Lightwood,” he says brusquely.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lightwood. There’s a. . . Victor Aldertree here and he insists that he has an invitation to your unit. What should I tell him, sir?”

Ale hears the disapproval in the concierge’s tone but bites back his laugh. It was almost unheard of for any media to ever be allowed on the grounds, though for purposes like the one Alec had set up were the only exception.

“I have an appointment scheduled with him for an interview,” Alec confirms. “Send him up-- with an escort. Between you and me, he’ll only be here twenty minutes or so and then he’ll need escorted off the property.”

“Very good, sir.”

Hanging up, Alec leans back in his chair and sends Underhill an amused look. “Ready?”

“More than,” Underhill says grimly. “I can’t believe that he really thinks you’re going to give him an exclusive interview after the shit he’s pulled.”

“He’s a reporter, Underhill. He probably can’t see past the million dollar story that’s landed in his lap.”

A knock sounds on the hotel door and Underhill stands to answer. Alec, for his part, crosses one leg over another and settles in for his meeting, taking a leisurely sip of his whiskey.

Underhill swings the door open and Aldertree appears, looking pompously pressed in a subtly patterned blazer.

He walks right into the suite without hesitation and Alec nods to the bellman behind him as Underhill slips him a tip.

Switching his gaze to the bloodthirsty little reporter in front of him, Alec inclines his head. “Mr. Aldertree.”

“Alec.” The two of them shake hands and Alec barely buries his ire at being greeted so casually. Aldertree, the smug bastard, takes a seat at the table opposite Alec and Underhill seats himself between them.

Alec tilts his head to his friend. “This is Underhill. My lawyer.”

At that, Aldertree looks a little startled, though he waves it off just a moment later.

What a fool, Alec thinks. Aldertree thought Underhill was just here to prevent Alec from incriminating himself in anything too embarrassing.

Alec watches as Aldertree takes out his phone and opens his recording app, starting the audio. Alec lets him get situated, taking out his little pen and notebook, relaxing in his chair as if he has all the time in the world.

Finally, Aldertree says, “Alright, gentlemen, should we get started?”

Alec pauses for a few beats and studies Aldertree. The journalist was a thorn in his side and he’s looking forward to the next several minutes.

“Ready whenever you are, Mr. Aldertree.”

Aldertree dives right in and goes straight for the throat. “When did you start dating Magnus Bane and did you know from the start that he was ill gotten goods?”

Alec’s temper spikes but he doesn’t need the look Underhill throws him to keep his control. His expression doesn’t change from its bland pleasantness as he reaches over and grabs the reporter’s phone from the table before Aldertree even knows what’s happening.

Ignoring Aldertree’s squawks of distress, Alec presses the red button to stop recording and then deletes the file.

He looks up to meet Aldertree’s incredulous face. “You’re not here for an exclusive, Aldertree. Quite the contrary.”

Underhill flips open the folder in front of him, perusing its contents that Alec knows he’s already memorized, letting Alec have a few minutes.

Leaning over the table oh so slightly, Alec’s voice is soft as he asks, “You got quite the story didn’t you? You found out that I was dating someone. I don’t know who your inside source is but it doesn’t matter-- you took whatever they had to say and you ran with it. You ran all the way to the fucking bank with a story on me.”

Settling back in his chair, Alec throws back a swallow of whiskey, setting the glass back down on the table with a hard thud in the otherwise still room.

“Now normally,” Alec continues conversationally, “I’d let you scamper off with your tidy little check and you’d just be another annoying reporter on my shit list. But this isn’t normal, Aldertree. You brought someone else into this.”

Aldertree looks admirably unfazed by Alec’s little rambling speech, though Alec sees the way his eyes widen imperceptibly at the mention of his boyfriend.

“That’s right. You can sling all the shit you want at my name. It’ll take more than some goddamn two bit reporter to bring me down. You had the nerve to go after my boyfriend though, Aldertree, and that I won’t tolerate. You don’t mess with what’s mine and you can imagine how Magnus felt when he read his past in a fucking tabloid.”

“I’m a journalist,” Aldertree says firmly. “It’s my duty to report the news, especially when people are keeping secrets.”

Tsking, Alec reaches for his glass and tips it toward his guest. “Ah, but you don’t get it, do you, Aldertree? Some things are off limits-- especially when you have the means and the spite to make sure they stay that way.”

Aldertree raises his head and casts a defiant look at Alec, scornful. “What are you going to do, then? The story’s already out. Everyone knows that your boyfriend is just using you for your money and that when he’s done with you, he’ll walk away without a backwards glance.”

Now it’s the reporter’s turn to look pityingly at Alec. “You’re too fucking stupid to realize that you’re just another arrogant celebrity falling into a trap laid by someone smarter than you. Don’t blame me for sounding the alarm-- you should be thanking me.”

Alec smiles thinly. “I should be thanking you,” Alec repeats thoughtfully. “What should I thank you for first? Almost ruining my relationship? Making my boyfriend feel like shit? Revealing our relationship-- that we were obviously keeping out of the press-- to the world? You’re right,” Alec says, marveling. “There really is so much to thank you for, you snide little bastard.”

Nodding towards Underhill, Alec continues, “You fucked up, though. Didn’t you?”

“How,” Aldertree asks, crossing his arms in front of him. Alec sees the flash of panic in his eyes and his mouth tilts up, just a little.

“You’re a reporter but you’re still bound by the law. You’re not infallible. I read your article, you see. I read it a few times. That’s when I realized that you weren’t just a bottom feeding son of a bitch-- you went above and beyond to get your scoop and I promise, that’ll be your downfall.”

Alec leans close, makes sure that he has Aldertree’s undivided attention as he slowly says, “I’ve consulted with my lawyer and it turns out that it’s a felony to break into sealed records. I don’t know who you bribed, but you broke the law when you looked at Magnus’s juvie record. That’s grounds for immediate prosecution and I’d go a step further and say it’d mean your job at Idris News.”

“You can’t do that,” Aldertree accuses. “That’s illegal.”

At that, Underhill looks up from the folder. “I’m sorry, what’s illegal? Telling someone that they’ve broken the law? We’ve done nothing but inform you of something you already knew.”

“What do you want,” Aldertree gets out through gritted teeth.

“What do we want? That’s a bit like trying to close the barn door after the horse has escaped, isn’t it? But for sake of argument, I’ll tell you anyway.”

Smiling, Alec relaxes in his seat and considers the man in front of him. “I want to ruin you. I want to make you pay for hurting someone that I care very much about. No one is content with just me anymore,” Alec says drolly. “They’re going after those closest to me and that is something I will never tolerate.”

Alec’s expression is pleasant as he softly asks, “Do you want to know something, Aldertree? I get what I want. I suppose that your editor is reading an anonymous letter as we speak that tells just how you managed to piece together such an interesting story. Oh, and I lied about not knowing who you bribed-- he’s sitting in an interrogation room right now explaining why he hacked police records in The States and I’d imagine he’s singing like a bird right about now about just who asked him to do it.”

Alec watches as the realizations batter Aldertree and feels blazing satisfaction at the way he seems to deflate.

“You chose the wrong story, Aldertree. And now you’ll pay the price. By the time I'm finished with you, you won't be able to get a media job in Siberia.”

“You bastard,” Aldertree whispers furiously.

Alec shrugs negligently. “Don’t blame me for your own fuck-ups. Now get out. I don’t ever want to hear your name again.”

“This isn’t the last you’ll hear from me,” the reporter blusters.

Underhill stands, buttoning his jacket. “Is that a threat, Mr. Aldertree,” he asks coolly and Alec watches as Aldertree gnashes his teeth.

“Of course not,” the man gets out and sends them both a withering glance before he’s striding to the door and wrenching it open. The same bellman appears and Alec watches, amused, as Aldertree is ushered away by the hotel staff.

The door swings shut and Underhill blows out a breath. “What a bitch.”

Barking out a laugh, Alec stands and walks the few feet to the couch, collapsing on it with a groan. “It certainly wasn’t a hardship. Did you see his face when he realized I’d put the pieces together?”

“Priceless,” Underhill agrees and slouches in his chair, pouring a second glass of whiskey and throwing half of it back in one bracing swallow.

The two of them relax in the quiet of the room before Alec sighs heavily. “I have interviews this afternoon and a dinner with a few of the London executives from the label.”

“Woe is you,” Underhill mutters and just raises a brow at the narrow-eyed glance Alec throws him.

Looking at his watch, Underhill hums. “My flight’s scheduled for later this evening. I think I’ll do a little sightseeing before I have the driver take me to the airport.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay a few days? It seems a little excessive that you’d come all the way here just for a single meeting, without even taking advantage of a little vacation.”

“What can I say,” Underhill shrugs. “Adrian couldn’t get out of work on such short notice and I miss him.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Alec waves his friend’s answer away and they both laugh as Alec stands and they shake hands, leaning in for a quick hug. “Go ahead and get out of here. I know you like to visit the National Gallery when you’re in town and go to that pub. I’ll see you back in New York.”

“Sounds good, boss.”

Rolling his eyes, Alec heads to the bedroom while Underhill gathers his papers. His friend leaves just a few minutes later and Alec sighs in the quiet now that he’s alone.

He has an hour until he needs to go downstairs and meet his driver for the next round of interviews and Alec spends that time texting Magnus. It’s nothing serious and Alec laughs out loud as they argue about who Peyton should have ended up with on One Tree Hill. Alec spares a few minutes to change into another outfit-- something a little more formal that will work well for wherever the label takes him tonight, and then he’s off again.

He’s definitely feeling the effects of his overnight flight and being on the go since he landed but he reasons that he only has a few hours left before he can crash for a solid eight hours-- ten if he’s lucky.

His room phone rings-- downstairs notifying him that his driver’s arrived-- and Alec runs a hand through his hair as he grabs his room key and wallet, shoving them into his pocket.

Alec walks out of his room, ready to face the lions.

Eager, even.

Because, as the elevator moves swiftly down to the lobby, Alec sits comfortable in the knowledge that he’s at the top of his game. His career has recovered quite nicely from the crisis earlier in the summer and he has a man back in The States that he’s crazy about.

Everything has worked out quite nicely-- better than he could’ve ever expected-- and Alec’s been playing this game so long that sometimes he wonders if he didn't invent it.

This is the life he’s chosen for himself and he loves it-- thorns and all. As Alec runs through the news outlets and magazines that he’ll be talking to this afternoon, he smiles a little.

This life isn’t for everyone but it’s the only one Alec wants. The truth is, he’s always loved it, always enjoyed playing the game and thumbing his nose at anyone who said that he wouldn’t make it.

Magnus landed in his life unexpectedly but he fits in a way that surprises Alec. It’s unforgivably early, but Alec likes the space Magnus takes up in his life. Alec never thought something like this was meant for him but he knows he’d fight to keep it with everything he has.

Yeah, Alec thinks as he slides his sunglasses on and approaches the car with the driver holding the rear door open for him.

He wouldn’t change a thing.

[jenivadiamonds]

The Impact of Sudden Unemployment

 Preface

           The past seven years of my life have been a roller coaster of events that culminated at the development and successful launch of The Exponentials an online magazine and editorial that concerns itself with raising awareness on the issues surrounding unemployment and the impacts it has on the individual and the society at large. After being fired from my teaching job I have had for almost seven years, I became depressed and wallowed in misery, shame that came with what I saw as my downfall. It was during these hard times that my mum and siblings stuck with me and helped me build a career from scratch, and I found the most beautiful thing “love”. This story however would not be complete nor fair without the mention of the input of my now husband Chike Austin, a stranger turned best friend; confidant and business partner who pushed me to look outside the realms of teaching and helped me in building this business idea to what it is today. Am also appreciative of second chances, that brought my life together once again.

The Impact of Sudden Unemployment

“I have lost my job.” Saying this loud to my sick mum Tessy sounded so alien. I felt ashamed and concerned at the same time about the possibility of the hard times ahead. No matter how casual the statement may sound, its impacts on an individual are immense and far reaching. Thousands of individuals, not just in the United States but globally, lose their source of income every day; this trend is not a preserve of underdeveloped nations rather also hugely affects an alarmingly high number of people in developed economies too. According to Marinescu Ioana (17), “the impacts of not having a stable source of income for a long time can be quite devastating - especially for individuals who have families, since their inability to provide spells doom for those who are dependent on the fired individual”. Losing my job had come as a shock not just to me and my colleagues at work, but also to my mum, who knew how much I was dedicated to my professional life. Prior to this I had the perception that the loss of a job came because of bad luck and lack of commitment on the part of the employee; but having to go through it gave me a new perspective on the issue; I no longer felt callous toward unemployed individuals.

The news had evidently hit my mother way harder than it hit me; I felt guilty. “What are we going to do,” my mum stammered amidst the uncontrollable tears running down our faces since I first broke the news. I will get another job; two, if I have to I replied, trying to mask the uncertainty that all of a sudden seemed so real. She looked so lost, I realize the situation was more serious than I really had thought it was. The look on her face said a lot of the deep thoughts that must have been razing through her mind at the time. She became really sick immediately I finished my highschool. She was beautiful with long dark hair and also very healthy looking, until suddenly from what we thought was a little fever to so many years later of a deteriorating illness. At the time, my elder sister was finishing from college, so I had to work as a teacher in a local elementary school, took care of our mum and also went to adult night school, so that my sister wouldn’t have to drop out to help at home. We had gone through our share of arguments and fights but never for once had I seen the defeated look she had at this moment. It broke my heart to see the worries in her eyes.  I saw the fear that everything might come crashing down at my feet, which was a scary thing to witness. I felt I understood am almost about to lose my mind just looking at my sick mother look defeated.

For over two years, the school I worked for has been laying off employees who were working in other locations that had been opened in various parts of the country as part of a long term-strategy to incorporate a lean workforce. This had been triggered by the decline in funds and incomes due to the economic crisis that was crippling the world economy. It was a little kept secret that the Education Ministry at the time was embezzling the money mapped out for developments and reconstruction, prior to the economic crisis and had even done worse under the new management that had taken over after the ousting of the previous management team. There had been hushed rumors among the workers that we all were in a sinking ship however none of us wished to resign just yet, hoping that things might turn around for the better and the downsizing would not affect the branch we were working in. When the downsizing at the office began with the firing of a few non-academic staffers, things began spiraling and going to work every day was like a game of Russian roulette. As I headed to work each morning, I kept wondering who would be let go that day or week. The impact of such a stressful work environment coupled with the uncertainty of whether you will be out of work tomorrow had taken a toll on the performance of the employees and within a few weeks there were reports of various complaints that had been filed by the parents and teachers as well. 

Over the course of my working and adult life I had not any bank loan and this gave me a relief that I might have it a little easier than some of my colleagues. The in-home lesson job I had taken up at few of my pupils house, had also aided me in clearing the student loan that I had accumulated over my days in college. As such in comparison to how bad some of my colleagues had it, I would argue that I had it a little bit easier. Additionally, I was lucky to have helped my dad complete the payment of the mortgage that we had taken on the family house. As such, this meant that my immediate concern was to ensure that I took care of my personal needs, my mum’s medical bills and most of the time daily meals for me and my younger ones. However, this was made more complicated by the lack of any meaning full savings and this meant that I had to find a job quickly. Despite all these concerns now I knew that the supplies that were already in the house and the few hundred dollars that I still had in my account would at least give me the start I needed. I decided to take a week off to get my thoughts straightened out before deciding on the next best course of action not just for me but for my family. Thinking about it now, I realize this decision was made of the shock that I was in at the time which could not allow me to plan my thoughts. at the time it seemed the most logical and reasoned thing to do.

As the week progressed, I did almost nothing to salvage myself from the situation that I had found myself in, except the effort to link up with some of my old friends and relations contacts, some of whom I had not seen or talked to in over three years. It was at this time that I got an interesting email from a long time contact I had been in contact with during my carefree days as a caterer, baker and home delivery cook. Beyond these futile attempts at getting over my now regularly grumbled mood and constant state of depression, I maintained my status as a passive sore unemployed loser. As the weeks rolled by depression was becoming more and more of a reality as households needs and bills began to pile each day. Things had gone from bad to worse; I had been out looking for menial jobs with no success and it was no secret that also things were getting bad at the home front. I would regularly get home, so tired from walking around or sitting at a place with a childhood friend who also had been ousted from his high paying job only to lose all his money, house, and family. This was where I was headed, I kept telling myself.

During this period, my mum kept urging me to revive my freelance translating career, though I knew it could pay, I somehow succeeded in putting it off for a long time. This was undoubtedly one of the lowest points of my life. I had fallen from a level where I was able to provide a comfortable life for my family to where I was depending on a few scraps here and there. It was however through him that I was finally able to get a breakthrough soon to receive an urgent translation order with an attractive pay. This opened a lot of doors not just in terms of opportunities to finally earn some cash and raise myself from what was evidently going to be a story of personal destruction. With a high level of expertise and long-term experience coupled by the urge to get things right, soon enough I had more than a few referrals from various parts of the world. With the high quality of writings, and even though the freelancing gig could provide a temporary reprieve from the lack of a way to provide for the basic needs in the home front, I fully realized that it would not go for long. 

Amid my adversities, I became acquainted with a client named Chike all the way from Africa. This client played an important role in my subsequent redemption from the low depths of life that I had resigned myself to. The name according to him was given to him by his grandmother based on the time he was born; which was the late evenings when the village goats were coming back from the grazing fields. Despite the huge and probably incomparable cultural and social circumstances and settings, which both of us had been born and raised, it was hard to imagine how he would have ended up being friends and playing a huge part in both of our futures. At first, he wanted a part of his novel to be translated and rectified in terms of subject verb agreements and all the rules of professional writing, (Carley, Micheal, and Phillipe Spapens), and I accepted his request for the same. After the first part was approved and the interest that the progress had raised in me, I was interested in asking him about the rest of the novel and whether it would need any type of help considering that the first part had been successfully published. 

After several days of correspondence, managing and working together on the book, we ended up becoming very good online friends. Just like me, he too was once unemployed and had taken up the gig of writing opinion editorials for some of the little-known online magazines and newspapers. With a common interest on the writing and publishing field for income, we continued to talk about the differences that existed between both countries in terms of job opportunities and the quality of life for citizens in our respective countries (Marinescu, Ioana, and Roland Rathelot). I soon introduced him to my mum and family, through video calls that were later to become a norm for a long time and he too introduced me to his family. It was a surprise to both of us that indeed there were various fundamental similarities that were apparent between both nations and the similarity in challenges facing people from developed countries such as our great USA countries. The challenges faced, the concerns used by lack of job opportunities, the impacts that this phenomenon uses not just on the individual and their family but on the nation was also a topic that never failed to come up every time we conversed.

It was during these kinds of conversation that my perspective on work changed, Chike had a very interesting view of how work should be viewed especially in the current technological world. Technology has exponentially grown to a point where an individual does not need to be at a locale to be part of a workforce. This has fundamentally hanged the concept of the workplace and the work setting through enabling individuals to work form any given place if they have access to the internet and a personal computer. Chike encouraged me to look for opportunities from diverse industries and areas other than just sending my credentials and applications to companies working within the Educational industry alone. This helped me a lot in quitting the mentality that has been commonly characterized by the saying that ‘The man is for work, not work for the man.” It was during this journey of self-discovery that I came to realize and discover what I truly wanted out of life both in a personal level and at a professional level. It was also during this time that I felt that I had the inspiration to identify my goals in life and consequently developed the plan to do so. 

           While this seems like fate, it was during one of our long conversations on life in Nigeria and the United States that the idea of developing an online magazine and platform was born. At first, we intended that the site would cater for the professional unemployed individuals all over the world could post online jobs and share experiences was born. This however was just but an idea and we knew that making it a reality would not only be challenging but would require a substantial amount of financial backing, money which at the time we did not have. First, it would be important to do the necessary research and get all the legal documentation ready not just in the US but also back in Nigeria. While I was preparing myself in the US, I was surprised two-days later when Chike got in touch saying that his part in the Nigerian capital had been complete. It came as surprise only to learn that most if the regulations covering the use and ownership of most sites in the nation were not under any sort of regularized framework. While this was a shock it also was an advantage not just to us but it meant a lot more people in and around the nation would easily access the site. Chike, my soon to be business partner, planned and flew to the US and stayed with us for a few months before moving out to his own apartment.

Life was beginning to take a good shape, and I felt that I was finally doing something that was not only fulfilling but had the potential to really take off and earn me and my family a comfortable lifestyle. At this point my mum had started recovering, she had seen me through the worst part of my lowest points in life and now I could see a spark of light at the end of a long and dark tunnel. I soon visited the bank and after asking for loans from close friends and confidants, who still had trust in me, we were able to fully fund the development of an operational online magazine and editorial that also supported the posting of various jobs at a fee. Within a year from the date the site went live, traffic had grown substantially and soon we had to move from the garage office that we were occupying and rented a bigger office space. The journey to where we were at that time had been full of ups and downs but we had finally managed to capture a small but important piece of the online magazine market with significant income. Sometimes, I am surprised that I can still identify myself with my old self before I lost my job, despite the life changing experience I went through. However, I believe this can be attributed to the strong and sometimes commanding nature of the people who were able to guide and push me during the lowest points of life when I thought I would never again be able to provide for my family. The role of Chike and his family towards the successful redemption and bounce back cannot be understated; as I look at my family now, and the smiles they have I know we will be able to overcome anything together.

After two years of starting our business, Chike and I started dating. Although I knew I had a thing for him through all the years of being two unemployed online friends trying to make ends meet. A year after we went out the first time he proposed, and we later got married at the Notre Dame Catholic Church Houston, Texas. It was a glorious day in our lives, because I got to meet his mother, whole family and friends that flew in to be part of our beautiful day. Also if I must say, the life we are living now was of our own making. You have to get up and move on, life waits for no one. Do not procrastinate or feel defeated, you will get there, it might only take time. Our business is flourishing, so am grateful to God and the universe for bringing us together through unemployment. From my bad experience I got to be with someone I love and do something meaningful with my life again. According to (Margaret Linn, Richard Sandifer, Shayna Stein) on the article “Effects of unemployment on mental illness and physical health.” Our mental health has a lot to do with our emotional and physical health. We humans are relentless, we can do anything we set our minds to.

             ��          Work Cited

 Carley, Michael, and Phillipe Spapens. “Sharing the world: sustainable living and global equity in the 21st century”. Routledge, 2017.

Edward Moore, Kennedy. “The challenges before us”. Am Psychol. 1984 Jan;39(1):62–66. American Public Health Association. Web. June 13, 2019.

Margaret W., Linn, and Richard, Sandifer. Shayna, Stein., “Effects of unemployment on mental and physical health”. 75, 502-506. NCBI (May 1985). American Journal of Public Health. Web. June 13, 2019. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1646287/pdf/amjph00281-0056.pdf

Marinescu, Ioana, and Roland Rathelot. "Mismatch unemployment and the geography of job search." American Economic Journal: Macroeconomics 10.3 (2018): 42-70.

Marinescu, Ioana. "The general equilibrium impacts of unemployment insurance: Evidence from a large online job board." Journal of Public Economics 150 (2017): 14-29

[the-canary]

Languages of Saints - C.R (3/10).

Summary: A deal isn’t supposed to involve feelings, right? (Reader/Carter Baizen). 

Prompt: “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

Masterlist

A/N: welcome to the longest chapter so far, even with some changes i do plan on moving forward with the story.  

Part 1 | Part 2 

Feedback is always appreciated.

Monday.

It’s a surprise to your supervisor, Harold, early Monday morning when you sent him a quick text that you will not be coming to work that day due to being sick. It’s not that you don’t have the compt time for it, you have way too much actually, but it still makes him question your actions a little, not that he would say that outloud, especially with Marcy nearby. God knew that woman was ready to flick a sexual harassment filing to HR at a moment’s notice, it was just the age he lived in he guessed. However, that and the usual coffee break gossip leave his head when a man in a blue tailored suite walks into the floor that houses all the accountants and analysts’ offices. He wears confidence in an annoying sort of way, as he calls on everyone to meet him up front with a pair of lawyers behind him.

“My name is Carter Baizen,” the younger man declares grinning at the sound of his own name,”As of last Friday, Wyman Co. is under my direct management.”

The small crowd murmurs amongst themselves, as Carter’s smirk turns devilish. This was his favorite part of the act, reminding others that their livelihoods where in his hands. He might be considered a Saint to some, but to others he was the goddamn devil. It might have not been the best thing, the morally right thing to do but Carter Baizen was here to remind everyone (and himself at times) that he was worth something -- even at the cost of others. However, through all the dramatics, there was something that he needed to know more than anything else -- where his goddamn money was.

“However, it seems that there is some money missing from the annual report and statistics I was given” Carter keeps going on with his act, as he shakes the packet of papers the black-suited man gives him, “I hear you are the best group of accountants and analysts this side of Wall Street.”       

Everyone stays silent as he gives the punchline of his speech, “You have until Friday to find me the missing 2 million dollars, if not this whole department is fired.”

Carter gives the appalled crowd a shiteating grin before leaving, but instead of freaking out like most other groups would - the financial team of what was formerly Wyman Co. huddle up and look at Harold. He drags a hand through his thinning hair before looking at the chubby-cheeked, brown-eyed Marcy.

“Send her a detailed email of everything that just happened,” Marcy nods before running to her cubicle, “I want you guys searching, for any inconsistencies and you send it to either her or Nick -- they’re gonna be our A-team on this. Understood?”

“Understood!”

If only you, fighting with Monsieur over the blanket, knew what you were in for.  

Tuesday.

Rocio’s mother sends you an urgent email on Monday evening asking where her daughter has been since Friday and in all honesty you can’t answer because she hasn’t answered your messages and her Instagram has been oddly cryptic --with dark and blurry shots-- since you left the party. It’s around that time you see the email from Marcy, with her panicked voice ringing in your head-- about what had happened at work, and it doesn’t really surprise you -- the company had been tanking for awhile now, but the thing about Mr. Baizen -- that’s what gets you up with a headache and your best set of footwear.

“How are you even awake?” Nick asks, as you wait for the elevator to reach your level. The dark-haired man shakes his head, as you motion towards the cup of coffee in your hand.

“It’s just like college, pills and coffee,” you state, voice still raspy from your sickness and the lack of sleep the email had given you. Honestly, it felt like that time Rocio made you go to a frat party the night before your last statistics finale. You shrug, as Nick gives you those eyebrows of disapproval though you knew he understood from his own sleepless night as a new dad.

“Let’s do this, Nicholas,” you chug your coffee, knowing that the burnt kind is already being made in the break room.

“Right behind you,” he remarks, as you frown for only a moment.

“Please stop,” you laugh, ignoring the tightness in the back of your neck that you always get when someone is watching you, “I don’t want Matt after me again.”

Nick laughs, as the two of you head to your offices and begin going into the pile of documents that the rest of the floor has assailed your dropbox with, completely unaware of a certain man watching the proceedings, though you are aware the office watching you through the glass walls, making it obvious that their hopes are leaning all on you.   

Wednesday Night.

It’s in the minor details, that’s something you learned early on in this job. You have to be meticulous, if not money could slip out of your hands, and that’s something that rich people hated the most -- losing money that they didn’t spent themselves. But, between hour 5 and hour 12 you get somewhere with a little thing Nick says that makes Marcy laugh during breaktime. It’s the little things that accumulate -- that stupid saying doesn’t leave your head, so you start looking into the little things, a monthly payment here or a downpayment there. It’s all in the same area, though never under the same name.    

“The last CEO bought out his lover with gifts,” you explain to Nick and Harold in the mid afternoon meeting the three of you are having, though that isn’t the half of it. You wouldn’t let them know, if it could possibly spill out and cause a bigger mess -- people still lost their jobs, with this the old boss just looked bad.

“Every dollar accounted for?” Harold ask, as you nod. Nick is going over the numbers once more, because he secretly knows that you’re not that good at math, never been one for a calculated risk.

“So, you agree to present this to Mr. Baizen tomorrow?” Harold asks, bright eyes and grabby hands. You roll back your shoulders and give him a tight smile.

Calculated risks have never been your go to, but look at you now.  

Thursday Night.

Harold sends the report bright and early the next morning, so that Mr. Baizen’s attorneys and whoever else had time to look over it. You just tried to stay alive for the rest of the day. You know what ignoring your illness wasn’t the best thing for you, but your work and livelihood were on the line -- one that you loved dearly. The healthcare benefits could pay if you got sick and maybe if you died, and while that was a little morbid, it was how you felt by the end of day. You hoped you died before you meet said Carter Baizen. However, Lady Luck was not on your side when 4pm rolled around and you were standing in front of his office door at the top of the highrise that housed the company.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Baizen,” you say, holding some folders and in your best business outfit, trying not to lose your voice. The man turns to you and for a moment you’re in shock -- the guy from the party. You want to say something, but you are going to be a professional. You are going to fight for your job, though you can’t help but frown at the crooked grin he gives you while stating your last name.

“So let’s talk,” Carter declares, as he takes a seat and you follow him. On top of his desk are several folders, the whole meeting of the company’s missing money takes nearly 40-45 minutes and you’re surprised he’s paying attention and taking notes, like he cares about the company. However, what catches his attention, ignoring the whole mistress of the former CEO is the markings on your paper from the last few months that aren’t in his report. You’re about to go into that when he finally speaks up.

“I think you should stop talking,” Carter states coldly, as you look at him from across the wooden table. You look at him and back at the paper, hating that you put two and two together so quickly. Carter Baizen had owned Wyman a lot longer than just last week, it was just that the old CEO couldn’t handle what the dark-haired man in front was doing anymore, so he finally bought the old fool out.

It was one of the oldest tricks in the game.  

“You swindle funds into other things, don’t you? Scarier things ,” he doesn’t say anything about your accusation, but the dark look in his blues eyes is telling you to shut up, not that you were ever any good at that either, “And you use your accountant as scapegoats, is that why you fire the whole department when you come in? Every time?”

“Usually,” he remarks while smiling like the cat caught the canary., as you tighten your hands into fists at his carelessness for others, “I could still do it, but you already know.”

“Please don’t fire the department,” you plea angrily, as you slam your hands onto his desk though it doesn’t seems to phase, “You saw how good they are this week. Anything, I’ll even be your fucking scapegoat. But, there are good people out there.”

“ Anything ?” he cocks an eyebrow, as you scowl. Rich people were truly disgusting.

“I mean, not anything . I’m not looking for 50 shades of Gray here, Mr. Baizen,” you try to save yourself by being polite in the end, but his shaking head just shows that he caught the underlying disgust in your voice. However, he chooses to ignore it.

“Well, you’re not Dakota Johnson,” he states and for a moment you want to laugh at his weak rebuttal.  

“I don’t think brunettes are your type, if I recall correctly,“ you answer back as he glares at you, but all you do is shrug -- I mean who doesn’t read a tell-all when it had a the juiciest gossip about NYC, at least that’s how you remember it being promoted. Rocio is the one that really told you everything, she was a talkative drunk, after all.

“Well then, I’ll keep up my end of this bargain,” Carter concedes, almost too quickly, “And you keep yours.”

“Understood, Mr. Baizen,” is all you say before trying around and that’s when everything starts to get dizzy once more, as your fever sneaks up to you with the fear you have been ignoring as well. Carter Baizen could be one scary person if he wanted to be , are your last thoughts as you let out half a curse before blacking out completely. You never hear the rushing footsteps coming towards you.  

Friday Morning.

You wake up in your apartment mid afternoon with Monsieur meowing at your side. You feel awful with your throat clogged up and your eyes barely able to open. It was like you crashed into a monster truck only to get thrown into a brick wall. However, by muscle memory, the first thing you do is check your phone -- a little scared of wondering how you exactly you got here since the last thing you remember is talking to one Carter Baizen, who might be the one that had messaged you a couple of hours ago.

To show you that I am a nice guy, take all of next week off. You look awful, Stats.  But, the following Monday starts your new workload -- CB.

“Oh, Mon. What did I get myself into?” you groan before throwing your phone into the abyss that was your room as Monsieur keeps meowing for your attention.

Part 4

[bbbb-barnes]

Look After You - Bucky Barnes X Reader [2]

 A/N OKAY HI!! (I’m Elle by the way) Quick one just to let you know this is my secondary blog, im pretty new to Tumblr not sure how it works tbh but you can reach me here orrrr @jbbtraash with is my primary but ill keep the fic coming on this account. If you like this please let me know I love feedback and would love to get to know some of you so thank you if you’ve reacted to the first chapter it means the world!! This fic is a slow burn but will be introducing some of your favourite avengers characters in the next chapt so hold tight.

Summery; Bucky Barnes discovers his sister is still alive and finds comfort in the endearing nurse that cares for his dying sibling 

Chapter 1 

Warnings; mention of dementia (??) angst, crying 

Word count; 1770 

The harrowing feeling of looking around for help in an overwhelming situation only to realise YOU are the person who is supposed to know what to do is truly terrifying. The woman was 86 years old and had stage 3 Dementia and was hysterical because she thought, no she was adamant a highly trained assassin that had recently obliterated the United Nations building was her brother that had died in 1943. As utterly absurd as it all sounded, something deep down wanted you to believe this woman and as you looked into her eyes, filled with utter confusion, pure shock and probably the scariest shimmer of hope, one you had never seen before as she begged you to help her find him, begged you to help her bring her Bucky home, finally.

 That was a month ago, one whole month. You promised to Rebecca you would help her, you didn’t know why seen as all your professional training has steered you away from humouring the seemingly crazy ideals dementia patients got into their heads. You could lose your damn job, she told you not to tell her children as it would only worry them, and you knew better than to tell your supervisors at work. You were trying to be coy, you didn’t let on to Becca you were helping just as much as you were because that really would get her hopes up, however you had found yourself getting progressively more and more invested in this mystery as certain things began to unravel. Thankfully day to day didn’t change, you still did your due diligence to care for this woman day in and day out. These days she just asked more about him which made you cringe and try to answer as diplomatically as possible. Truth be told Rebecca’s mental state was rapidly deteriorating and you were quickly searching for an answer before she ran out of time. One thing was for sure, that man was Bucky Barnes. The news report even released his name James Buchanan Barnes and comparing the grainy CCTV photograph to the watermarked, old photograph of Bucky Rebecca kept in a frame by her bed proved it clear as day, it was the same person.

“Okay Rebecca, that’s me finished for today do you need anything before I head home?” I asked softly popping my head around her bedroom door. She was bundled up in the blankets I had thrown over her just 10 minutes previous in an attempt to protect her from the freezing cold November air that you just could not seem to escape from. Her bedroom light was off and the garish room, filled with pink frills, even more pictures and a rather large, obnoxious vanity was lit dimly by the pink bedside lamp. The old lady grasped an old book between her weathered hands and smiled vacantly up at you.

“Oh, Mother, come here please, read for me?” Her voice, much like her eyes, was distant and pleading, imitating that of a small child you sighed sadly before stepping into the light of the room, rounding the small space in a few steps and sitting by her on the rosy pink bedspread, this was not uncommon anymore and it was almost always at night time. It always surprised you however, that she couldn’t remember what she did 10 minutes ago but her she recalled her childhood with crystal clarity even reverting back to that same, scared child sometimes when the darkness hit…

“Rebecca, It’s me. Y/N I am your nurse.” You spoke firmly and clearly to her your voice holding familiarity that you hoped she would notice and clutching her cold hands. You looked deep into her eyes, willing her to come back to you.

“Mama, where are we? shouldn’t we get to the shelter the telegram said there’s another one due tonight” her distant voice more panicked now, her head whipped around the room, her face etched with confusion and worry, and you could just tell by her eyes, she wasn’t here right now. She started scrambling at the various blankets that caged her in attempting to get up, her movements jerky and urgent. You stayed calm, you always had to stay calm. You placed your hands softly and slowly on her shoulders, guiding her back towards the bed. She looked utterly lost and it broke your heart.

“Rebecca Barnes. You are safe. I am here with you, I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll look after you” you repeated those words over and over until your voice didn’t sound like your own and the words didn’t sound real anymore tucking her back in to bed, tenderly smoothing down her soft hair. Calm tone of voice. Repetitive actions. Soothing nature.

 You left the house one hour and forty minutes later than usual however if it was up to you, you wouldn’t have left at all. You hated leaving her especially these days when she was becoming a danger to herself but ‘company policy’. You huffed and pulled your large coat tighter around your frame, loose tendrils of hair dancing around your face in the bitter wind, you hurried down the badly lit road and felt relief flood your senses as you quickly rounded on to a lighter and busier street with people whisking past you, arms full of shopping bags and you made a mental note to start Christmas shopping soon. It was 9:30pm but consumerism stops for no man and the multiple store fronts that littered the long road twinkled and gleamed with the achingly bright Christmas lights. You slowed your brisk walk down to a stroll and allowed yourself to take in the festive atmosphere, you reached the end of the street and stood idly by the bus stop allowing yourself a moment to just breathe, you closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the metal pole of the bus stop for a few golden, silent minutes, you shivered as a vivacious gust of wind and an obnoxious squealing of tires signalled the arrival of the bus and you jumped back up again thankful for the opportunity for some slight warmth.

 The bus home was uneventful and boring, and you jumped off at your stop, ecstatic to be so close to a shower, some food and your bed. You almost sprinted the block that separates the bus stop and your apartment block, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum of the stairs as you took two at a time because the elevator was broken again. Three floors up and you arrived at your destination unlocking the door with freezing and fumbling fingers you almost threw yourself inside emitting a loud sigh as you did so your back pressed against the front door. Finally. It wasn’t much, but it was home, the apartment had a shared kitchen and living area and was all open plan, one door led off to your bedroom which was cosy to say the least and another door adjacent to your bedroom housed a big bathroom. You had filled the place with blankets, cushions, candles, fairy-lights and pretty much anything and everything to make the place homelier.

 “Rufus” You called out in a sickly sweet baby voice, crouching down and squinting around the large room and on command your very large and very fluffy ginger rag-doll cat Rufus came slinking out from under one of the many throw cushions positioned on the sofa, he plodded his way over to you and purred at all the attention you were giving him.

 An hour later, you were showered, fed and warm. You had Rufus cuddled up to your side and a movie you weren’t paying attention to playing on the TV. Your mind was in overdrive as it had been non-stop for the past month, chewing on your lip you pulled your laptop towards you opening it up to the last web page you had visited.

“Captain America and the notorious Winter Soldier fought side by side in elite World War Two special unit ‘The Howling Commandos’ sources say the pair share the same ‘Super Solider Serum’ famously injected into Mr Steven Rogers”

You had done the reading, you had done the research, this had been your night time routine for a whole month. Your eyes fell on the tatted black notebook that lay carelessly strewn on the coffee table in that book was everything you knew about James Buchanan Barnes, from when he was born, to when he ‘died’, leaked files from his years as a HYDRA agent, Captain America’s best friend and now taking up camp in the shiny new avenger building in New York. Rufus let out a soft meow beside you.

 “Yeah, I know buddy, I’m going insane” you sighed, scratching behind his ears.

 Your eyes drifted to the window and instantly fell on the distant, ostentatious silver building that was ‘Avengers HQ’ you raked a hand through your hair in frustration, if you knew one thing for sure it was that you needed to talk to Steve Rogers, he would know what to do however, you knew getting hold of Captain America wouldn’t be easy but it was proving to be frankly impossible. You had tried everything, you called and he didn’t take phone calls, apparently he doesn’t take meetings with random strangers, certainly doesn’t answer his emails (though you’re not sure if he even knows what an email is), you even turned up, at the tower and demanded to see him but you just got escorted away by security in the front lobby. So technically they had led you, forced you into this, you stared nervously at the white name badge you had placed neatly on the coffee table by the notebook. You had booked a day off work and somehow convinced Tony Stark’s administrative team you were an interested investor looking for a stake in Stark Industries, and it had taken a month to be invited to group guided tour of the tower to assess assets and talk numbers. All you needed to do was break away from the group, find Captain America convince him to help you find your dying patients brother, who happened to be his best friend, who happened to be a brain washed assassin, in a place full of high tech security and enhanced individuals. You groaned and threw your head back against the sofa your stomach turning with the nerves and your head swirling with all the possible things that could go wrong as you fingers massaged your temples.

You clambered into bed and set your alarm for 7:30am you let your head sink back into the fluffy pillows and shut your eyes in a feeble attempt to try and get some sleep. Tomorrow was going to be an eventful day.

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@mizz-kraziii

[qqueenofhades]

the tangled web of fate we weave: xii

HAPPY GARCY SUNDAY, Y’ALL. I wasn’t sure whether to post this before the episode, since it’ll probably get buried, but @extasiswings and @prairiepirate wanted it and I love to make them happy. So. Here we are.

part xi/AO3.

February 10, 2012

Lucy turns over a glossy proof for the book cover, then another one, trying to tell if there’s much discernible difference (maybe the title typeface is a few points bigger on the first one, and the photo of Lincoln is a little smaller?) or if there is any way she still needs to be here at 10:55 pm on Friday night to sort it out. The answer to that latter question is no, she doesn’t really need to be, but it’s been the week from hell and she hasn’t had much other time to do it. She sent the final line edits and galley proof back on Wednesday, she has the midterm to write for two classes, and there’s a Historian’s Craft workshop that she naïvely volunteered to help with back in December, after someone sent out a panicked email and of course she felt obliged to step in. When you are not quite two years into the job, and are still the lowest in the faculty pecking order, you get stuck with these kinds of things.

Where was she? Right. Book covers. Lucy stares back and forth between them again. It’s not like this has any chance of ending up on the NYT bestseller list, though she’s sure that the University of Chicago Press will appreciate her attention to detail for the hundred copies ordered for other academic libraries. She’s worked hard on the book, though, and she’s proud of it. “Publish or perish” is absolutely a real thing, and she’s had her journal articles, a few chapters in edited volumes, and papers from conference proceedings, but a monograph is different. Good, solid, quantifiable work. She turned twenty-nine a month ago, and here it is. Already has a permanent position at Stanford. Things worked out.

(Things worked out.)

Lucy reaches out to adjust her book lamp and take a dutiful inventory of them both. Spines look the same. Her picture on the back cover is not completely hideous (a shallow thing to be concerned about, perhaps, but there you have it). You don’t really have admiring quotes on academic books the way you do on popular press ones, but whoever has written the blurb for the back cover has made her sound decently appealing. Eeney-meeny-miney-mo?

After a pause, Lucy decides that she’ll just close her eyes and point, and then she will get her things together and go home. It is, after all, Friday night. Noah will be working late, because he does on Fridays, but she can run a bubble bath and maybe drink a glass of wine in the tub. Start that new novel she’s been meaning to. She’s been meaning to. Been meaning a lot.

Lucy closes her eyes, and points at the covers.

She opens her eyes, looks at the winner, decides she likes the other one better, and then wonders if she really does, or she’s just being contrary. What the hell. Not now. It is in fact eleven o’clock, and she wants to go home. She picks up her purse and keys, shrugs on her jacket and throws her scarf around her neck, then steps out of her office and locks it, admiring the “Dr. Lucy Preston” nameplate, as she does every time it catches her eye. It’s supposed to be nice weather this weekend. She’ll see what Amy is up to, maybe. Call Mom. The last doctor’s report came back encouragingly; Carol’s cancer seems to be in remission after the first major round of treatment. She’s been feeling incredibly crappy, since chemo does that to you, but the prognosis, for now, is moderately decent.

Lucy takes the elevator down and steps out into the dark campus, heading for the faculty parking lot. As she always does when she comes out late, she dutifully looks both ways, keeps her keys at hand, and takes an extra look, just in case. Both for the possibility of any muggers – and, well. Just in case he feels like coming back.

(Lucy doesn’t know that she’s proud of getting back together with Noah, exactly. But he is a grownup with a real job, he knows how to be in a relationship, he did still have a torch for her and was willing to give things another try, and if she’s just tired of being alone and wants to have someone in the house when she comes home, that’s not something to be judged for. It’s fine. It’s always been fine. Noah is a caring and attentive partner and has been supportive of her coming down the stretch with the book, given her space when she acts weird, done his best to help her how she needs. It’s comfortable and it’s familiar and it could be much worse. She has nothing to apologize for, to herself or anyone.)

Lucy reaches her car and unlocks it, swinging behind the wheel and turning on the heater; it’s February, it’s still plenty chilly, especially late at night, and she has a Californian’s innate horror of temperatures below fifty degrees Fahrenheit. At least rekindling things with Noah means that she got to move in with him, after six months of living at home again with her mom. It wasn’t bad, she reminds herself. She is glad that she was able to be there for Carol while she was going through the first, worst stages of treatment. But now that the cancer is in remission and the book is done, now is the time to finally, finally ask her mother about Benjamin Cahill. Lucy has been sitting on this secret for two years, weighing heavily on her heart and mind and soul, and held her tongue because she didn’t want to make things worse. But now, now she is going to do it. She hasn’t seen anyone from Rittenhouse, or at least that she knows is from Rittenhouse, since all that shit went down. Hasn’t seen Emma, or Cahill himself, or anyone. It makes her wonder if Flynn did something, made a big enough mess elsewhere that all their attention got pulled off her, or someone issued orders that she was to be left in peace. Why or how, Lucy has no notion. She has been content to pretend those two months in 2010 did not, for the most part, exist. It hurts her too much when she lets them live.

Once the car is decently warm, Lucy pulls out and heads home. Noah finished his residency at Santa Rosa and is at a hospital in Oakland now, but they still live this side of the Bay Bridge. It’s a decent rental townhouse, just achievable with their combined professional salaries (well, Noah’s professional salary – Lucy doesn’t exactly make bank). They’ve been back together for about a year now, and it’s clear that most people feel another proposal is in the offing before long. It’s also clear that if Lucy turns it down a second time, well, that’s a sign that this isn’t the guy to spend her life with, or at least that she wants to. But she hasn’t met anyone else in the real world – in this world, here, now, possibly – that she can actually see herself with, or that is available. Noah might be all there is. It isn’t the case, fish in the sea and all that, but when would she have time to date, throw herself out there for a new relationship? She has a strong introvert streak and the idea is not appealing. No need to mess this up, when Noah is – after all – fine. And yet. She still hopes he doesn’t propose.

There is a light on in the window when Lucy pulls in, and Noah’s car is parked on the driveway, which is surprising. She didn’t think he would be home yet. Maybe they actually had a quiet night at the hospital and let him off rotation early, though that almost never happens. He’ll probably be tired, though, so maybe she can still proceed to the bath-and-wine part of the evening. Or, since it’s late, just hit the hay and go do something tomorrow.

Lucy gets out, locks the car, and heads up the walk, pushing the door open. “Hey, I’m home!”

“In here.” Noah’s voice comes from the living room, sounding… odd. Lucy frowns, suddenly worried. “Can you come in, please?”

“What’s going on?” Lucy shucks her work heels and blazer, hangs her purse on the coat tree, and walks into the living room, where Noah is sitting on the couch with the face he has on when delivering bad news to patients’ families. Oh God, this isn’t about Mom, is it? Noah isn’t her doctor, and there would have to be some major breach of medical ethics for him to have seen her files, but Carol loves Noah and is usually talking to him about this anyway, things she’s seen on the internet, the efficacy of new treatments, one name-brand drug vs. the other, etc. Lucy feels that if her mother wants to use her boyfriend as a free source of information and expertise, she should pay him for it like everyone else would when accessing a professional service, but Noah feels awkward asking, and everyone is sensitive to Carol’s illness, wants to help, make it easier. Seems crass to bring up money for family, after all.

“Hey,” Lucy says tentatively. “I – didn’t realize you were going to be home. What’s going on?”

“I switched shifts,” Noah says. “I took the one on Sunday that nobody wants, so I could come home early and clean and cook dinner and treat you for finishing your book. Anyway, I was doing that, and while I was, I found this in the closet.” He points at the coffee table. “Along with a couple boxes of bullets. You can guess I was pretty surprised.”

Lucy’s stomach flips. It’s the gun that Flynn bought her two years ago, zipped in its case, but in a way that makes it clear Noah opened it and saw what it was. She hasn’t kept up religiously, but she’s still gone to a range every few months, and while she is not a Navy SEAL, she’s not a total joke. This, obviously, has been a private weekend activity that she hasn’t really felt the need to share with anyone else, not even Amy. Maybe Emma went to London like she wanted and Rittenhouse has moved on to bigger and better things than one history professor, but Lucy has never had the luxury of being sure. This, however…

“So,” Noah says, when the silence has gotten painful. “You wanna tell me why you own a gun and have apparently been using it, and haven’t told me about this?”

Lucy winces. “It was just… it’s just been something I’ve been doing on the side.”

“On the side, okay.” Noah looks up at the ceiling. “You know how I feel about this, Lucy. I’m in Oakland, half the cases that come through the ER are kids who’ve gotten shot up, seventeen-year-old gangbangers with three holes in them, or Mr. Fragile Masculinity brought a gun to his workplace because a woman turned him down for a date and boom, six people are dead. I spend five hours trying to save them and still lose them, and I really – ” He pauses, composes himself, and breathes deeply. “I really do not want one in my house.”

Lucy cannot blame him for this at all, given it was how she felt until two years ago. Even more, she can’t really explain how and why she got it in the first place without venturing into deeply perilous territory. “You know,” she says weakly. “Self-defense. Just in case something ever happened, we might – ”

“You work at Stanford University. This is as nice and boring a middle-class neighborhood as they come. If there was a break-in, the cops would be here in five minutes or less.” Noah is clearly trying very hard to keep his tone calm, but the rough edges of anger keep breaking through. “How long have you had this?”

“For a…” Lucy hesitates. “Remember when I turned up at Santa Rosa on that… that really weird weekend, with the… the guy who was shot, and… all that?”

“When you wanted to be called Anna Thompkins and pretend you were his wife?” Noah’s lips tighten. They might be back together, but it is clear that he does not need reminding. “What, was it – did he get it for you?”

“Yes,” Lucy says. “There was a lot of stuff happening. It was a very bizarre few months. I… had reason to think my life might be in danger at a few points, and Fl… he thought it was a good idea if I… if I knew how to use one.”

Noah looks at her even more strangely. “You’ve never mentioned this.”

“I… I know.” Lucy looks down at her hands. “But it was a year before we got back together, and it stopped, and… I just didn’t think it was important.”

“But your last visit to the range was…” Noah pulls a crumpled receipt out of the bullet box and checks it. “December 16, 2011. So just a couple months ago, you still thought it might be important, and it still didn’t feel like something you might share with me?”

“I’m…” Lucy has no excuse. “I guess I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

“We’re together, Lucy! We live together, here, in the same house! If someone might be coming after you, the odds are good they would also be coming after me!” Noah’s cheeks go blotchy red. “Besides, I obviously want you to talk to me if you feel scared, if you think things aren’t right, if there is something I can help you with! I love you, Lucy, it’s not a bother to deal with serious, major situations that are making you feel so unsafe as to buy a damn gun! I just – ” He catches himself again, modulating his tone. “I thought we were working on these things this time around. Second chance, fresh start.”

“We – we were. I mean, we are.” Lucy knits her fingers more tightly. “Noah, believe me, I wish I could explain, but – ”

“You wish you could explain. Maybe, I don’t know, just actually explain? That guy, John Thompkins or whatever he said his name was – you said he was the one who saved your life in that car accident when you were in college, but never anything else about who he was or why he got shot. Those the same people you think might be shooting at you?”

“I… would imagine so,” Lucy says, after a long moment. “Probably. Yes.”

“Jesus Christ.” Noah racks his fingers down his face. “And one small woman with a handgun is going to stop those kinds of people, is she?”

“It’s better than not having it.”

“As long as they only attacked you at home? Or have you been bringing it when you go out too?”

“I – no, I’ve just been going to the range every few months or so.”

“Right. Okay.” Noah clearly can’t decide whether be relieved or even angrier. “Have you seen John Thompkins recently?”

“No.” Lucy can’t quite keep the hollowness out of her tone. “I don’t think I will. The last time, we… he made it clear he was… not planning on coming back.”

Noah glances at her sidelong. Then he says, “Well. Honestly, he seemed like bad news. I know he saved your life a couple times, but maybe it isn’t coincidence that he’s disappeared and the scary shit stopped. You think?”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Lucy agrees. “And if you’re going to ask, no. I have literally no idea where he is. It could be anywhere.” Anywhen?

“Okay.” Noah blows out another breath. “Look, I don’t want to be outrageous about this, but you were the one who hid a gun in the house and thought we might be attacked and didn’t say anything to me about it, I feel like I have at least a leg to stand on. I really do not want it here. I’m not saying you have to get rid of it altogether, but like – take it to your mom’s and stick it in the attic or something. Somewhere like that. Can that be the compromise, Lucy? Please?”

Lucy hesitates. This is, again, an entirely reasonable offer – completely in character, things with Noah are never bad, they are always fine. This has been a shock and he’s rightfully angry, but he’s trying to work through it and be reasonable. “Okay. I’ve been meaning to talk to her anyway. The – the first round of chemo is finally done, and she’s – she’s in remission.”

“That’s great to hear.” Noah stands up. “I’m sorry I didn’t get around to making your dinner. We’ll reschedule. I think I’m just going to take a shower and go to bed. Night, Lucy.”

“Night,” Lucy echoes, turning her face up so he can peck her quickly on the cheek. Once he’s gone upstairs and she hears the water start running, she sags back on the couch and feels as if that went a lot worse than, strictly speaking, it did. As well, she hasn’t so much as spoken Flynn’s name aloud since the last time she saw him. They drove to Columbus, discovered that it would be cheaper and nonstop to fly from Cincinnati instead, and got most of the way there before the RV finally and spectacularly gave up the ghost. Had to hitchhike the last thirty miles to the airport, but were finally picked up by a kindly trucker, while Flynn sat glaring with his hand on his gun inside his jacket the whole time. Lucy was afraid that someone would sneeze and set off a bullet hailstorm, but they made it. Flew back to San Francisco and stood in the terminal awkwardly, since it was clear that Flynn wasn’t staying here, but wanted to wait until she left before getting onto his next flight. She was going back to her life, and he was leaving his altogether.

(“Goodbye, Lucy,” and a handshake. A handshake. He walked her out to arrivals, then as she was standing on the curb waiting for a bus into downtown, she looked over her shoulder for him one more time, and he had vanished in the crowd.)

Lucy rubs both hands over her face, trying to feel better, which doesn’t work. She knows why Noah was angry, as he had every right to be, but what’s making it worse is the fact that she doesn’t know if she should in fact have gotten rid of the gun months ago. She has no clue what’s happening with Rittenhouse or Flynn or the fucking time machine or any of the utterly bizarre shit that dominated her life for those few months in 2010. Noah is right that maybe Flynn’s disappearance and the world going back to normal are correlated, and Lucy should be grateful for that. To some degree, she is. But why, why is she still half-expecting, half-hoping to see Flynn waiting for her when she leaves campus late? Reappear out of the blue with some miraculous plan to defeat Rittenhouse and return the world to normal? But if it is… or is this just another illusion, another thin veneer of safety, to be shattered in turn? She doesn’t know. She has no idea. For someone like Lucy, that’s her worst nightmare.

At last, Lucy gets up, goes upstairs, and feels like Noah might not be altogether interested in sharing a bed with her tonight. So she goes into the guest room and pulls out the futon, piles on some pillows and quilts from the closet, and crawls in, burying herself like a mole. Tomorrow. She’ll go by Mom’s tomorrow and finally get some answers. Drop off the gun (but maybe Carol doesn’t need to know exactly what it is either). Sort this out.

Lucy dozes off eventually, has weird dreams, and wakes up late the next morning. When she shuffles downstairs, Noah is gone, but he has left a plate of blueberry pancakes as an apparent peace offering, and Lucy is not too proud to eat them with butter and syrup. Then she showers, gets dressed in her flannels and sweats since it’s Saturday and she looks nice the rest of the time, and carefully packs the gun and ammo in a box with lots of other newspapers and knickknacks and other stuff she’s been meaning to clear out. There. Nothing suspicious. She loads it into the car, pulls on her sunglasses, and heads out.

Twenty-odd minutes later, Lucy turns into her mom’s driveway, parks, and gets out with the box. Trundles up the walk, running over her script in her head one more time – how to bring this all up in a gentle but firm way, and not be sidetracked again. Her mom can be good at doing that. But this is a good time to clear the air, she won’t get a better chance. She just has to… do it.

Lucy shifts the box onto her hip, and knocks.

After a pause, she hears footsteps, the deadbolt chain unlocks, and her mom, wearing a bathrobe and a flowery beanie, opens the door. Her hair is just starting to grow back in after the first round of chemo, and Carol, a woman who is always impeccably put together, is self-conscious; she wears a wig in public, and a variety of fashionable hats otherwise. She still looks thin, but better, and smiles warmly. “Lucy. What a surprise.”

“Hi, Mom.” Lucy takes a better grip on the box. “We – well, Noah was doing a little spring cleaning, and there’s just some stuff that we don’t really have room for. Can I possibly pop this in the attic? Then we can have some coffee and talk.”

“Of course.” Carol opens the door and steps back to invite her. “How’s the book going?”

“I just finished it. Picked the cover, I can show you. It’s in my purse.” Lucy shuffles in, hauls the box up the stairs, and up the creaky, dusty, fold-out ladder that leads to the attic. She puts it down with a clunk, feeling better that she has done as Noah wanted, and worse that the gun is now out of her house and out of easy reach if, God forbid, she did need it. Maybe she can sneak back here and pick it up again anyway. There has to be somewhere else in the house that Noah won’t find it. Or just –

“Lucy? What are you doing up there?”

She jumps. “Coming, Mom.”

With that, she puts a crate of Christmas decorations and a blanket on top of the box, feeling like Harry hiding the Horcrux in the Room of Requirement, then climbs back down the ladder, brushing the dust off. She follows Carol down to the sunny kitchen, where they sit down. She waves off the offer of tea, since she’s just had breakfast, goes in circles with some small talk about the book and how the classes are going, then finally tells herself that it is now or never. “So, Mom. I was… hoping we could talk.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” Carol asks. “You’ve been so busy, but – ”

“Yes, of course. I just meant.” Lucy steels herself. “About Benjamin Cahill.”

There is a long and very nasty pause. Her mother goes somewhat pale (or at least, paler). Her thin fingers tap out a rhythm on the tabletop, stop, then tap again. Finally she says, rather too levelly, “Where did you hear about Benjamin?”

“I met him. Actually. A while ago. He told me.” Lucy looks her mother straight in the eye. “Who he is. Is there any reason for him to be lying about it?”

“He… no.” Carol looks crumpled. “He’s… he is your biological father. But Lucy… the situation was difficult, I was young, I know you may be angry at me, but try to see it from my point of view. Henry was a wonderful father to you and Amy, there was never any need to – ”

“Dad was.” Lucy’s throat feels rather thick, as if she can’t call him that without qualification any more, but Henry Wallace is the only man in her life who remotely earned the title, and he gets to keep it. “Dad was great. But don’t you think that I might have needed to know this at some point? If nothing else, for medical histories and whatever, if not for the fact that I had a father that neither of you ever thought it was important for me to know?” Having met Cahill herself, she understands, but maybe he wasn’t always like that.

Carol raises a hand. “Lucy – how did – when did you learn this?”

Lucy isn’t sure if the truth is better or worse in this instance, but she doesn’t feel like it’s the moment for more lies. “Two years ago. He came by Stanford. He was very interested in recruiting me into – some society of his.”

“Some society?” Carol looks puzzled. “What was that?”

“Never mind. It was… it was all a little strange. I thought that might be why you had put distance between us, why you… why you never told me about him.”

“Lucy, you’ve known about this for two years, and you haven’t told me about it?”

“You knew and didn’t tell me for twenty-nine years of my life, so.” Lucy looks at her mother evenly. “I think I still have some catching up to do.”

“That’s not fair, sweetheart. I’ve been sick, I’ve – ”

“Yes, you have, and I’ve been worried about you. I moved home for several months, I spent the week after I graduated going with you to doctor’s appointments, I didn’t say anything until we got the news that you were in remission because I didn’t want to add to your stress. I’ve waited, I’ve been patient. And you weren’t sick before. You could have told me before.”

“You sound very hostile right now.” Carol surveys her daughter with a frown. “Lucy, if there’s all this anger, it can’t be healthy that you’ve just let it build up. You know you could try to – ”

“It’s my fault that I’m upset about you lying about my father?” Lucy gets half to her feet with a clatter. “You can’t even let me have this without telling me how to do it better?”

“Sweetheart, that is not what I meant. Sit back down, please. Let’s talk about this like grownups. I don’t know how much Benjamin told you, but – ”

“It sounded creepy, frankly.” Lucy hesitates, but sits. “He says that he was a visiting professor at Stanford and you were in his class. Please tell me that is not when you… slept together.” No one wants to think about their parents’ sex life, period, but still. She needs to know that that at least is not the case, though it won’t be any less squicky.

“It was after,” Carol says. “It was just a brief thing. He was in another relationship, and for various reasons, we agreed that it was best to continue on our separate ways. He did send some money, sometime. It was all very discreet and professional.”

Discreet and professional. Just the words you want to hear about your parents getting together, after – by the sound of things – Benjamin Cahill cheated on his girlfriend/wife with a pretty young student, knocked her up, then vamoosed. Lucy’s mouth tastes sour, as if the more she learns about this, the more horrifying it gets. “And you were okay with that?”

“Look.” Carol puts her hand over Lucy’s. “It was a long time ago. I’ve made my peace with it. Do you want to know the best thing about Benjamin Cahill? He gave me you.”

Lucy opens her mouth, then shuts it. She looks down at their fingers, the sunlight pooling on the table. Doesn’t want to ask this next question, but still. Finally she says, very carefully, “Did he ever mention anything called Rittenhouse?”

“Rittenhouse? That’s an odd name. What was it supposed to be?”

“Some… weird secret society. He’s very into it. Some – well, some stuff happened around when you were first diagnosed, and… like I said, I thought that was why you decided it was better not for me to know him.”

“He may have mentioned it in passing, I don’t remember.” Carol shakes her head. “The Cahills were a wealthy family, well-connected – his father was an aide in the White House, I do remember that. Eisenhower administration. They had all kinds of political and philanthropic projects. I can’t be sure of them. Why?”

“I just… I met a few of their people, around the same time I met him. They’re very… intense.” Lucy tries to think how to phrase this without worrying her mother. “I – I used to know someone who wanted to look into them, and I just thought…”

Carol’s eyes sharpen. “I’m sorry, you knew who?”

“Just… a guy.” Not that she would do a damn bit of good with the information. It’s not like she’s going to randomly run into Flynn in the Starbucks line. “But if you remembered anything useful, then I just – ”

“Whatever it is,” Carol says with great finality, “it’s his business, Lucy, and it does sound like it’s better to stay away from it, so I think you should. But I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned this friend of yours who wanted to look into a Rittenhouse.”

“It was a while ago. We’re… not in contact anymore.”

Carol glances at her. Then, seemingly as a non sequitur but Lucy can tell that it’s not, she says, “So how are things with Noah?”

“Things with Noah are fine.” Lucy isn’t sure she’s ever given another answer to that question in her life. “He – was going to cook me dinner at some point to celebrate the book getting done. You know we’re both busy, it’s just whenever we can – ”

“Well,” Carol says. “Now that you’ve been back together for a year, you’ve moved in together, have you given any more thought to what a next step might look like? Noah did ask me the other day if you had any more thoughts about… you know. A proposal.”

“What?” Lucy feels a sudden urge to get up and walk out of the house. “He was asking you if we should get engaged?”

“Not necessarily. But he did want to know if you had changed your mind on that at all.”

“I…” Whatever Noah was asking about, Lucy isn’t sure he still thinks the same after the gun reveal, which is almost a perverse relief. “Look, what we have is – it works, all right? It doesn’t need to change or have labels or – you know, any of that. It doesn’t need to be messed up.”

Carol’s brow furrows. “Messed up is a strange way to describe marrying the man you love, Lucy. You do love him, don’t you?”

“Y – yeah, of course.” Lucy glances at the clock. “You two are apparently still friends, so… that’s great. Hey, how about I get my cover proofs? I can show you those.”

Carol eyes her, but deigns to accept the change of subject. Lucy fetches the covers from her purse, Carol thinks she should have chosen the other one, and corrects a split infinitive on the back cover copy. Then finally, Lucy kisses her on the cheek, tells her that she’s happy to see her doing better, and heads out.

It’s a nice day, and she goes out to sit at a coffee shop, hoping that nobody she’s supposed to impress will see her slumming it like a student in her sweatpants. (Professors are human too, you know.) But even though she’s finally gotten a few answers, nothing feels as if it has fallen magically into place. Benjamin Cahill was a skeezeball, her mother doesn’t know anything about Rittenhouse, Noah was kicking around the idea of proposing or at least before he discovered a gun in her shoebox, and Carol’s last question is what Lucy is going to start on next, now that she’s finished the Lincoln book. Nothing exactly earth-shaking. Lucy has clung tenaciously to this life, has insisted on going back and burrowing into it as a defense mechanism, and of course, of course she loves it. But she isn’t sure she likes it any more.

(She wishes – she wishes – that she could just see Flynn again. Know where he’s been. What he’s doing. If he’s even still alive. Rittenhouse could have shot him and dumped him in a shallow grave, and she would never, never know.)

But she’s not going to. She can’t keep hoping, waiting for a man who has, yet again, become all but a ghost, and she didn’t. Moved on with her life, in all senses of the word. Yet if Lucy’s honest, she knows there is a part of her that doesn’t want to accept any possible proposal from Noah, because she doesn’t want Flynn to turn up two days afterward and explain that he has some grand plan to finally defeat Rittenhouse, and she should once more leave her entire life and come with him to do that. It wouldn’t be fair. To Noah.

(That’s what she’s going with. Unfair to Noah.)

And yet. It doesn’t matter. Because it feels, at last, as if Garcia Flynn is finally and truly gone, and the only real way to describe that is heartbreak.

It’s Saturday night, February the eleventh, and Wyatt and Jessica Logan are fighting.

They have in fact been fighting almost non-stop recently, and took a break from fighting at home to go to a bar, which has just resulted in them fighting in public. They’re keeping their voices down, they’re not making a scene, mostly just hissing at each other over their beer and smiling unconvincingly at anyone who might glance over. The idea was that they would get a change of scenery and talk about this over drinks, but that does not appear to be happening. After the whole San Francisco fiasco, Wyatt went home, apologized a lot, and promised they were turning over a new leaf. Then three weeks later he took a months-long assignment tracking two major cocaine cartels from Colombia, one of the most dangerous jobs he’s ever had (and that’s saying a lot). With his previous exploits and Spanish-language ability, he was pretty damn good at it, but he’s still obviously an American gringo, and he came home with yet more damage. Had nightmares. Won’t go see a shrink. Jessica says he’s deliberately stonewalling her, burning them down, and she is at her fucking wit’s end.

(He’s not, he’s not – not on purpose, he’s not, he’s not. Pendleton disagreed with this assessment and put him on leave, but it didn’t help. Wyatt was antsy, unpleasant, itchy, needed to go out, needed to get back to the war – any war, really. It gives him form and definition and purpose, and he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, what is so deeply fucked up inside him that he wants it more than to rest at home with a woman who loves him.)

Jessica says it’s pretty obvious he either can’t or doesn’t want to change, that she loves him but isn’t sure how much longer she can stand living with him. They have met with a marriage counselor a few times, but Wyatt hates doctors and he isn’t sure how this is supposed to help them. He knows what’s wrong – that he’s chronically uncommunicative, hot-tempered, difficult, drinks a lot, and is prone to vanishing for months on highly dangerous classified missions – but that then implies there is any way for it to stop. Wyatt has tried, he’s tried over and over. He loves Jess and wants it to work as much as she does. He’s tried eating the rabbit food that Californians love so much, he took pills for a while but they fucked up his reflexes, he’s even given the whole Kumbaya cleansing thoughts and scented candles a whirl. None of it works. He’s still stuck in his head, looking at himself being this person, and he hates it so much he sometimes thinks that if he just switched off tomorrow and did not reactivate for five years, he wouldn’t mind. Wipe the mainframe and perform a complete reinstall/reboot.

Jessica says that fad diet and happy thoughts aren’t going to help serious, pervasive long-term depression and PTSD – it’s clinical, it’s a disease, why won’t he just see a doctor. Wyatt snaps back that clearly everything is his fault in this relationship. Jessica is less able to keep her voice down as she points out that she didn’t say that, and he doesn’t keep his down at all as he fires back that she was definitely thinking it. Heads turn. A hush falls over the room.

Wyatt’s face burns. He gets to his feet and pulls $10 out of his pocket, palms it down on the counter. “Keep the change,” he says. “Jess. Let’s go.”

Jessica pauses, then icily swings her purse to her shoulder and stalks after him, as Wyatt can feel the eyes of everyone in the bar following them. They are obviously wondering if this is the kind of situation where they should have spoken up and done something, but nobody moves to openly interfere. They walk stiffly into the parking lot and get into the car.

Wyatt is hoping the argument can wait until they get home, but Jessica says she just wants to know what’s wrong with him, and Wyatt – perhaps since this is the one question he has no answer to, is so terrified about – can feel himself snap. He slams on the brakes and shouts that fine, if she thinks he’s so terrible, she doesn’t need to stay close to him for a second longer. Get out. Door’s right there. It’s not that far home. Nice night. She can fucking walk.

Jessica stares at him for the longest, most nauseous moment in the world, white to the lips. Then she nods once, rips her seatbelt off, and practically kicks the door open. Steps out – Wyatt catches a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror, glowing demonic red in the hue of the brake lights – and stands there, waiting for him to pull away, until he does. The tires scrape and squeal. He’s not drunk, but he’s possibly had more than he should to be driving. It’s not far. It’s not far.

It is, of course, barely ten minutes later when Wyatt feels as if he’s had a bucket of freezing water sluiced over him, and realizes that leaving your wife on the side of a dark road late at night is an awful, awful thing to do no matter how angry you are at her (and especially when she is 100% right about what a fucked-up mess you are). He whips the car around and lays even more rubber racing back to where he left her – where he thinks he did, at least. He didn’t get a good look at the mile marker, but it was around here. He parks, grabs a flashlight from the glove box, and jumps out. “Jess? Jess! Jessica! JESSICA!”

He sweeps the anemic beam of the flashlight back and forth, heart pounding in his throat, mouth dry as a desert, all his drunken caveman rage burned off. He climbs down into the bushes, skins his hands on the gravel and bangs his legs on the sharp edge of a drainage culvert, but he deserves that, he deserves the pain. He crunches through the bracken, catches the glow of eyes and has a heart attack, but it’s only a raccoon. Maybe he didn’t go far enough. He climbs back and gets in the car and cruises along slowly, window down, shouting for her. A car full of teenagers whips past, faces laughing and grotesque as carnival masks. They think it’s a joke. “Jesssssicaaaa!” they yodel back at him. “Jessiccaaaaaaaa!”

Wyatt drives up and down every part of the road between their house and the bar at least five times. Panic is starting to take over his head, banging like a neighbor’s too-loud music through a wall, drilling and relentless. Jesus. Jesus Christ, this is all his fault. She can’t be gone, she’ll turn up. Someone probably stopped, like a sane person would, to see if a woman on the side of the road was all right, and took her to their place. Or if someone else, someone not a sane person, stopped, and –

By the time Wyatt has realized sickeningly that she’s definitely not here, it’s almost three in the morning. He goes home and calls her cell, which isn’t answered. Calls it again, leaves a message begging her to let him know that she is safe. She doesn’t have to come home, if she’s still angry. But please, please, please let him know that she is safe.

Wyatt dozes fitfully for a few fractured hours, phone in his hand, until his morning alarm goes off. He sits upright immediately, but he can tell she isn’t home. He calls her back again, another three times. Likewise, none of these are answered. This isn’t like Jess. She’s angry, she has every right to be, but the one of them who ditches without a word is Wyatt. If she was safe, if she was in any position to do so, she would have called, or at least texted, by now. Something is wrong. Something’s wrong.

Wyatt goes out and gets in the car to make one more search by daylight, just in case. But when this doesn’t turn up anything, he knows what he has to do. Drives downtown to the police station, and says he needs to file a missing person report.

He can tell that the cop who takes down the information isn’t terribly impressed at hearing about the circumstances in which Mrs. Logan has vanished, but it’s not his job to comment on that. He does ask several times if Wyatt is being forthcoming with everything he knows – as it obviously looks very easy for Wyatt to have whacked her over the temple with a tire jack, hidden the body somewhere, and turn up here to file a report to make it seem like he’s worried. When a wife goes missing, the husband usually did it, and it is an especially bad look when the husband is a military man who was arguing with her beforehand. Wyatt swears up and down that he has never laid a hand on Jess, which is the truth. Their fights can get ugly, but they’ve never turned physical. He would never, ever hurt her.

The police officer remains skeptical, but allows that search teams and K9 units will be dispatched, and if Wyatt has an item of clothing with Jessica’s scent on it, that will help. Wyatt fetches it for them, feeling numb and dreamy. Yesterday was almost ordinary, before it started going downhill with the argument around four o’clock. Today he’s standing in a police station talking about sniffer dogs and search arrangements. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. He needs to press rewind and play it out again.

Once that’s settled, Wyatt heads home, slaps together a missing poster on Microsoft Publisher, and runs out as many copies on his printer as he can before its toner goes dry. Then he feverishly heads out and starts tacking them to street corners and utility poles. It strikes him that he has not called anyone since this started, has no sibling or friend or even a god damn poker buddy out here helping him. He should call someone. He needs to call someone. But then he’d have to say the words “Jess is gone, and it’s my fault” out loud, and that might break him. He needs to hold it together until this is over. His bullshit has already cost them – cost her – this much. If by some God-given miracle she comes home, she walks through that door again, he will do absolutely whatever she wants. Therapy, counseling, you name it. He has been an idiot – understandably in some ways, but still an idiot – and this is the bolt from the heavens that he was overdue to get. She has to come back. Has to. Has to.

Wyatt gets concerned, confused, wary, or sympathetic looks from people as he wanders along, offering them the poster. There are plenty of people who pretend they don’t notice and motor on past with their headphones in, because humanity is terrible sometimes. A nice older couple wants to know if there is anything they can do for him, and Wyatt reflexively tells them that he’s got it under control. He does not, he has never had it less under control, but it seems to be an answer he can’t get away from even now. He thanks them for their concern. They promise they will pray for him. Great, he thinks. Great.

Wyatt is sunburned and footsore by the time he gets home, but it feels wrong to sit down and relax, to be comfortable, while Jess is out there enduring God knows what from God knows who. He takes just enough of a shower to refresh, gulps down whatever is in the cupboard, and prepares to go back out again. He’s not going to be allowed to help directly with the search, because they still haven’t formally ruled him out as a suspect, but he has promised to be back at the police station for a longer interview at five o’clock. Needs to look less like a disaster. Shaves. Puts on a sport coat, a pair of nice trousers, and heads out to get in the car.

By the time he walks into the precinct, he can tell that something’s changed just from the way they look at him, and he isn’t sure that he likes it. They shake hands, ask him if he wants a glass of water, maybe they should go to the back and sit down. Wyatt has been around law enforcement long enough to know that when they start going for the tender concern angle, it’s usually because they’re trying to lull you off guard for a big reveal, or it’s because it’s bad-news-breaking time and they have no further reason to play hardball. And this… doesn’t feel like they’re going for the bait and switch. This feels bad.

By the time Wyatt is in fact sitting down in the briefing room, he has a terrible feeling that he knows what they’re going to say, and is clenching his hands white-knuckled on his knees, trying to prepare himself for it, trying to breathe in short, juddering gasps in case he forgets altogether afterward. The police chief sits down and calls him Sergeant Logan – yeah, respectful title, he’s the grieving husband now instead of the suspicious possible domestic abuser. They have completed their search of the area, and they have in fact found a large patch of blood in thick undergrowth, about three-quarters of a mile from where he left her, that matches with Jessica’s DNA. There is a trace amount of other blood present as well, which they can’t identify, but is that of another human, suggesting someone grabbed her, Jessica fought back, and there was a struggle. They are going to continue to put resources out there and track down any leads, any perps with violent-crime rap sheets in the area, conduct interviews. But at this point, they aren’t expecting to find Mrs. Logan in a state compatible with life. They are very sorry, and they offer him their full support.

At that, Wyatt almost collapses. Fucking – not in a state compatible with life. Fucking jargon, fucking military/police jargon, the kind he has used himself, plenty of times. Just say it, he wants to scream at them. Just say dead. Dead. DEAD! Four little letters! Just fucking say it! I deserve it! This is my fault. This is my fault. My fault. My fault!

Someone goes out to get him another glass of water, and someone asks if he wants to speak to the staff chaplain. Wyatt barely hears any of it. The world reels by in heightened fantasia blurs like a bad acid trip. He sits there in the chair with a weird, detached awareness that this is somehow happening, he is living through the worst moment of his life, it is going by right there, right in front of his nose. It’s happening and it keeps happening and it won’t stop happening and all he can think, all he can think, is yes – it could have been some local lowlife. But what if it wasn’t. What if it wasn’t.

(He’s done as he promised, after he signed the stupid affidavit. He knows it was a bad idea, but – he did as ordered, he gave up the Rittenhouse hunt, he went back to his ordinary life with his wars and his broken head and his long-suffering wife, he didn’t look any more, and he fooled himself that that meant it was all fine.)

And at that, a strange, preternatural clarity falls over Wyatt. It’s not relief, exactly, but it feels so good, even for just a minute, after the initial madness and horror and distraught heartbreak, that he almost cries. Because if that’s the case, if there is one tiny wedge he can drive into this heart of darkness and make it crack, if there is something he might be able to do that the police can’t – if he’s lost everything that mattered, so why not take the risk –

There is something he needs to do.

There is someone he needs to find.

Jiya Marri started work at Mason Industries two months ago. Rufus Carlin fell in love with her about one month, twenty-nine days, five hours, and – oh, let’s say seventeen minutes ago.

He was probably doomed the instant she walked in – dark ponytail bouncing, stuff packed in a bulging Caltech tote, and a Star Trek scarf wrapped around her neck, the proud result of a “Groundbreaking Women in STEM” fellowship program that Connor Mason sponsored, with the winner offered a job at Mason Industries to design, build, and launch their own app, high-tech project, social transformation scheme, or something else at the cutting, cutting edge. Connor brought her around to meet the team, and Rufus, noting the Caltech and Star Trek accessories, made an awkward joke that he, as the resident MIT/Star Wars diehard, was probably going to be her biggest problem here. Jiya just gave him a bring-it-on-nerd-boy look, smiled, and told him that she was looking forward to it.

It’s not like Rufus hasn’t met smart women before – he has grown up with them, went to school with them, works with plenty of them. It’s not that Jiya is “Not Like Other Girls,” a phrase Rufus hates, but that just she seems so comfortable with being, well, a geek. And that is not a reflection on geek girls, because Rufus has found they are often much easier to get along with and much more enthusiastic and self-deprecating about their interests than unbearably pretentious and insecure geek boys. It’s partly because he wishes he could be more like Jiya, have a little more trust that the world would like him if he came out of his shell. Jiya writes fanfic and has a Tumblr account, goes to cons, does cosplay for various fandoms, has a Twitter where she hilariously and scathingly takes down misogynistic fuckwits on the Internet (so, Rufus thinks, most of the Internet, then). She writes guest blog posts on everything from advanced theoretical technology concepts to why Kirk/Spock is a classic love story among the greats of literature. She can do crazily difficult equations in a couple of minutes, scribbled on the back of a lunch napkin. She has fought through her fair share of bullshit to get here, absolutely. But she’s then powered right on far past it, up, up, up into the stars. Looking at her, Rufus genuinely believes anything is possible (considering what Connor has been working on for the past several years, that’s saying a lot) and he would give anything, anything, for just a little of that to rub off on him.

Rufus knows he’s no slacker, and he’s proud of that. You don’t go from a black kid growing up on the South Side of Chicago in a not-great neighborhood, to where he is now, without some serious ambition and drive (and luck) along the way. He’s made plenty of money and managed to buy his mom and little brother a new house out here, they’ve moved to California and put down new roots. He is part of the lead team on – (it still takes a moment every time he says it, even in his head) – developing a god damn time machine. Rufus knows he’s valuable and knows he’s smart and knows he’s done a lot. It just somehow never feels like it.

Then again, Rufus supposes, maybe it’s better if he just stays safely within the protective cocoon of Mason Industries for his entire life, let other people be the Steve Jobs and the Mark Zuckerbergs of the world, get the attention and the billions and the name recognition. His one brief foray out, with Wyatt Logan, did not go terribly well. He thinks that maybe Wyatt shouldn’t feel bad for leaving him behind (they aren’t friends, he made it plain that he didn’t trust the dude, of course Wyatt cleared out) because once he got back to Mason Industries with Cahill’s Corporate Creepos from Hell, he went in, found Connor, and handed him the recording device that Mason insisted he take, when Rufus told him that Wyatt was giving him a ride. Here, Rufus said. Don’t know what that was about, but… fine, here.

Thank you. Mason took it and stowed it carefully inside his jacket pocket. Oh, and Rufus? Word of advice? Don’t go gallivanting off with Wyatt Logan any more. It’s rather a bad look, and… well. You know I’ve always had your best interests at heart, so really do listen to me on this one. If he does get in contact again, inform me immediately.

This sounded a little odd to Rufus even back then, but as per usual, he settled on not asking any questions. He likewise has gone back to his life, of working on new bits of supporting technology for the time machine. It’s been rough – Anthony did the first major run out beyond just the few-second temporal displacements, which have been dangerous enough, and as a result, he was in a coma for eight months. Rufus visited the hospital faithfully until he woke up, because Anthony has sponsored his intellectual development just as much as Connor. It would be easy for a middle-aged white-guy engineer, especially working on this, to just blow someone like Rufus off, but Anthony has always trusted him and valued his advice. Loyalty is the one thing Rufus prizes the most, and he returned the favor.

Now, however, Anthony’s awake and mostly back to work, and Mason Industries is taking a team trip to London as part of the festivities surrounding the 2012 Olympic Summer Games taking place there later this year. Connor Mason, hometown boy made good, returning to his roots to share his improvements and breakthroughs. He’s chartered a private jet for the whole staff, and while Rufus is side-eyeing the timing a bit (who wants to go to London in February? Couldn’t it have been in actual summer?) he’s obviously not about to turn up his nose too much. As he steps on board the plush plane (ivory leather seats, gilded trim and wood paneling, the whole nine) carrying his duffel bag, he glances around and tries to see if a) Jiya is already on board, and b) if there’s an open seat anywhere near her. It’s a long flight from San Francisco to London, after all, and maybe they could chat a bit.

By happy coincidence, there is one relatively nearby, which Rufus takes. Jiya has her headphones on and a dog-eared Anne McCaffrey Dragonriders of Pern paperback open, though, so he doesn’t want to bother her. They’ll be in London for a week, and maybe Rufus can take her to get fish and chips, or whatever it is that Brits do for a date. While assuring her seventy billion times that it’s not a date, because he does not want to be creepy. Or is it creepier if he does that? God, he is so bad at this.

They take off and fly into the falling night. Rufus stares out the window and watches the distant pinpricks of light wheel past below them, though he starts dozing off about the time they turn only to black and the flight tracker shows they’re out over the Atlantic Ocean. Rufus thinks then of Anthony, steering a time machine out into the uttermost void, the deepest darkness, a world beyond uncharted, where not even the dragons have proper form or name. Beyond Apollo 8 and the dark side of the moon, beyond a place any human can think of or have a proper conceptual idea of. A few of the techies are really interested in asking the test pilots how it actually feels, to leave time and space behind, to move in dimensions the human brain is not remotely equipped to comprehend. Not Rufus. Even the idea gives him a chill. He might be curious on an academic, theoretical-interest level, but he has no desire to ever experience it for himself. Sometimes he wonders if it’s the right thing to do – they can, it’s there, it’s possible, but as he knows well, something done because someone can do it doesn’t mean they should. All the Mason Industries test pilots basically have to sign their own will before taking the job, prove they either have no dependents or have made the proper arrangements for their care in the event of their sudden and unfortunate decease. It’s not quite the Tuskegee syphilis scandal, obviously, and everyone involved knows what they’re getting in for. Mason himself is a black man, he is aware of this. But still. Rufus wonders.

Rufus sleeps for the main leg over the ocean, and wakes as they are touching down in London the next morning. In proper English fashion, it’s raining as they shuffle into Heathrow, pass customs, and are shown to the chauffeured cars that Mason, naturally, has waiting; no cramming onto the Underground for them. As they glide into the city, Rufus turns to Jiya and clears his throat. “So, uh, if it stops raining, maybe we should go look around? Just, you know, whatever seems cool?”

“It will never stop raining,” Mason remarks, overhearing him, with the jaded demeanor of a true Londoner. “Just do take a brolly and be back by six for our opening dinner. If you don’t want to sleep off the jetlag, that is?”

“I’ll probably crash as soon as the dinner’s over, but I’m feeling okay right now.” Rufus glances at Jiya, wondering if he should then invite their other coworkers to prove it’s not a date. But he doesn’t really want to. “You?”

“Yeah, I’d rather make the most of it,” Jiya says. “We should freshen up first once we get to the hotel, but sure, I’m up for it.”

Rufus hastily tries to quash the flare of excited and apprehensive victory in his stomach, as he still has plenty of chances to screw this up somehow. They arrive at the hotel, check in (everyone gets their own room – you really don’t realize how many doors money can open and how much a billion dollars is, until you hang out with a billionaire – Rufus has never quite gotten used to it) and while some employees elect to snooze until dinner tonight, Rufus and Jiya hastily change out of their comfy flight clothes and into something a little more non-embarrassing for public. Then they pick up the envelopes with their daily allowance of spending money (£100 apiece, and Connor has promised to increase it if anyone feels pinched), make sure they have umbrellas and a map, and head out.

The rain has thinned to an atmospheric mist, the trees have faint hints of green on them, black cabs and red buses rush past (Rufus is completely mixed up about which way he needs to look crossing the street, and hopes he doesn’t end up plastered to the front of one of them) and of course, it’s London. They wander past the various touristy sites – Westminster, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square, the Tower of London, the London Eye, etc. – chat, and take goofy pictures. It’s possibly one of the best days of Rufus’s life, even if he starts yawning hardcore around three PM and suggests they return to the hotel for a power nap before dinner. First, however, they duck into Covent Garden Market to grab coffee. Jiya wanders away to look at one of the stalls, Rufus sips his latte, and feels as if he has actually had a successful day with a girl, miracles are real. Hopefully he can keep it up, and –

Just then, someone standing behind him taps him on the shoulder, and he turns automatically, a little surprised. Maybe it’s just another of their coworkers out to carpe the diem, but –

Rufus doesn’t recognize the tall, dark-featured man, though something makes him think he should. The newcomer is wearing a trim leather jacket and jeans, a scarf and a newsboy cap, looking like the rest of the fashionable denizens of central London, but he has one hand in his pocket, and he pulls it out just far enough to let Rufus see that he’s holding what appears to be a gun. The Brit laws are a lot more strict than the American ones. What the fu –

“Hello, Rufus,” the man says. His voice is gravelly and accented, his eyes cool and level and more than a little frightening. “I’d like you to come with me.”

[jamesstegall]

India is grappling with covid grief

Spring 2021 in India has been horrific and frightening: ambulances wail constantly, funeral pyres are alight 24 hours a day, seemingly endless body bags stack up, and grief hangs heavy in the air.

A year ago, it looked as if India might have escaped the worst of the coronavirus. While the Western world was struggling, India was relatively unscathed, hitting a high of about 1,300 deaths per day in late September 2020 before bottoming out again. Earlier this year, Prime Minister Narendra Modi declared that the country had won its battle against the virus. In a virtual appearance at the World Economic Forum’s Davos Dialogue on January 28, Modi boasted about  India’s “proactive public participation approach, [its] covid-specific health infrastructure, and [its] trained resources to fight covid.”

Then, with vaccinations beginning to ramp up and cases continuing to fall, mitigation efforts were relaxed for what turned out to be catastrophic superspreader events in late March and early April: the Kumbh Mela (a major Hindu pilgrimage to India’s four sacred rivers) and giant election rallies in the states of West Bengal, Kerala, Assam, and Tamil Nadu. These crowded events attracted thousands of unmasked people who had traveled to get there. Within weeks, the hospital system collapsed; this month has been the deadliest yet in India’s fight against the coronavirus, putting the country just below Brazil and the US overall. Over 311,000 Indians have died from covid so far, according to official sources—but the true death toll is believed to be far higher.

As in other places, people are struggling to cope with these deaths at a time when traditional ways of grieving have been ripped apart. Natasha Mickles, a professor of religious studies at Texas State University, where she studies Hindu and Buddhist death rituals, says that millennia-old traditions have had to be ignored. “Traditionally, in Hinduism and Jainism, the eldest son is responsible for lighting the funeral pyre,” Mickles says. But covid’s infectiousness and fatality rate mean that the eldest son is often not available or, worse, dead. That means families are having to figure out how to cremate or bury their family member while already overwhelmed with the task of notifying relatives about the death.

“Death rituals are some of the most conservative parts of culture,” Mickles says. “A lot of them are so ingrained that they require cultural cataclysms to change. We’re seeing that with the pandemic raging. We’re seeing a transformation in how we grieve.”

476 #Funerals In One Day In #Kanpur#COVID-19 #victims being #cremated at #Bhairav Ghat Hindu Crematory, as coronavirus cases surge in record numbers across the country, in Kanpur. #SecondCOVIDWave #up78 #CoronaUpdate #CoronavirusIndia #CoronaCurfew #photojournalistarun pic.twitter.com/LBtzsKwcte

— Arun Sharma (@ARUNSHARMAJI) April 23, 2021

Online spaces have offered a crucial forum for expressing grief and venting anger about the Indian government’s handling of the crisis. Families that have faced loss are sharing their pain in WhatsApp groups. In mutual aid organizations that are crowdsourcing help, volunteers can barely process their grief for those who have died as they race to organize help for the next person. Twitter has become a steady stream of obituaries; one grieving woman’s plea to Modi to allow for mercy killings has gone viral.

But while smartphones are widespread in India at all socioeconomic levels, digital literacy and the ability to connect online are still linked to wealth and privilege—meaning that only a certain segment of the population is able to grieve online.

“I haven’t seen anything on this scale of pandemic grief ever,” says Shah Alam Khan, an orthopedic oncologist and professor at Delhi’s All India Institute of Medical Sciences. “Previously, you saw numbers of people who died from covid. Now, there are names. Each and every one of us knows someone who has been taken away by covid. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t know someone who’s died.”

In Khan’s hospital alone, he is seeing doctors so overwhelmed with grief that they are falling apart themselves. Just recently, after an eighth unsuccessful resuscitation attempt, a colleague killed himself in his office. It’s a death that Khan speaks of quietly: he admits he hasn’t wrapped his head around it yet.

“When death happens in our deeply religious society, grief becomes more a part of tradition than anything else,” he says. “I am atheist, but in this country, death and grieving are easier if you are a spiritual person.”

Seema Hari has been one of countless people using the Stories feature on Instagram to share resources such as Google Docs with information about where to find oxygen tanks, focusing on her native Mumbai. But as members of her own family have fallen ill with covid, she’s tumbled into grief, isolated save for her Instagram page. 

“I spent most of my days worrying and trying to share resources with people, and nights checking in via WhatsApp—not just with my family but with other friends all over India, asking them the dreaded question of whether everyone on their side is okay and if they need any help,” she said via email.

Hari said she hasn’t felt the ability to grieve properly and doesn’t see herself doing so: “There is so much collective and personal grief to process, but it is almost like we have not even been afforded the privilege to grieve, because loss is so relentless and so many things demand our action and attention.”

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Seema Hari (@seemahari)

Nikhil Taneja, the founder of the youth media organization Yuvaa, has helped people connect during the unfolding catastrophe by hosting Twitter Spaces sessions with Neha Kirpal, a mental health professional.

We had an extremely insightful @TwitterSpaces session yesterday on COVID-19 grief and anxiety with @theInnerHour. Here are some excerpts

(THREAD)#MyMindMatters @tanejamainhoon @NehaKirpal1

— Yuvaa | Masks Up & Stay Safe India

(@weareyuvaa) May 20, 2021

Taneja says hosting these sessions has been an important way to help young people he saw posting on Twitter and Instagram about the grief they were dealing with. “There doesn’t seem to be any acknowledgment of grief in our country,” he says, pointing to the lack of apologies from Modi. “We are losing family and friends and loved ones. People’s lives are being reduced to statistics and numbers.”

It’s also hard for young people to reach out for help in a culture that finds mental health difficult to address. As Taneja notes, the word “dukh” means both sadness and depression in Hindi: “There is a difference, yet our language doesn’t reflect that,” he says.

Mickles says the past year has seen funerary rituals changing all around the world. “This is universal,” she says. “The move is going online.” Often that can be as simple as holding a phone up at a cremation site so  family both near and far can be part of the process via Zoom.

But Zooming a funeral, using Instagram to crowdsource available oxygen tanks, or even WhatsApping the family group chat all require a level of digital access and literacy that correlates with wealth in India. 

“So many people can’t afford laptops,” says Taneja. “A lot of people can afford smartphones but are just not able to access the internet.” He acknowledges that his Twitter Spaces sessions are only available to those who are digitally literate and can afford to get online. Options for grieving safely have to be far broader in reach.  “The solution lies offline as much as online,” he says.

Hotlines might be one solution. Lekshmi Premanand, a senior psychologist for the mental health organization Sukh-Dukh, says she is dealing with multiple people who are grieving, isolated, and depressed, often without internet access. 

Premanand, based in the current covid hot spot of Kerala, has noticed a difference in the type of grief people are experiencing. “If economic loss and loss of opportunity were the result of the first wave, losing friends and family is the scary, glaring effect of the second wave,” she says. 

She’s found that increasingly the people calling into the help line are younger and with less access to the internet, yet desperate for support. Similar resources might start popping up as covid hits more rural areas without infrastructure, she predicts: “Where there is a need, an alternative is going to emerge.” In this case, that means going back to the more basic technology of the telephone.

Grief over what’s happening in India isn’t constrained by the nation’s borders, says Mickles. Those in the Indian diaspora are going to struggle to come to terms with what is happening in their home country while reopenings continue where they live. “Covid is teaching us the truth of interdependence,” she says. “What happens in India is going to affect us in America eventually, and vice versa. We need to understand that we are socially interdependent with each other. Indian grief is our grief.”

from MIT Technology Review https://ift.tt/3hUyO5s via IFTTT

[sawyernathan1991]

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