#if you look through any of my gl posts you can clearly tell what i believe lmao

[cheese-water]

I don’t care if it’s has already been debunked. I don’t care if it isn’t a “widely accepted truth.”

Alternatively, if you had to create a theory video about Generation Loss, what would it be about?

Please put in the tags how/why you believe what you believe cause I'm fascinated by the vastly different interpretations people can make from this project! :D

[nordleuchten]

do we have any records on how lafayette reacted to the treason of benedic arnold?? I've read a while ago saying that he and bemedict arnold did not like each other very much while he was on the american army but i couldn't find anything else.

and also, how much acurate are those scenes of laf conforting georfe washington after he learns of the treason??

I know is a long ask, srry, but thank you so much <3

Hello Anon,

thank you for your question and don’t you worry about the length.

Yes, we have plenty of record about La Fayette’s reaction to Arnold’s treason … and the best thing is, La Fayette’s reaction alone even brought Arnold in a pretty awkward and embarrassing situation at one point in time.

From the get-go La Fayette was very involved in the whole Arnold-affair. He was with Washington and a group of other officers in West Point when Arnold’s treason was discovered on September 25, 1780 and he also sat on the court-martial for Major John André on September 29 and September 30, 1780. He later went on to say that he pitied André.

On September 26 (a day after Arnold’s betrayal and flight) La Fayette wrote the first lengthy account of the events from his point of view. He wrote the Chevalier de La Luzerne:

Robinson's house, across from West Point

September 26, 1780

When I left you yesterday morning, Monsieur le Chevalier, to come here to breakfast with General Arnold, we were far from imagining the event that I am going to relate to you. You will shudder at the danger we have run. You will wonder at the miraculous chain of accidents and unforeseen events that has saved us; but you will be even more astonished to know the instruments through which this conspiracy has been carried out.

West Point has been betrayed, and by Arnold. The same man who had covered himself with glory in rendering conspicuous service to his country had lately formed an appalling pact with the enemy. Were it not for the chance that brought us here at a certain hour and the chance that, through a combination of mishaps, caused the adjutant general [Major André] of the British army to fall into the hands of a few pejlsants outside all our posts, West Point and the North River would now perhaps be in the possession of the enemy. When we left Fishkill yesterday we were preceded by one of my aides-de-camp and the aide of General Knox, who found General and Mrs. Arnold at table and joined them for breakfast. While they were there, two letters were brought to General Arnold informing him of the capture of a spy. He ordered a horse to be saddled, then went upstairs to his wife to tell her he was ruined, and commanded his aide-de-camp to tell General Washington that he was going to West Point and would return within an hour. On our arrival here we crossed the river and went to inspect the defenses. You can imagine our astonishment when upon our return we learned that the arrested spy was Major Andre, adjutant general of the British army, and when, among documents found on him, we recognized a transcript of a very important council of war, a description of the garrison and fortifications, and remarks about methods of attack and defense, all of which were written in General Arnold's hand. The British adjutant general also wrote to the general disclosing his name and situation. We sent a person in pursuit of Arnold; but he had escaped by boat to board the English frigate Vulture, and since no one suspected his flight, no one from the posts could have thought to arrest him. Colonel Hamilton, who had pursued him, shortly thereafter received a flag of truce with a letter from Arnold for the general, in 180 Light Camp Commander which he gives no details to justify his treason, and a letter from the British commander Robinson, who, in an extremely insolent manner, demanded the release of the adjutant general, on the grounds that he had acted entirely under General Arnold's permission. The general's first concern has been to reassemble at West Point the troops Arnold had dispersed under various pretexts. We have remained here to look after the security of a post that the British will fear the less for being more familiar with it. We are bringing in Continental troops, and since Arnold's advice may determine Clinton to move suddenly, the army has orders to be ready to march at any moment.

He wrote several of these letters where he described what had happened. I am not going to quote any more letters because they are quite repetitive. There is however one passage in a letter to the Vicomte de Noailles that stands out. La Fayette wrote on October 3, 1780:

Arnold's baseness and villainy surpass in their details all that I have ever read about that sort of thing. The anger I felt over it did not extend to his wife, with whom formerly I had been somewhat taken. But what has truly afflicted me is the necessity of hanging the adjutant general of the British army, a charming man who conducted himself throughout, and died, like a hero. This severity was necessary; the enemy acted very stupidly on this occasion, and since they lost that unfortunate man, the soul of their army, they have not written one letter that had common sense. Andre was executed yesterday. General Clinton's anger does not frighten us, but this man's death, although inevitable in my opinion, left me with a feeling of sadness and respect for his character. I truly suffered in condemning him; but he was an officer under disguised clothing and name, passing within our posts with papers full of intelligence for the enemy, and he himself did not hesitate to recognize himself as a spy. The knave who hid him is, I hope, going to be hanged too.

We see in this excerpt very clearly what he fought about Arnold, but also what his thoughts were concerning Mrs Arnold (better known perhaps as Peggy Shippen) and Major André. The mentioned “knave” was a certain Joshua H. Smith who assisted Arnold and André in their affairs but who was ultimately acquitted and fled the country.

La Fayette furthermore wrote to the Comte de Vergennes (probably in an attempt to play the whole business down for the French court) on October 4, 1780:

This whole affair proves only the greed of Arnold and has no other consequences than the abhorrence inspired by his sordid conduct.

The tone is the same in all of La Fayette’s letters, whether they were written directly after everything went down or many months, years or even decades later. At first though, there was not much that La Fayette could do, because the army went into the winter encampment. On February 20, 1781 however, La Fayette was named commander of an expedition against Arnold in Virginia (where the latter had just received a command of his own) and left the next day for Maryland. La Fayette was hell bend on capturing Arnold and even received pretty clear instructions from Washington on what to do with Arnold. Washington wrote in his instructions for the Marquis on February 20, 1780:

You are to do no act whatever with Arnold that directly or by implication may skreen him from the punishment due to his treason and desertion, which if he should fall into your hands, you will execute in the most summary way.

Despite all of his efforts, La Fayette could not apprehend Arnold. There was a new development with the British ranks though, that afforded La Fayette a little bit of pay back. The British send reinforcement down to Virginia to aide Arnold. A Major-General William Phillips commanded these troops. I have written about Phillips before, he was the man who commanded the artillery battery that fired the shot that killed La Fayette’s father in the battle of Minden in the Seven Years’ War - and La Fayette was very well aware of the fact. Phillips was now in command and Arnold second in command. So far, so good. The war and the campaign in Virginia continued like before. It was commonplace for two opposing Generals to have rather extensive correspondence. They spoke about war crimes committed by one of the two sides, about a potential exchange of prisoner of war, about a temporary truce, surrender - all the military and civil matters that needed to be discussed. These correspondences were most of the time rather civil. The two Generals understood each other as “Officers and Gentleman” and were fully aware that each man had their orders to follow. Phillips and La Fayette started a correspondence as well. La Fayette complained about the tone in Phillips letters and the demands he made (I have read Phillips letters; they are indeed a bit odd) but their correspondece was soon cut short when Phillips contracted a fever and died within a few days. Now Arnold was again first in command and it would have been his place to pick up Phillips correspondece with La Fayette. La Fayette wrote to Washington on May 17, 1781:

Genl. Phillips being dead of a fever, an Officer was sent with a passport & letters from Genl. Arnold. I requested the Gentleman to come to my Qrs. and having asked if Genl. Phillips was dead to which He answered in the negative, I made it a pretence not to receive a letter from Gl. Arnold, which being dated Head Quarters, and directed to the Commanding Officer of the American troops, ought to come from the British General Chief in Command. I did however observe that shou'd any other officer have written to me I wou'd have been happy to receive their Letters.

La Fayette made it clear to the British flag officer that he had no problem with corresponding with the British army in general, but that he would not cooperate with Arnold, a man that he did not perceive to be a gentleman and man of honour. La Fayette later wrote in his memoirs:

After the death of General Phillips, who died that same day, Arnold wrote, by a flag of truce, to Lafayette, who refused to receive his letter. He sent for the English officer, and, with many expressions of respect for the British army, told him that he could not consent to hold any correspondence with its present general. This refusal gave great pleasure to General Washington and the public, and placed Arnold in an awkward situation with his own army.

It may not sound like much for us today, but La Fayette reaction was a massive slap for Arnold. He was now in a position where he either had to correspond with an American officer that was junior in rank or he had to order a British officer who was junior in rank to himself to continue the correspondence with La Fayette. Arnold was so angry indeed that he wanted to retaliate by sending the American prisoner of war to prisoner colonies in the West Indies if La Fayette would not correspond with him.

As to the second question - I think you are playing at this lovely (and deleted, if I am not mistaken) scene from the TV series TURN: Washington’s Spies were La Fayette comforts Washington after Arnolds betrayal. There is no direct evidence that such a scene took place. We have now written account à la “today I comforted Washington because Arnold betrayed us.” Several sources however state, that Washington indeed uttered “Whom can we trust now?”, just like in the scene and just as I stated earlier, La Fayette was with Washington when all of this took place. I think it is therefore very likely that something similar as depicted in TURN may have taken place. Washington and La Fayette were incredibly close and they trusted each other. Washington could open up toward La Fayette because La Fayette was person who, unlike some other officers and generals at the time, had no ambition to usurp his position as Commander in Chief. La Fayette, due to his French background, would not be able to do so anyway, even if he would had such ambition. This was one of the many reasons why Washington could let his guard down in front of La Fayette without having to fear that he would be seen as weak.

I hope you have/had a fantastic day!

[yukiwrites]

Byleth, Focusing

Thanks for the support as always, @xpegasusuniverse! I was emotional while writing this, I hope you like it! ;o;)

Summary: The enemy had come unnanounced, taking everything Byleth ever had in his life -- his father, Jeralt. Shaken by grief, Byleth’s resolve in hunting down his and Sothis’ sworn enemies keeps him going as he reads through his father’s diary and discovers the truth about the Stone within his heart...

Commission info HERE and HERE!

______________________________

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10  - Part 11  - Part 12  - Part 13 - Part 14  - Part 15

Byleth himself carried Jeralt's body back to the monastery.

No stretchers. No help from his fellow mercenaries. No.

He would carry his Father.

One last time.

... For the first time.

Long had Jeralt carried Byleth -- the burdens of a lifetime; secrets buried deep within the mind, away from any prying eyes, protected at the cost of a nomad life... And the only thing Byleth could do in return was make sure to bury his father beside his Mother.

The raindrops fell heavily on the Professor's shoulders, the water seeping into his very bones, chilling the soul. Sothis' apologies had died down with the passing of the hours, her voice sounding farther and farther away as it did.

Was he shutting her out or was she giving him space? Byleth couldn't say for certain.

He could barely feel a thing under his cold fingertips, the memories of loss spiralling in and out of his mind, mingling with Sothis'.

Byleth squeezed his eyes shut as he knelt by the muddy grave, uncaring of any spectators who'd come to give their farewells to Jeralt.

His tears were warm -- a painful reminder of his status as a living being, as opposed to the frozen feeling of his limbs. "That darkness... It was familiar." He clenched his fist, his hoarse voice deafened by the heavy rain around him.

Sothis flinched inside his mind, materializing beside him. "You don't mean-"

Byleth nodded minimally, anger so deeply carved into his expression one would never be able to call him 'Ashen Demon' again for his eyes shone in a fierce blue. "You told me not to take on a millennia-old fight, but the fight came to me instead."

Sothis opened and closed her mouth. She couldn't even tell him that the path of vengeance was wrong -- as she was aware that many would -- because she, too, fell victim of those who abandoned the light from aboveground. So had her children. History had to be rewritten to push the villains into oblivion, yet there they were again, intent on making everyone's lives a living hell.

"I'll fight." Byleth could feel Sothis' conflict, but he himself was resolute. "They'll pay." He clutched his chest, almost as though he could dig his hand into it and touch Sothis' core directly.

The goddess simply lowered her head somberly, placing one ethereal hand on Byleth's shoulder. "Let us both fight together." Her voice echoed as the rain fell through her.

I may not be much with these limited powers, she thought melancholy, however, I may have an idea to enhance them in you instead...

Byleth let out a bitter smile, knitting his brow together so as to keep himself from sobbing. "You weren't at fault... I'm sorry I said all of that," he said in a small voice, barely over a whisper. Rain thundered about, muffling his words to all but the one who dwelled in his mind. "But... thank you, my friend."

Honestly, Byleth didn't remember how or when he went back to his room that night. The next few days blended together as though the simple passing of time was enough to make him dizzy, his mind struggling to process the loss.

The only interaction he had -- and needed -- was Sothis' voice and comforting embrace in their shared mindscape. As a mother, her grief was fundamentally different from Byleth's, who had lost a parent, but they both could find solace in one another's pains and coping mechanisms.

Once Byleth felt well enough to stand, he headed straight to Jeralt's room, not caring to seek out anyone in his path -- actively or inadvertently ignoring anyone who got remotely close to his chosen route.

Opening the door to Jeralt's study all at once was a mistake -- Byleth was slapped in the face with his father's scent, making him clench his jaw and hesitate more than a few moments to take the first step inside. One would think that with the little amount of time Jeralt spent in his room wouldn't be enough to left such significant impression, but that clearly wasn't the case.

Jeralt was in every nook and cranny of that battered room. He was a neat man, so the furniture was kept clean and tidy, as were his personal objects.

Byleth's chin trembled as he stepped inside, forcing him to take a moment to recompose himself by leaning on a nearby bookshelf.

Sothis patted his head mentally, taking it upon herself to look around in Byleth's stead. "Over there- are you well enough to move? That book way over there, hidden at the highest corner of the shelf- can you see it? Mayhap it contains something?"

"I see it." Byleth blinked slowly, looking up to the book Sothis was pointing to. He unceremoniously stepped on an expensive-looking chair to reach it, not bothering to look for a stool.

The moment he touched the old-looking book, something threatened to fall out of it, triggering Byleth's reflex of catching it before it did.

It was a ring.

His Mother's ring.

"Oh..." Byleth croaked out, gripping at the delicate ornament before stuffing it into his pocket. Sothis simply waited in silence for Byleth to compose himself, leaning her ethereal head on his shoulder.

Sniffling, the Professor managed to push down the lump in his throat enough to speak. "This- looks to be Dad's diary. I saw him writing on it from time to time when I was a kid."

"His handwriting is prettier than his face would suggest," Sothis blurted out as Byleth opened the book. "Why, those entries right at the beginning- they’re well before your birth! The courting of your mother, his love for her..." She said fondly, reaching out to the yellowed pages as though she could touch them. "What a beautiful love it must've been."

Byleth couldn't even nod, the rush of emotions he felt as he read the loving way his father talked about his mother taking everything he had. He slid down to sit on the floor, crossing his legs so he could read it and take it all in.

"This part here... Horsebow Moon, year 1159... It's the year of your birth!" Sothis urged Byleth to turn the pages faster. "There must be some clue here-"

Byleth frowned as he quickly read the passages, Sothis' voice echoing the words inside his mind. "Rhea..."

"Your father had been wary of her from day one, that much is true. So his suspicions hailed from an even farther past..."

For all that was written in the diary, apart from Rhea's odd behavior, it simply looked as though she placed the Crest Stone into Byleth's heart to save him from a certain death -- something Sothis knew her daughter would do, at least back in the day.

Was that truly the only reason? Would that Rhea, the child who was the most attached to Herself, give away Sothis' own heart to a random child from one of the Knights?

... Sothis wanted to say, without hesitation, that she would. She desperately wanted to say that the selfless duckling that always followed her around would simply be just as nice as that.

But she hesitated. She didn't have the confidence to say it, not after reading the diary and remembering how Rhea behaved while she was donning the alias of Seiros.

Byleth, on the other hand, seemed convinced, if not pleased, with the simple conclusion -- at least for the time being. As he got up from the floor, Sothis' mouth moved before she could control it.

"Where are you going? Aren't you going to read the rest?"

"Mhm," Byleth nodded, stuffing the book into the inner pocket of his coat. "I'll keep this for the time being, but I figured Hanneman and Manuela should know of this development... I did say I'd keep them posted on my conversation with Dad, after all."

"You foolish child. You know there's no need to honor that promise right now. Let yourself grieve."

Byleth shook his head as he looked around his father's study one last time before stepping out of it. "This IS my way to grieve." He closed the door with a soft click, leaning his head on the hard wood for a good moment. "Besides, if I go back to my room right now, I'll probably just head straight to Rhea and ask her all about this. I need Hanneman and Manuela to hold me back." He barked a bitter laugh, stealing a stifled giggle from Sothis, as well as a good-natured slap on his back.

She looked down as Byleth started walking. "For the record, I do not think you should talk to her, either."

"I know." Byleth nodded. He had felt his mindmate's hesitation back then, which also spurred his urge in going to talk with Rhea. But he wouldn't. He would listen to his friend's pleas this time around -- he had caused her enough grief already.

Sothis pressed her lips into a thin line, torn between smiling fondly and frowning deeply. Moved by her friend's attentiveness and selflessness in the situation he was in at the moment, she couldn't help but feel rather selfish. Was she protecting her child from an uncertain future? There was no way to know Rhea's true intentions without talking to her directly, but if the answer was too much for Byleth to handle...

Maybe Sothis was trying to protect the both of them -- the friend she could only make after she died and the child that outlived her. The goddess curled back into the corners of Byleth's mind as he reached Hanneman's office.

The door was open, so there was no need to announce oneself. Hanneman got up from his seat so fast he winced. "Byleth!" He gasped loudly. "Should you be up and about? I wouldn't want you to fall sick at such grievous time..."

Hurried steps sounded from the corridor before they reached the door. Manuela appeared from out of it, quickly running to hold Byleth's shoulders. "So it really was you I caught a glimpse of...!" She pressed her lips into a thin line, never knowing what to say in these kinds of situations. "I am so, so very sorry for your loss, dear Professor."

"Likewise." Hanneman nodded beside his fellow professor, stealing a smile from Byleth's tired lips.

"Thanks, you two. I actually came here to talk about what I found out regarding the Crest Stone-"

"Oh, my!" Manuela slapped Hanneman's shoulder. "Quick, old man, close that door!"

"Right!" Slightly offended from being ordered around, but still complying, Hanneman ran to the entrance to seal it shut. "You shouldn't force yourself, Professor-"

"It was Rhea." He said as he pulled the diary from his pocket. "She put the Stone within my heart."

The temperature in the room dropped rapidly.

"As we theorized, then..." Hanneman frowned, uncharacteristically calm about such a breakthrough. "To think the Children of the Goddess held such immense and frightening power..."

Manuela tilted her head from Hanneman to the book in Byleth's hand, ultimately taking it. "Did your father...?"

"Know about it? No. Write it down? Kind of." Byleth bobbed his head to the sides. "From what he wrote, Rhea had a direct hand in my survival after apparently being born dead. Since we know what lies inside my chest, we can only conclude..."

"... that it was her, yes. But for what purpose?" Hanneman peeked at the diary from over Manuela's shoulder. "Surely not out of the goodness of her heart? Hah!" He sneered, and Byleth felt a pang of pain in his heart -- surely hailing from Sothis herself.

"... Sothis doesn't want me to confront Rhea about this, so I won't go. Although I do think that would be the fastest-"

"Absolutely not!" Manuela and Hanneman said at the same time. "If she has the power to put that thing inside of you, surely she can just as easily take it out should you go against her! Don't let your grief fuel your recklessness, Byleth." Manuela placed the book back in Byleth's hand, purposely not handing it to Hanneman's prying eyes.

The older man hesitated, but decided against asking to read the diary for himself. He wasn't entirely tactless, after all. "I agree with Manuela. Let us first sit down and put all the facts before us..."

[rose-of-pollux]

The Skull Cove Lighthouse Affair (MFU fic), part 1 / 4

Part 1 of my annual Halloween fic!

Title: The Skull Cove Lighthouse Affair Rating: PG13 (for action/danger) Chapter summary: After a heavy fog strands Napoleon and Illya at an old lighthouse converted to a bed & breakfast, the duo find themselves in the middle of an otherworldly mystery from a hundred years ago. Notes: This version of the fic (cross-posted to AO3) is light slash; if you prefer reading gen, there is a gen version on ff.net.

                                     Act I: A Foggy Night in Maine

Illya scowled as the fog thickened as he drove along the cliffside path upon the Maine shores.

“This is exactly what we do not need,” he muttered.  “If it gets any thicker, I would be concerned of going off the road.”

“That would be a bad thing, given the Atlantic Ocean being right there,” Napoleon said, trying to navigate with a map and a flashlight in the front passenger seat.  “According to this map and feedback from our trackers, we should be approaching Skull Cove.”

“…A welcoming name, it is not,” Illya deadpanned.

“Well it was intentional—the cove was the sight of so many shipwrecks until the lighthouse was built—some even after,” Napoleon said, now reading from a tour guide.  “When ships eventually rerouted to other ports, the lighthouse was closed and fell into disrepair until about ten years ago, when it was converted to a bed and breakfast.  …Hey, maybe we can stop here for the night; I’d rather sit this fog out than try to drive through it.”

“As would I,” Illya said. “Just where is this lighthouse?’

“Well, offhand, I would say it’s that great big light in the fog over there,” Napoleon said.  He paused, marveling at the light—specifically, the bright blue shade of the light.  “Must be neon or something.”

“Mmh,” Illya grunted, not sounding impressed.  Nevertheless, he was eager for a rest and drove in the direction of the light. Eventually, the lighthouse itself came into view; Illya parked alongside the other cars that had been parked there already.

“Skull Cove Lighthouse Bed and Breakfast,” Illya read off of the sign.  “I hope they have some sort of fixings for dinner, as well.”

“If not, we have our rations,” Napoleon assured him.  “And I brought extra--thankfully, I planned ahead in case we did end up with some unintended delays.”

Illya looked to him in relief.

“I could kiss you.”

“Oh, please do,” Napoleon said, eagerly.

“…You are shameless,” Illya chided.  “But I can’t deny you when you have asked so nicely.”  He kissed him as they walked the pathway to the front door.

Napoleon grinned and kissed him back before they entered the lighthouse.  The main room at the base of the structure was both a lobby and a dining room, with a kitchen walled off separately.

“Quaint,” Napoleon commented.

“And I see food,” Illya added, in approval, as he saw a young man serving salad to two young women, a man in his 30s, and a slightly older businessman at the table.  The young man seemed to be trying to chat with the two women; one of them seemed to be completely uninterested in what he had to say, but the other was clearly egging him on.

“Junior, leave those ladies alone!” the middle-aged desk clerk chided him.  “We have new guests, anyway!”  He looked to Napoleon and Illya and acknowledged them with a nod.  “Good evening, Boys.  I’m James Hawthorne, proprietor of this establishment.  You’ll have to excuse my son; those two young ladies are fresh off the boat from Italy, and they’re turning the boy’s head. Now, then…  I presume you two are here for a room?”

“That would be why we are here, yes,” Illya said.

“Well, you boys are lucky—you’ve got the last one,” Mr. Hawthorne said.  “We don’t have that many rooms here in this old lighthouse—not that we usually need any, since most folks stay just for a night because of fog banks like this.”

“What do you do in the off-season?” Napoleon wondered.

“We also run a ski lodge in the winter in Colorado,” James Jr. said.  “Can I take your bags up to your room?”

“Just this one, please; we’ll keep the rest with us for now,” Napoleon said, handing over his overnight bag; the rest of their luggage contained sensitive equipment—things they weren’t going to let out of their sight for a moment.

The younger Hawthorne shrugged and did as he was instructed as his father handed Napoleon and Illya the keys.

“You can sit down and have dinner with the rest of the guests,” he said, indicating the small, circular table.  “The ladies and Mr. Fusco are passing through, like you.”  He indicated the businessman, who was grumpily eating, clearly wanting to be elsewhere, but had been stranded by the fog.

“And what about that gentleman?” Illya asked, indicating the man in his 30s, who was eating with one hand and perusing through an untidily-scribbled notebook with the other. “What’s his story?”

“That’s Lawrence Schuler, self-proclaimed ‘Chronicler of the Unexplained.’  He’s… an eccentric feller,” Hawthorne said, diplomatically. “He’s been here for a few days now, eager to catch a glimpse of the ghost ship and write about it.”

Illya froze, his expression fixed upon his face.

“I’m sorry—the what?” he asked, as Napoleon let out a sigh.

“One hundred years ago, before this place had electric lights, a particularly bad storm doused the light in the lighthouse tower on Halloween night, and a merchant ship went down off the coast, taking most of the hands with it,” Hawthorne said. “They say that ghostly activity increases around this time of year—and it culminates with a sighting of the ship, the captain, and the crew that perished that night on Halloween.”

“…Halloween starts tomorrow at midnight,” Napoleon realized.  “Well, thankfully, we’ll be on our way by then.”

Illya exhaled and nodded, decidedly against dealing with the unexplained and otherworldly after the few run-ins with them that he and Napoleon had in the past.

“It’s quite a sight, I’m told,” Hawthorne said.

“I, ah…  You haven’t seen it?” Napoleon asked.

“Well…  To tell you the truth, I’m a mite nervous about seeing it,” Hawthorne admitted.  “My son and I usually don’t stay the night.  Even if Schuler will be here, we won’t be.  The place already has a chill tonight.”

“Well, maybe we can go up to the light and warm up there,” Napoleon mused, as he signed the register.

“The light?” Hawthorne asked.  “That light hasn’t worked in years; they don’t make wirings like that anymore—been meaning to have a new one installed for the aesthetic, but we never seem to get around to it.”

Illya slowly facepalmed as Napoleon’s eyes widened, recalling the light he had seen outside.

“But… I could have sworn I saw…”

“Was it a bright blue light?” James Jr. asked, coming back down the stairs.

“Yes, it was,” Napoleon said.  “I don’t suppose--”

“You saw the ghost light, Mr. …Solo,” the young man said, quickly glancing at Napoleon’s signature on the register to get his name.

“Who saw the ghost light!?” Schuler asked, looking up from the table.

This prompted the two Italian girls to roll their eyes as Fusco determinedly ignored the nonsense as Napoleon gave a sheepish wave to Schuler.  Schuler immediately got up, drew a chair to the spot between him and one of the Italian girls, and practically begged Napoleon to sit there and talk about what he saw.

Illya grumpily sat down opposite Napoleon, between Fusco and the other Italian girl; though he ate the food, he was still vexed at Schuler grabbing Napoleon’s attention away from him.

“Is there even a point to this discussion?” he asked.  “Napoleon likely was merely seeing things in the fog—it is late, and we are tired after a long day.”

“Illya’s right,” Napoleon said.  “I really don’t know what I was looking at—come to think of it, I’m questioning if I saw anything at all.”

“Illya?” Schuler said. “A Russian name?”

“Yes, I was born in Moscow—but I grew up in Kiev,” Illya replied, glad to turn the conversation away from ghosts.  “My mother’s side was Ukrainian.”

Schuler stared for a moment and took out another book of notes.

“What year were you born?”

“I was born in 1933. Why?” Illya asked, his eyebrows arching suspiciously.

“Hmm… a stretch, but it could work if she had married and had a child late!  That means you’d be the perfect age!”

“…For what…?”

“To be the son of the lost Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov!” Schuler said.  “One of the many theories is that, after her family was executed, she escaped and lived the rest of her life incognito—perhaps even in Ukraine! You could be a Romanov!”

Both Napoleon and Illya stared at him now.

“…Well, it is a stretch, as I said,” Schuler admitted.

“Stretched so far, it snapped,” Illya said, darkly.  “Is this what you do for a living?  Going around writing your own stories about unexplained incidents?”

“Oh, this stuff sells,” Schuler said.

“I’ll bet it does,” Napoleon mused.

“But all of this research I’ve done—all the hours spent doing interviews and reading old accounts… It’s time I witnessed a bizarre happening firsthand, and here is my chance to do so at last!” Schuler said. “Mr. Solo, you have to tell me what it is you saw!”

Napoleon shrugged and continued to explain that he could have seen just about anything—or nothing—in the fog.  Illya just shook his head and resumed eating, content knowing that they would be out of here in the morning and could distance themselves from this oddball.

“Mi scusi, Signore…”

Illya looked up, glancing at the Italian woman next to him.

“You said you are from Russia and the Ukraine?” she asked, her accent thick.

“Yes, but I will state here and now once again that I am not a Romanov,” Illya insisted.

“No, I didn’t think you were,” she said, through a laugh. “I wish to ask a question.  You have been in America… how long?”

Ah, so that was it—a new immigrant, seeking advice from a fellow immigrant.  Illya was sympathetic to that.

“I was in the UK first,” Illya said.  “I attended Cambridge.  And then I worked in Berlin for some time; I was transferred to New York in 1960.  So, I have been here ten years.”

“Ah,” she said.  “…Do you miss it?  Russia and the Ukraine?”

Illya paused.  He glanced across the table at Napoleon, who had zoned out listening to Schuler’s ramblings, his chin propped on his hand as he looked very, very bored indeed.  Despite himself, Illya smiled.

“Not anymore.”

The young lady smiled.

“Your amore?”

Illya nodded, blushing slightly.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Si.  My little sister and I could see it as you came in,” she said.  She indicated the other young woman, who was now flirting with James Jr. again.  “I am Lotte Rigassi—that is my sister, Gina.”

“Illya Kuryakin,” he introduced himself.  “And that is my partner, Napoleon Solo.”

Lotte did a double-take at the name.

“Is he supposed to be named after--?”

“Yes,” Illya smirked. “When I was transferred 10 years ago, it was to help him on an assignment.  It was meant to be temporary, but…”

“Amore?”

“Amore,” Illya agreed.  “I ended up staying just to be with him, and I never once regretted it.”

Lotte nodded.

“Gina and I, we have not been here long enough to find our Special Ones yet,” she said.  “We were born in Sicily just after the war; very little was there for us.  My parents, they encouraged us to come here—instructed me to look after Gina.” She sighed, shaking her head as Gina continued to flirt with James Jr.  “She wants a Hollywood romance like she sees in the movies.  Trying to convince her to be realistic does nothing. Perhaps she is afraid of not finding someone.  …Sometimes, I am, too.”

“I had resigned myself to living the rest of my life alone, as well,” Illya said.  “But then I met Napoleon.  There’s hope for you yet—both of you.”

Lotte nodded.

“Grazi,” she said.  “For your kind words of encouragement.  I will have hope--”

She was cut off as the windows in the lobby and dining area suddenly burst open, sending a chill wind through the rooms—and in the wind, a ghostly wail was carried through the air. And the mist from outside inexplicably began pouring in through the windows, creeping across the floor and refusing to dissipate as fog normally would.

“What was that!?” Napoleon demanded, getting to his feet.  He then indicated the bizarre behavior of the fog.  “And what is this!?”

“Ghostly activity,” Schuler said, his eyes positively shining.  “This is it—this is exactly what I came here for!”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Illya said.  “But it could very easily be some local teens’ idea of a prank to try to get some laughs.”

He felt his pocket for his Special out of habit; Napoleon also did the same, and the two partners headed out the door, aiming to determine exactly what the source of this bizarre problem was.

[theblowsyouveinventedandblamed]

Part One: Ableism

TW for: abuse, ableism

So. Some of you may have seen posts about me that were written by my ex-boyfriend/datemate, Ezri (tumblr user @regal-roman and @panpunksexual).

The first post (https://regal-roman.tumblr.com/post/170845546062/he-was-abusive-i-know-he-couldnt-help-that-he)

[Transcript: He was abusive. I know he couldn’t help that he had mental illness, just like I can’t help that I do.

But his illness hurt other people. His illness hurt me all the time. But no matter how many times I asked, he would never get treatment so he wouldn’t hurt me anymore.

I am not ableist. I don’t believe that I’m better than him because I don’t have the illness he has. I wouldn’t mind him having his illness at all if he weren’t hurting other people.

If you are hurting other people because of your mental illness, it is your responsibility to get treatment so you no longer harm others. Victims should not have to accept abuse just because the perpetrators were mentally ill.]

To begin with, the “illness” they are talking about? Dissociative Identity Disorder [DID]. According to the DSM-5 [Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorder, Fifth Edition] DID is diagnosed through five criteria. For efficiency’s sake we will only be focusing on the first criteria (criteria A) which is detailed as followed: “A. Disruption of identity characterized by two or more distinct personality states, which may be described in some cultures as an experience of possession. The disruption of marked discontinuity in sense of self and sense of agency, accompanied by related alterations in affect, behavior, consciousness, memory, perception, cognition, and/or sensory-motor functioning. These signs and symptoms may be observed by others or reported by the individual.” [Information taken from: http://traumadissociation.com/dissociativeidentitydisorder#dsm5, further reading can be done at: https://www.healthyplace.com/abuse/dissociative-identity-disorder/dissociative-identity-disorder-did-dsm-5-criteria/]

The line “distinct personality states” is of significance here. Alters (also known as headmates or system members) are separate from the core/original. They are different people occupying the same space. Yes, there are alters known as fragments or shards that are not “complete” personalities, however out of a system of eleven only two of our members are fragments (Anya, a trauma holder and Frank, a protector, neither of whom can front independently). The other nine members of our system are fully formed and act independently of each other. For the purpose of this explanation we will however, not discuss certain members of our system for various reasons, largely because they never directly interacted with Ezri. They are as follows: Nina (a four to six year old child alter), Lucien (a 600 year old vampire priest), Harley (a fictive of Harley Quinn) as well as our fragments Frank (a fictive of Frank Castle, the Punisher) and Anya (a fictive of Anya from the 100). The alters that are important to our narrative are: Lucille (protector), L337 (protector), Gl!!tch/Glitch (protector), Luna (protector/headspace manager), AJAX (protector-ish) and ting (core).

I began my three-month altercation with Ezri on October 18th, 2017. They had known that I had DID and at first their general attitude about it was positive, even before we had begun dating.

[Transcript:

panpunksexual 09/27/2017 This is gonna sound dorky but the way I view you being a system is literally “well that means more friends”]

They continued to ask questions about it, claiming that they had a “pretty good understanding of it. The best I could get without being a system myself”

[Transcript: 

panpunksexual 10/24/2017 Did you ever think people wouldn’t want to date you because you’re a system? 

newt on a newt 10/24/2017 yeppp 

panpunksexual 10/24/2017 When I was first learning about it, I never thought it was weird and I still don’t. I was really curious about it, but I didn’t want to ask a bunch of questions and seem like [I] had a creepy fascination with it 

newt on a newt 10/24/2017 questions r good dw 

panpunksexual 10/24/2017 I think I have a pretty good understanding of it now. The best I can get without being a system myself I’m a pretty optimistic person, so I view it as just having more friends, even though I’m only dating you and not any of the others]

To continue with their claims about me, we come across the line “…his illness hurt other people.” No example of “other people” are given (likely because none can be found). My DID has never hurt anyone directly. My alters (predominantly L337, Gl!!tch and AJAX) have been rude or cruel to Ezri, which they should be held accountable for (even though they were simply attempting to defend me or themselves) and AJAX had previously caused me (and only me) physical harm but he is the only alter that has caused physical harm to anyone. Ezri continues with “But no matter how many times I asked, he would never get treatment so he wouldn’t hurt me anymore.” This is simply untrue, although the ‘treatment’ I am in may not be what he wanted.

If we look at this article by Natasha Tracy “DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER (DID) TREATMENT” [found here: https://www.healthyplace.com/abuse/dissociative-identity-disorder/dissociative-identity-disorder-did-treatment-challenging/] a list of treatment options and goals are provided. Treatment options are:

[Transcript: Dissociative Identity Disorder Treatment Types

Dissociative identity disorder is primarily treated with psychotherapy of various types. According to the Cleveland Clinic, the following are DID therapy types:

Psychotherapy – often thought of as “talk therapy.” This DID therapy encourages communication of conflicts and insight into problems.

Cognitive therapy – involves changing dysfunctional thought patterns.

Family therapy – helps to educate the family about the disorder, recognize its presence as well as work through issues that have developed in the family because of dissociative identity disorder.

Creative therapies such as art or music therapy – allows the patient to explore thoughts, feelings and memories in a safe and creative way.]

Treatment goals are as follows:

[Transcript: Dissociative Identity Disorder Treatment Goals

There are many dissociative identity disorder treatment goals. The goals of DID treatment include ensuring the safety of the patient, symptom relief as well as:

“Reconnecting” all existing DID alters into one, well-functioning identity

Allowing the person to safely express and process painful memories

Developing new and healthy coping skills

Restoring functionality

Improving relationships]

We are in therapy and have been for the past two years, seeing a therapist weekly (Wednesday’s at 5:30) which has been beneficial to us and helped us with symptom relief, safety (AJAX no longer poses a threat to me), processing trauma, developing functionality and improving relationships. The only area that we do not, have not, and will not ‘work on’ is integration. Integration is the 'reconnection’ of alters and is not a healthy or tenable option for us and would cause us more harm than good at this point in our lives. Our therapist, a trained medical professional, agrees. Ezri, who is a teenager and not a trained medical professional, decided otherwise and considered it the only acceptable form of treatment and only valid form of treatment. Please note that the only reason they say I should get treatment (which I have been in for two years) is for their benefit, not mine, not anyone else’s. Just theirs.

The third paragraph states “I am not ableist. I don’t believe that I’m better than him because I don’t have the illness he has. I wouldn’t mind him having his illness at all if he weren’t hurting other people.” He begins saying that he is “not ableist” despite the numerous derogatory remarks he has made towards me and my system members about DID, frequently calling them less than human or not real, saying that he is “how things should be” and that we are not normal or less than human.

(Please note, during this conversation Lucille is fronting.)

[Transcript:

newt on a newt 12/11/2017 DID is caused by childhood trauma that is so severe that a child’s brain cannot handle it, causing the mind to splinter and break, forming a completely separate personality. 

panpunksexual 12/11/2017 Yes I know that. But Tyler thinks that you are all real people when you’re not  You’re just in his head. It’s all in his head 

newt on a newt 12/11/2017 “It’s all in his head” much in the same way you are in your own head. 

panpunksexual 12/11/2017 Yeah, but I’m only one person. That’s how things should be. And I don’t like getting worried one of you will make me cut myself again 

[Tyler’s note: no-one encouraged/told/made him self-harm, they told him not to. This is guilt-tripping.] 

Or that one day Tyler will disappear and not come back 

Nobody thinks about how all this makes me feel]

[Transcript:

panpunksexual 12/11/2017 If you’re not the original then you’re not real either]

(Note, the alter fronting here is Gl!!tch/Glitch, who has several typing quirks which I will transcribe as an original version and as a readable version) 

[Transcript: 

newt on a newt 12/12/2017 s0 y0u sxx l337 as lxss than human? [so you see L337 as less than human?] 

panpunksexual 12/12/2017 Yeah]

Ezri clearly seems to view DID/being a system as something that is unnatural and wrong, something to be “fixed” even when it is important to my survival. Their actions and words indicate and are proof of their ableism, which they are not exempt from just because they aren’t neurotypical. Having BPD/BD does not mean he cannot be prejudiced against other people.

“I wouldn’t mind him having his illness at all if he wasn’t hurting other people.” As said before, my DID hurt no one but Ezri and even then it was only a few people acting in defense of me, more comparable to your best friends telling someone who is hurting you to go fuck themself that to being hurt by an illness. “Other people” were not being hurt as anyone who is close to me can attest. They are attempting to use unnamed and made-up “other people” to back up their ungrounded accusations.

I agree with their final paragraph, however 'treatment’ should not just be for other people. Mentally ill people deserve therapy and help for themselves, they deserve to get better and feel loved and accepted. And yes, victims do not have to accept abuse simply because the perpetrators are mentally ill which is why I am no longer excusing Ezri’s actions.

Therefore, we will be presenting all of our evidence against the false accusations that Ezri has made on their blog (shown at the top). This evidence will be separated across multiple posts, and a masterpost will be made.

[thelastspeecher]

Stan Pines, Farmhand - Chapter 16: This is How the World Ends

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3   Chapter 4   Chapter 5   Chapter 6 Chapter 7   Chapter 8   Chapter 9   Chapter 10   Chapter 11   Chapter 12 Chapter 13   Chapter 14   Chapter 15   Chapter 16   AO3

Holy shit, it’s finally done!  I’ve been working on this fic since October, and this AU series for over a year!  But it’s done!  I mean, as done as I’ll ever be; the multichaps are over, and all that’s left are random posts or ficlets I might make about it.  Thank you guys for all your support, it has been lovely, and so wonderful to write this, with all the love you guys have given me for my nonsense.  I love y’all, and I hope this is a satisfactory ending.  In this, the final chapter, plot lines are resolved, there is yelling and hugging and reconciliation, and Angie tells Ford off.  Enjoy~

Gsrh rh sld gsv dliow vmwh. Mlg drgs zm zklxzobkhv, yfg z xlmevihzgrlm. Zmw rg xivzgvh z xszmxv gl hgzig levi.

August 14, 2012

               Emily winced as the shouting from her parents’ bedroom reached new decibels.

               “I’ve never heard them fight like this before,” she said quietly.  

               “I wanna know what they’re saying,” Mabel said.  “But the last time Grunkle Stan caught me eavesdropping, he grounded me.  And then he said that if he caught me again, he’d cut off my ears, so I couldn’t do it anymore.  He probably won’t do that, but I asked for some cute earrings for my birthday, so…”

               “Ya don’t wanna risk it,” Emily finished.  Mabel nodded.  “I can try to listen, if ya want,” Emily offered.  “It’s not like they can really ground me anymore.”  Mabel beamed.

               “Thanks!”

               “You got it, cuz.”  Emily ruffled Mabel’s hair on her way to her parents’ bedroom.  She pressed an ear against the door.

               “I’m not gonna apologize for protectin’ you.  You and the kids,” Stan said firmly.

               “Ya didn’t protect me!  Ya lied to me!”

               “Bullshit.”  Stan’s short response was enough to stop Angie in her tracks.  

               “Excuse me?”

               “That’s bullshit.  I protected you.  I protected the kids.  Do you have any clue what woulda happened if I hadn’t kept all of this a secret?  Even with all the precautions I took, Bill still almost got the house this summer.” Emily’s eyes widened.

               Dad knows about Bill?  Did he overhear Uncle Ford talkin’ ‘bout him?

               “Who the hell is Bill and what does he have to do with ya lyin’ to me fer thirty fuckin’ years?!”  Emily’s jaw dropped.  

               I didn’t know Ma even knew real swear words.

               “Bill’s the asshole demon that possessed Ford and pushed ya down the stairs thirty years ago,” Stan said.

               Wait, what?  Bill hurt Ma?

               “All the more reason ya should’ve talked to me ‘bout this!” Angie said fiercely.  “If Bill is such an evil, manipulatin’, powerful bein’, ya needed someone to help ya out.”

               “Clearly, I didn’t,” Stan snapped.  There was a long, drawn-out silence.

               “Clearly,” Angie said in a subdued voice.  

               “Angie,” Stan started.  Emily could picture him moving toward her mother, reaching out his arms to comfort her.

               “Leave,” Angie said.  Emily blinked.

               That’s not usually how fights end with them.

               “…What?” Stan asked, like Emily, taken aback.

               “Leave me be, Stanley Pines.  I need some time to myself.”

               “You just got back, though.”

               “I know.”  Emily winced at her mother’s choked-up voice.  “I don’t want to be alone, I don’t want to be apart from ya.  Yer not the only one with old issues resurfacing.” Stan said something so quietly that Emily couldn’t make out what it was.  “Yes,” Angie said.  “So ya can understand why it hurts me to send ya away.  But- but we can’t sleep in the same bed tonight, Stan.”  

               “…Fine.”  There were footsteps.  Emily moved away from the door just before it opened.  Stan looked at his daughter.  “Squirt, how many times do we have to tell ya not to eavesdrop?” he said tiredly, closing his bedroom door.

               “I wasn’t eavesdropping!” Emily protested.

               “Kid.”

               “Okay, maybe I was.  But it was for a good cause!”

               “Mabel asked ya?”

               “Yeah, but I was gonna do it anyways.”

               “Figures.”  Stan took a seat on the floor in the hallway.  Emily sat down next to him.

               “Are ya sure you’ll be able to stand up again?” she asked.  Stan sighed.

               “Now’s not the time,” he said.  Emily looked down.

               “Sorry.”

               “Not yer fault.  Nope, it’s my fault.  All of it.” Stan groaned.  “This isn’t how today was supposed to go.  The first day of seein’ yer ma in months, well, if I hadn’t messed up like this, there’s no way we’d be spendin’ it in separate beds.  Can’t really do what we planned on in-”

               “Dad.”

               “Right.”  

               “It does suck, though,” Emily said.  “You thought Ma would be happy to have Uncle Ford back, and that Uncle Ford would be happy to be back and wouldn’t punch ya.  And ya didn’t think you’d be worried about yer twin stealin’ yer family from ya.”  Stan looked at Emily, startled.

               “What?”

               “Dad, I was there.  I was there durin’ yer very questionable run for the mayor of Gravity Falls.  I was there when ya started gettin’ worried over Uncle Ford and Dipper playin’ that weird graph paper game.  The same one Danny ‘n Daisy like fer some reason.  I’ve seen how nervous ya are that Mabel and Dipper like him better.”

               “Damn.  You’re too smart for yer own good, kiddo,” Stan said quietly.  

               “I know.”  Emily leaned against Stan.  “Things’ll work out.”

               “Ya keep sayin’ that.”

               “That’s ‘cause it’s true.  It’ll just take a while is all.”

               “Don’t have much summer left fer that.”

               “So?” Emily asked.

               “Never mind.”

               “No, tell me!”

               “Nope.  Help me up, will ya,” Stan said.  Emily groaned.

               “I guess.

----- 

August 17, 2012

               There was a gentle knock on Ford’s door.

               “Come in,” Ford said, concentrating on shaving.  The door opened.

               “Uh, Stanford, why are ya holdin’ a lighter so close to yer face?” Angie asked, staring at him.

               “Hmm?  Oh, I’ve found that this is much faster than traditional shaving.”

               “And more dangerous,” Angie said.  She took a few steps into the room and closed the door behind her. “Stanford, I didn’t get a chance to talk to ya yet.  Between the jetlag and the…emotional roller coaster, I’ve been too exhausted.  But I’ve gotten some rest, and feel refreshed. Which means we need to discuss what happened thirty years ago, and what’s happenin’ now.”

               “Okay.”  Angie took a seat on the couch and patted a spot next to her.  Ford reluctantly joined her.

               “Look, I’m glad to see ya.  But you made one hell of a mistake back then,” Angie said shortly. “Fidds told ya not to get dark magic involved, but ya still made a deal with a demon, and just about all of us paid the price.”

               “I’m sorry about that.  I didn’t think Bill was-”

               “Ya didn’t think a literal demon was bad news?  Stanford, yer supposed to be a genius.  Act like it,” Angie snapped.  Ford stared, surprised to hear such a cruel tone from her.  “Ya don’t owe me an apology just fer makin’ a deal with Bill.  Ya owe me an apology fer pushin’ me down those stairs. Ya put me in a coma.  My arm was broken.  I had to go through speech therapy ‘cause my stutter came back.  And my fam’ly was put through hell worryin’ ‘bout me.  Worryin’ ‘bout Fidds, and Stan, and you.  Stanford, we were terrified fer you.”  She sighed. “And then Stan told us that you were dead.”

               “I know.  I’m not very pleased with that.”

               “Don’t matter whether yer pleased with that.  Ya still owe some apologies.  And ya need to thank Stan fer bringin’ you back.  Emily told me ya never did that.”

               “I’m not going to thank Stan for endangering the entire universe,” Ford snapped. “And I’m sick of your judgmental tone!” Angie glowered.  Ford immediately regretted his words.

               “Yer over fifty years old, Stanford Pines.  So why are ya actin’ like a child?  And I should know what a child acts like.  I raised five of ‘em.”

               “…Five?”

               “Someone had to help Fidds with Tate.  You left a mess behind, and instead of thankin’ folks fer cleanin’ it up, or apologizin’ fer makin’ it, yer lashing out at yer own damn fam’ly.  My tone may be judgmental, but I’ve got good reasons to judge ya.  I have no clue what is so broken between you and Stan that ya can’t even recognize what he did fer you.  Was it perfect?  No. But it was still an enormous undertaking.”

               “I can’t thank someone who put my safety above others’.”

               “That’s what Stan does,” Angie said softly.  Ford looked down, her words connecting with the guilt he’d had in the back of his mind.  Angie played with her hands.  “Okay, I just have one thing left to say ‘fore I go hide from my husband some more.”

               “What?”

               “Don’t try to keep Dipper and Mabel away from the weirdness of Gravity Falls.”  Ford stared at her, thinking about what Stan had told him.

               “Why not?”

               “They’re kids.  They’ll mess with things ya tell ‘em not to.”  Angie sighed.  “Over thirty years of bein’ a dad, you’d think Stan would’ve figured that part out. But I prefer that you encourage them to look into things.  To be curious.  That way they know how to be safe ‘bout it.  Stan was right, Gravity Falls is dangerous.  But only if ya don’t know what yer doin’.  So show ‘em.  But show ‘em how to be safe, too.  No matter how difficult it is to break yer habit of throwin’ caution to the wind.”  Angie smiled weakly.  There was a hesitant knock.  

               “Yes?” Ford said.  Dipper opened the door.  

               “Great-Uncle Ford, I was wondering if you had any research you wanted to do today.  Mabel wants me to help plan our birthday party, so I thought I should check in first.” Dipper noticed Angie sitting next to Ford.  “Oh, hi Grauntie Angie.”

               “Howdy there, kidlet,” Angie said.

               “Actually, Dipper, yes, I do have something I could use your assistance on,” Ford said.  Dipper’s eyes widened eagerly.

               “Really?”

               “Yes,” Ford said.  Angie patted Ford’s leg.  

               “I’ll leave you two kooks to do yer research.”  Once the door had closed, Dipper looked at Ford.

               “So, what do you need me to help with?”

               “You recall the containment for the rift, yes?”

               “Yeah.”

               “Well, it’s cracking.”

----- 

               Emily hesitantly opened the door to her parents’ bedroom.

               “Ma?” she said cautiously.  Her mother looked up from the book she was reading and smiled.

               “Hey there, sweetling,” Angie said, putting her book to the side. Emily sat on the bed next to her. “What’s the reason fer ya stoppin’ by? Thought you were workin’ in the gift shop right now.”

               “I had Wendy cover me fer a few minutes,” Emily replied.

               “That Corduroy girl is somethin’ else,” Angie said.  

               “Yeah.  Look, Ma, here’s the thing.  Dad is- he’s really upset.  Like, really upset and-”  A stormy expression gathered on Angie’s face.  “-and that’s clearly not what I should be talkin’ about.”

               “I know yer dad feels bad fer what he did,” Angie said slowly.  “And he should.”

               “I know!  I know he should feel bad.  But maybe give him a break?” Emily suggested.  Angie shook her head.

               “No,” Angie whispered in a broken voice.  “No, I can’t.  Not yet. He lied to me longer ‘n you’ve been alive.”

               “Ma-” Emily started.

               “Leave me alone,” Angie said suddenly.

               “What?”

               “Em, I need some time alone.”

               “But-”

               “Emily Marlene Pines, leave me be!” Angie snapped.  Tears were standing in her eyes.  Emily bit her lip.

               “Sorry, Ma, I didn’t mean to-”

               “I know you didn’t, but I just can’t handle talkin’ ‘bout yer father right now,” Angie whispered.  She rubbed her eyes.  “Go, sweetie. I don’t want ya to see me cry like this.”

               “Ma-”

               “I mean it!  Get goin’!”

               “O-okay,” Emily stammered.  She stood up and walked over to the door.  Before she left, she looked back at her mother.  Angie’s head was in her hands, her shoulders shuddering from the force of her sobs.  

               “Yer ma’s still angry, huh?” a voice asked, the second Emily had closed the door behind her.  Emily spun around, startled.  Stan was in the hallway, looking abashed.  Emily rubbed her face.

               “Dad, I think she’s beyond angry right now.  Ya know how important tellin’ the truth is to her.  Everyone’s upset, including Mabel and-”

               “Wait, Mabel’s still upset?” Stan interrupted.

               “Uh, yeah.”

               “I thought I talked her down.”

               “Well, I saw her a few minutes ago and she was crying.  And I was goin’ to ask Ma fer help, but I brought you up, and that pissed her off, so I had to leave ‘fore I could ask.”  Stan frowned.  Emily recognized the look.  “What are you thinkin’ ‘bout?”  Stan rubbed his chin.

               “I’ve been wonderin’ if I should try that McGucket conflict resolution thing with Dipper and Mabel.”

               “Is that the same thing you and Ma had me do with Daisy?”

               “Yeah.  It worked with me and Ford, and we were way past what Dipper and Mabel are dealin’ with, so it should work for them.”  He sighed. “I’ve just been hopin’ that I wouldn’t need to, that they’d figure it out on their own.”

               “Dad…”

               “I know, I know.  I shoulda tried to fix things sooner.”  They heard the bell of the gift shop door jingle.  Voices carried to where Stan and Emily were standing.

               “Dipper and Uncle Ford are back,” Emily said quietly.  She looked at her dad.  “Now’s as good a time as any.”  

               “Yer right.  Go fetch Mabel, I’ll handle the nerds.  A fam’ly discussion is long overdue.”

----- 

               Soos walked into the living room, closely followed by Angie.

               “I brought her, dudes,” Soos said, gesturing to Angie.  She frowned.  

               “Jesus, you weren’t serious about the salamander you claimed to have found, were ya?”

               “…No,” Soos admitted.  Angie sighed and took a seat on the floor.

               “Fine.  What’s goin’ on here?  An intervention?”

               “I think so,” Mabel said slowly.  Her eyes were still red-rimmed from crying earlier.  “But I don’t know what it’s about.  I mean, after the last one, I stopped using glitter in everything I bake!”

               “This isn’t about glitter,” Emily, who was standing near one of the exits, said.  “It’s about how everyone in this house is upset, but no one’s doin’ anything ‘bout it. Ma’s avoiding Dad, Uncle Ford won’t explain whatever he’s doin’ in the basement, and I guess forgot how manners work, and now Dipper and Mabel are havin’ issues, too!”  Angie looked at Dipper and Mabel, concerned.

               “Is that true?” Angie asked.  Mabel looked away.  “What happened?”

               “Ahem, I’m the moderator,” Emily said. Angie raised her eyebrows. “…Ma.  But anyways, yeah, Dipper and Mabel, go ahead and explain what happened.”

               “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dipper said, crossing his arms.

               “Yeah right, apprentice,” Mabel scoffed.  Dipper stared at her.

               “How do you know about that?”

               “The walkie-talkies!  Doy!”

               “Wait, catch me up here,” Angie said, “Dipper’s an apprentice?”

               “Great-Uncle Ford asked me if I wanted to be.  I’d stay here in Gravity Falls and help him with his research,” Dipper explained.  Angie crossed her arms and glared at Ford.

               “He asked ya that, huh?”

               “And Dipper agreed!” Mabel burst out.  She sniffled.  “He’s- he’s gonna stay, and I’m gonna leave, and-”

               “But this is a huge opportunity for me,” Dipper said to Mabel.  

               “It’s a horrible opportunity for me!” Mabel shouted.  “You’re- you’re supposed to be the person I can count on.  I don’t wanna leave Gravity Falls behind, but- but when I thought you were gonna come back home with me, that was all right.  Now you’re not?  I- I don’t wanna grow up without you!”

               “Hold on,” Angie interrupted.  Mabel and Dipper looked at her, but she was still staring at Ford, clearly furious.  “Stanford, ya didn’t consult anyone about any of this.”

               “I-” Ford started.

               “If yer goin’ to ask a boy to leave his fam’ly behind, talk to ‘em first! I mean, I don’t think Caleb and Amelia would actually be comfortable with this.  But now ya went and got his hopes up over somethin’ that, logistically, won’t happen.”

               “Caleb and Amelia would be ecstatic, given my educational background and experience,” Ford said.

               “Just ‘cause yer smart don’t mean ya make good decisions,” Angie snapped. Ford glowered.

               “The boy needs space to develop his intellect!  He’s been suffocating, tied down by a twin that he’s never been apart from!”

               “Is that what you really think?” Mabel whispered.  Dipper stared at his twin, devastated.

               “No!  I- I never said that, Mabel, I promise!”

               “But you were gonna leave me.”

               “I-”  Dipper stopped.  “I don’t want to,” he said quietly.  “I don’t think I ever wanted to.  I just got caught up in, y’know, the coolness of it all.  Being an apprentice to the author of the journals.  Saving the world and whatever.  But I’d be spending my teen years cooped up in a basement, and without you.  And I don’t want that.”  Mabel smiled weakly at him.

               “And Mom and Dad would freak,” Mabel said.

               “Yeah.  They would,” Dipper said.  “Awkward sibling hug?”

               “Sincere sibling hug.”

               “See, Mabel?” Stan said, watching the two embrace.  “Like I told ya, you’ve got your brother with you. You’ll be fine.”

               “You’ll be fine, too, Grunkle Stan,” Mabel said confidently.  She patted Dipper on the back twice and they broke apart.  Stan smiled, but it was clearly insincere.  

               “If you say so, kiddo.”

               “Actually, Dad, that’s a really good segue,” Emily said.  She looked at Dipper and Mabel.  “You two can leave, if ya want.”  

               “And miss out on all the juicy gossip?  Please,” Mabel said, waving a hand.  Dipper nodded.

               “Yeah, like we’d leave of our own free will, when things are gonna start getting good?”  Emily looked over at Stan.

               “Dad, you can decide if they stay or not.  It’s yer business that we’re dealin’ with next.”

               “Great,” Stan muttered.  He sighed. “They can stay.  They’d eavesdrop even if we kicked ‘em out.”

               “You know it!” Mabel chirped.  Stan cracked a half-smile.

               “All right, then.  Onto Dad’s issues,” Emily said.  Stan closed his eyes with a groan.  “Who wants to go first, Ma or Uncle Ford?”

               “Ladies first,” Ford said, gesturing towards Angie.  Angie frowned.

               “Sure, yer quite the gentleman when yer tryin’ to avoid talkin’ ‘bout yer feelin’s,” she said snidely.  “You Pines folk ‘re all stunted emotionally, I swear.”

               “Ma,” Emily intervened.  Angie sighed.

               “Guess I’m up first.  Stan, ya did the wrong thing fer the right reason.  But I can take care of myself.  I don’t need unsolicited protection.”

               “I know,” Stan said.  “But when ya were comatose in a hospital bed, or gettin’ frustrated over how slow yer speech therapy was goin’, really didn’t seem that way.”

               “The lyin’ went on past that,” Angie replied.

               “Yeah.  It did. I’m sorry, Angie.”

               “This is the sort of thing married folks aren’t supposed to have. Secrets that go on fer thirty years. Is it any wonder I have issues lookin’ ya in the eye?” Angie asked, her voice breaking.  “Is it any wonder I can’t hardly be in the same room as ya? All that time, all that time spent together, happy, raisin’ our kids.  Now those good memories are- are poisoned.  ‘Cause you were lyin’ durin’ ‘em.”  Angie bit her lip and looked away.  “Sometimes…sometimes I wondered if ya were cheatin’ on me.”

               “What?  Angie, I would never-”

               “Cheat?  But how can I trust ya ‘bout that now, knowing yer lies?”  Angie shook her head.  “Maybe the blame’s on me, too, though.  I ain’t blind.  I knew somethin’ was happenin’.  I knew there was a reason you were runnin’ yourself more ragged than usual, that there was a reason ya suddenly developed an interest in what Stanford was workin’ on, that there was a reason ya had us move into yer dead twin’s house, and start up, of all things, a tourist trap.  I told myself you were just grievin’ in yer own way.  But I knew there was more, and if I hadn’t been too scared to actually figure out what else was goin’ on, maybe- maybe we wouldn’t be in such a rough spot right now.”  Angie finished her speech with a decrescendo, getting quieter as she neared the end, until the last few words were almost a whisper.

               “Angie, when we got married, you said there wasn’t anything that could make you leave me,” Stan said.  He swallowed. “Is that still true?”  Angie looked down.

               “It hurt every day I was in Maine,” she said softly, after a pause that was far too long for Stan’s liking.  “But not from old age.  From missin’ you.  I’m furious ‘bout all of this.  But I love you and the life we built together more ‘n I’m angry.”  She looked up, and there were tears standing in her blue eyes. Eyes that still had the same brilliance Stan had first seen forty-one years ago.  “Stanley Pines, I can’t think of a single thing that would make me leave.” Stan smiled weakly at her.  “Even with the lyin’, and my nightmares comin’ back, and everything feelin’ like it’s fallin’ apart, I- I can’t get over how much I love ya.  I ain’t leavin’.  I ain’t plannin’ on ever leavin’.”

               “I’m sorry that I dragged us into this mess,” Stan said.  

               “It- it is what it is, I s’pose.  All’s we can do now is try to move forward.  Work on the trust stuff a bit more.”  Angie and Stan shared a tentative smile.  Ford, who was standing near the tank Angie kept her favorite amphibians in, frowned.

               “Nightmares?” Ford asked.

               “Nothin’ to write home ‘bout, I don’t think.  Had ‘em a bit ‘fore Stan showed up at the farm, had ‘em a bit ‘fore you showed up at the farm, and they started up again while I was doin’ research in Maine this summer.”  Angie shrugged.  “But they stopped when I got back.  Put me in an awful mood fer Stan tellin’ me he got you home, though.  I was so exhausted and frustrated, even without the nasty things I was dreamin’.  With all of it together, I almost didn’t come home.”

               “Shi- shoot, Angie, if you didn’t come home,” Stan said, “I…I don’t know what I’d do.  Send the kids home?  Kick Ford’s a- butt for bein’ the reason?”

               “Mm.  Prob’ly both, knowin’ you,” Angie said.  She suddenly registered the concerned look she was getting from everyone else in the room, other than her husband.  “Wh- what’s the problem?”

               “Bill has the ability to cause nightmares,” Ford said.  

               “So?  The human psyche can make ‘em, too,” Angie said.  Ford nodded.

               “Yes, but the timing seems odd.  Your nightmares tend to have surges at crucial points.  Stan arriving at your house, and therefore not becoming a homeless criminal.  Stan and I meeting at your house, and therefore patching things up before we became too distant.  Stan telling you that I’m back, and therefore we can put a stop to Bill’s insanity once and for all.”

               “When yer stressed-” Angie started.

               “We set somethin’ up around the house,” Emily interrupted.  “It keeps Bill’s influence out.  He can’t peek into any minds here, can’t cause any nightmares. And yer nightmares stopped when ya came back.”  Angie was silent.

               “Violynn said that yer nightmares got so bad the first time, that yer folks almost didn’t leave,” Stan said quietly.  Angie looked at him.  “If yer folks didn’t leave when they did, they wouldn’t have found me.  And the second time, they talked about not lettin’ Ford come over.  And now…”

               “…Now I almost broke yer heart, which would’ve ruined everything else,” Angie whispered.

               “If Stan and I got in a physical altercation, or the kids went home, Bill would have found it much easier to gain access to the rift,” Ford said. “Frustration, anger…those emotions are ones Bill relies on.  He can finetune righteous fury until it fits his own perverted needs.”  Angie put her head in her hands.

               “I have a million questions,” Angie said quietly, “the first one bein’ what ‘the rift’ is.  But- I don’t think I’m ready fer the answer right now.  I thought it was bad enough, that demon puttin’ me in a coma.  But playin’ with my mind?  I-”

               “Yeah, it sucks,” Dipper said firmly.  Angie nodded.

               “Sure does, kiddo.”  After a long pause, Emily cleared her throat.

               “So…Dad and Uncle Ford?”

               “Are we seriously still doin’ this?” Stan demanded.

               “Yes.”

               “It’s been a long day, I think we could use a break,” Ford said.

               “Nuh-uh.  If we stop now, we won’t ever finish,” Emily said, shaking her head.  “So.  Dad and Uncle Ford.  Talk.”

               “Ford, up yours.”

               “What?!” Ford said.

               “Dad.  Not helpful.”

               “Fine.  Ford, thirty years ago, ya asked me to abandon my fam’ly, to save yer skin. Sure, that fight might’ve ended in me pushin’ you through the portal.  But it never woulda gotten that far if you didn’t put your own bullsh- crap above everyone else,” Stan snarled.  Ford glowered.

               “I put my problems above others’? Stanley, you were willing to risk the universe’s safety for your family, and then later, for me!”

               “I did what ya asked me to!” Stan snapped.  “You asked me to help you.  I did it.  And after thirty years of breakin’ my back to do what ya told me to do, we won’t even talk! Goddam- gosh dangit, Ford, I thought we were past this!”

               “So did I!” Ford shouted.  Dipper and Mabel exchanged a wide-eyed look.  “So did I,” Ford said, in a more reasonable tone.  He ran a hand through his hair.  “Why do we keep having this argument, over and over again?”

               “‘Cause whenever ya have problems, it always happens at the worst time,” Angie suggested.

               “Ma, yer not allowed to contribute,” Emily said.  Angie rolled her eyes.

               “No, that- that sounds right,” Ford said.  “Maybe we are emotionally stunted, unable to talk things out, until it builds and builds, and the only possible result is explosive.”

               “Does that mean yer gonna thank me?” Stan asked.

               “Only if you apologize to me,” Ford replied.  Stan frowned thoughtfully.

               “I’ll think about it.  But no matter what, I ain’t apologizin’ in front of the kids.  They’ll think I’m soft.”

               “You already said sorry to Grauntie Angie about ten times,” Dipper said.

               “Eh.  That’s different.”  

               “Are we done?” Ford asked Emily.  Emily nodded.

               “Actually, yeah.  Huh, and it took less time than me and Daisy did.”

               “Stanford, what is the rift?” Angie asked suddenly.

               “Essentially, it’s a rip in the fabric of the universe, a portal of sorts between our dimension and that of Bill’s.  It was created by Stanley turning on the portal,” Ford explained.

               “The big problem,” Dipper jumped in.  He stopped and looked at Ford, who nodded.  “The big problem is that Bill can come through it if it gets too big. So Great-Uncle Ford sealed it in a snow globe.”

               “The containment device is more durable than a snow globe, but continue,” Ford said.

               “But now, the containment device or snow globe or whatever it is, is cracking.”

               “Which means that the rift isn’t actually contained,” Angie said slowly.

               “Yes.  Dipper and I went to the UFO site today, to find alien adhesive to seal the containment device shut,” Ford said.

               “Seems like yer tryin’ to put a bandaid over a gunshot wound,” Angie said. “That ain’t goin’ to work in the long run!”

               “I just needed to buy some time, until I find a better solution,” Ford said.

               “Didn’t you meet anyone in other dimensions who might be able to help out?” Emily asked.  Ford paused.

               “Actually, yes.  But Jheselbraum is busy, and I don’t have a way of visiting her dimension.”

               “Does she have a cellphone?” Mabel asked.  “You could call her.”  Ford rubbed his chin.

               “No, she doesn’t have a cellphone…but you’re right.  I could call her.  Through other means, of course.”

               “Great!  And now that all the end of the world things are taken care of, we can finally start planning the birthday party!” Mabel said enthusiastically.  Angie chuckled.

               “You really have a one-track mind, don’t ya, darlin’?”

----- 

September 2, 2012

               Ford stood on the porch of his house, if it could be called that anymore, given the discussions that were going on about the Mystery Shack’s future.

               “I can’t live here anymore,” Ford said abruptly, the night of the “intervention”.  He, Stan, and Angie were enjoying some much needed alcoholic beverages.

               “Why not?” Stan asked.  

               “It’s just changed so much.  It’s not the same place I left.  Even if I wanted to live in a house that also functions as a tourist trap, I can’t do that if it doesn’t feel like home.”

               “Then where will ya go?” Angie asked, idly stirring her rum and coke.  

               “Not sure.  Unless…maybe I could get the Stan O’War up and running.”

               “What?” Stan said.  “You- you wanna go on an ocean adventure?”

               “Yes.  I think it would be a nice break from all of the…”

               “Drama,” Angie suggested.

               “Bullshit,” Stan said.

               “Well, yes, this summer has been full of both of those things.”  Ford looked down at his glass tumbler.  “But I don’t think I could crew her on my own.”  Stan was silent.  “I don’t want to take you from your family, Stan-”

               “My kids are all grown up, Angie’s busy findin’ evolutionary missing links.  All I do is sit around, bein’ old,” Stan said.  He grinned.  “Finally doin’ a trip on the Stan O’War sounds pretty great to me, Sixer.”

               “You two could use some bondin’ time,” Angie added.  “So’s long as ya don’t disappear off the face of the earth, I think I can handle bein’ apart from Stan fer a few months.  Done it before.”  She looked at Stan.  “But the two of ya wouldn’t be able to leave fer a bit, y’know.”

               “Oh, yeah, there’s a thing.  The whole fam’ly’s goin’.  I can’t go until after it.”

               “That’s fine.  The extra time will be useful.  I can put some affairs in order, adjust the ship to be suited for my research, et cetera,” Ford said.

               “Or you could come to the party,” Angie suggested. Ford blinked.

               “Um, I don’t know how wise that would be.  I don’t even know what it’s for.”

               “A birthday.  Yer welcome to come,” Angie said.  She picked up on his hesitation.  “But you can think about it a bit ‘fore ya make up yer mind.”

               “Geez, Angie, what do ya take us for?  People who think before doin’ things?” Stan asked sarcastically.

               “Clearly ya aren’t, since ya haven’t discussed what you’ll do with the Mystery Shack.”

               “Shut it down, obviously,” Stan said.  Angie stared at him, aghast.

               “And break poor Jesus’s heart like that?”

               “Why do ya call him by his full name?”

               “Why do ya not realize how much this dumb ole place means to him?” Angie retorted.  Stan sighed.

               “Like always, you have a point.  Soos is a good kid.  He shouldn’t have to watch the Shack shut down.”  He frowned thoughtfully.  “Hmm. I bet the Mr. Mystery suit would look good on him.”  Angie smiled.

               “That’s more like it.”

               Ford shook himself out of his memories and watched his twin load up the Stanleymobile.  Emily tossed Stan a large duffel bag.  Stan caught it, but stumbled slightly under the weight and force of the throw.  Ford smiled as Emily laughed.

               “Yer losin’ yer touch, old man,” Emily said teasingly.  Stan rolled his eyes and stuffed the duffel bag into the trunk.

               “I’m just goin’ easy on ya.  What with you bein’ my daughter and all,” Stan said.  Emily snorted.

               “Sure, Dad.”  Ford heard the front door open.  Angie walked past with another bag of luggage.  

               “Geez, how much crap do you guys have?” Stan asked.  Angie went over to her husband.

               “This is yer stuff, darlin’.  And it’s the last of it.”  Stan took the bag from her and put it in the car, then closed the trunk.  “All right, you two, we ain’t stoppin’ fer a while. Bathroom break now or hold it,” Angie said briskly.  Emily shook her head.

               “I’m good, Ma.”

               “Then let’s load up,” Angie said.  Stan opened the door of the Stanleymobile for her, eliciting a laugh. Angie kissed him on the cheek before getting into the back seat.  Emily joined her mother.  Stan closed the door.

               “So, where are you headed, again?” Ford asked.

               “We’re gonna stop by San Diego to pick up Emmett, and then go to the farm,” Stan replied.  “The whole fam’ly’s gonna be there to celebrate the triplets’ birthday.”  He looked at Ford.  “Includin’ Fidds, Tate, and Tate’s kids.  You made up yer mind about comin’?”  Ford rubbed the back of his neck uncertainly.  On the one hand, he was eager to see his son and grandchildren. On the other, it had been thirty years.

               The McGuckets probably wouldn’t want to see me.

               “You probably need the extra space for Fiddleford,” Ford said.  Stan shook his head.

               “Nah.  Fidds headed out yesterday,” Stan said.  Angie rolled down the car window.

               “I didn’t sit in the back seat fer nothin’, Stanford!” she shouted teasingly. Ford cracked a small smile.

               “I really don’t know if I should intrude…”

               “Intrude?  Ford, it’s pretty damn difficult to crash a fam’ly gatherin’ if yer fam’ly,” Stan said. “Seriously.  Ya comin’?”  Ford looked at his house.

               I don’t think I can call it that anymore.  He looked back at his twin, his sister-in-law, and his niece.  His smile grew broader.  

               “…Yes.”

[aenariasbookshelf]

New Fic: Geode

For all of you who have asked for museum based makeouts featuring Steve and Darcy, here you go, as promised. ;)  I borrowed some elements from the Valentine’s Day Exchange fic that I am still attempting to work on (and that story is not flowing, much to my chagrin, ugh) so you may see some of those things popping up in a fic in the future.  Until then, however, hopefully my recipient enjoys this little sample of Shieldshock instead.  Note that the story is unbeta’ed and was written under the influence of hard cider, so needless to say any mistakes are entirely my fault and this will definitely be cleaned up and possibly retitled before actually getting posted to AO3.

Gets a little, mildly nsfw at one point, so the bulk of this story is going under the cut.

And as cider clearly makes me babble, I’m shutting up now and letting the story speak for itself.

**********

Like all good things in Steve’s life, this one started with a party and a monkey suit.  Oh, who is he kidding, nothing good came of that silly costume the USO stuffed him into, despite the amount of posters that had come out showing off the merits of his physique.  But it’s a Stark Industries sponsored masked ball at the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan, of all places, and if the downside to not going would be having to endure Pepper’s most disappointed look aimed in his direction, he’ll suck it up, put on the damn domino mask, and take one for the team.  

Then again, sometimes these events can surprise him.  Or at least the people in attendance can be entirely surprising and intriguing and just make him want to know more about them.

It’s not exactly a meet-cute, as Tony would call it later on as he laughs at the memory of Steve’s misfortune.  Rather, it’s a combination of small errors that lead to a slightly drunken local assemblyman gesturing wildly with a full glass of champagne that ends up splashing over Steve and the young woman in a cat-shaped mask decorated with tiny silver stars standing next to him talking to Thor and some other people.  The young woman yelps and turns to give the assemblyman a glare, brushing away champagne from the cut-out slit of her dress that runs down her torso.

(Steve isn’t looking, he swears it.  It’s just that the movement of her hands is distracting.)

Steve digs a handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to the woman, who takes it with a grateful smile and turns to mop up herself discreetly.  The assemblyman is hustled off by an embarrassed assistant who just shakes his head and mutters statements of apology.  “I am so sorry about that,” Steve says, trying to get off all of the champagne from his suit jacket.

“It’s not your fault some other jerk doesn’t know his limits,” the woman says with a scoff and an eyeroll.  “Thanks for the handkerchief,” she continues, handing the now damp rag back to him with a dubious look.  

“You’re welcome.”  

There’s a split second of time where the world pauses for a moment, possibilities about the universe and its consequences spiraling out in every direction.  “Can I get you a new drink to make up for it?” Steve blurts out, which makes her smile beneath the cat shaped mask.

“Yeah.  That’d be great.”

Behind her Thor looks oddly smug, and raises his glass in Steve’s direction with a nod of approval.

They spend the rest of the gala sitting on a bench in front of a Jackson Pollock painting talking, masks off and resting on the leather cushion between them.  And it...it’s good, Steve thinks.  Entirely unexpected, but connections can be found in the most random of places.  Her name is Darcy, he learns, assistant to Jane Foster, former poli-sci major, technically a New York native though this is the first time in years she’s actually lived in the state.  A bundle of sass wrapped up in a small package...and a kind heart over all of that.  Not to mention attractive, in a simple black dress with a cutout in the front that shouldn’t make his mouth go dry, but it does anyway.

**********

Darcy fully admits to herself that Steve intrigues the hell out of her.  Yeah, there’s the whole Captain America thing, but that’s just gloss on the surface, the mask that he’s making sure people see before they can get to the squishy insides.  Dry as the desert sense of humor and a steel backbone, and something innately good about him.  That’s something that she’s discovering originates with Steve Rogers, and Captain America got it from him, not the other way around.  

He’s kind of lost, Darcy thinks, stealing a glance at him as he stares at the painting on the wall in front of them.  Even though it’s been a few years since he’s woken up in the future, he still walks around like he’s not quite there.  “What are you thinking?” she asks, tipping her chin in the direction of the picture.  She knows that once upon a time he was an art student, not that long before these pictures were being created.  Hell, given Pollock’s history there’s every chance that Steve could have run into him somewhere in New York back in the day.

“It’s alive,” Steve says after a while.  “Kinda rough, scratching at the edges, but always moving.  And army green,” he finishes with a smirk.

“It makes me think of static,” Darcy says, turning her own eyes towards the painting.  “Like an old TV that’s been turned to a channel without reception.  But if you keep looking at it you’ll spot the moving pictures inside of it, swirling around and then disappearing again.”  Her eyes slide back to Steve, lips pursing for a brief moment.  “You know, the Brooklyn Museum’s got a pop art exhibit that I’ve been wanting to go see.  You in?”

**********

He kisses for the first time on their third museum date, in a shadowy corner of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in one of the little alcoves of the Temple of Dendur.  The weight of history is all around her, and yet, Darcy feels like she’s staring straight into the future for once.

**********

“I mean, you can’t deny it’s adorable,” Tony says a few months later as he’s working on finessing the final plans for the magnetic shield holder for Steve’s arm.  “You and the lab assistant going on cute little museum dates, rounded out by a shared milkshake afterwards.  It’s like the best of 1950s innocent Americana brought to life.”  Steve frowns, wanting to object to the whole innocent part of it, because dammit, they’re both adults and deserve to be treated as such, complete with all of the aspects that an adult relationship entails.  Then again, he’s never been one to kiss and tell.  

“People seem to be under the impression that all we do is look at art and hold hands,” Steve whispers to Darcy that night as he slides inside her, a slow stretch that makes her exhale a gasp and dig her heels into his thighs.  “I didn’t want to disabuse them of the notion.”

“They should know that good art combines all of those things,” Darcy replies, running her hands up his abdomen to curve over the muscles in his shoulders.  Then they move down his arms until she laces their fingers together, tugging them up over her head as she arches her back, nipples high and tight and dragging against the skin of his chest.  “The sacred and the profane, the messy and the precise, the, uh....”  Words fail her as Steve thrusts again, eyes falling shut and fingernails digging into the back of his hands.  “What was I saying?  I forget.”

“Good.”  Steve dips his head down and kisses her hard, driving the rest of the words right out of her brain as he keeps moving.

**********

It’s one of those strange hours for a museum, the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday, when the room is filled with ancient arts from faraway lands, yet nearly devoid of human life.  Liminal space, Darcy thinks as they wander through, not quite one thing or the other but something entirely new.  Normally they wouldn’t even be at a museum on a weekday afternoon, but Steve’s only just returned from a long, brutal mission and Jane was kind enough to give her the day off so they could do something that helps him to feel less like a robot soldier and more like a human once more.  The cold sleet outside that keeps rattling against the large windows lining the gallery seems to have done a great job of keeping people away from the Met that day, even though this is New York - it’s rare to find a place this quiet, even on a rainy day in the middle of Manhattan.   

Somewhere there’s a docent wandering around, but whoever it is they’re discreet enough to not be spotted.  The calm and quiet is enough to allow Steve to slump down a little, like he’s shaking off the blanket of command from his shoulders, and he sits on the bench in the room, staring around at the fine wooden statues that loom over them, keeping watch like silent sentries.  “Feel better?” Darcy asks, running a hand over the back of his neck.  

“Getting there.”  He shakes his head, steepling his fingers over his mouth.  “Sometimes it just feels like an act in futility.  That no matter what you do you can’t help everybody.”

“Well, you probably can’t help every single person.  That’s just impossible,” Darcy points out.  

“The head knows that.  The heart’s kinda stupid sometimes, though.”

“No, it’s not.”  She leans over, presses a damp kiss to his shoulder.  “I like your heart exactly how it is.”

Steve places a hand on her face and pulls her mouth to his, kissing her deeply.  His other hand goes around her waist and all but tugs her into his lap, bringing her as close as he can given the setting.  There’s nothing innocent about these kisses, Darcy knows, even though they’re just one of the many variations of kisses that they’ve shared.  These kisses are full of intent and promise, and if they weren’t technically in public Darcy would throw him down on that bench right there and go for a ride.

Then she feels Steve’s hand skate up her bare leg, trailing underneath her skirt until his fingers are tracing the lace edging where her panties meet skin.  “Really?” she mumbles against his mouth, even though she is most certainly not protesting.  

“Shh,” he whispers back, two fingers dipping below the lace to glide along her folds.  “Don’t want to attract attention.”  His other arm goes around her waist, holding her in place as he spreads the growing wetness around and up to her clit, running the pad of his finger over the hood.  Darcy just sinks her teeth into lower lip and nods, shifting her seat so that he’s got a little bit more room to work.  And damn, if he doesn’t know exactly how to touch her, a finger pressing firmly up against her g-spot while his thumb runs in tight circles around her swollen bud, winding her up tighter and tighter.  Darcy allows her eyes to fall shut, reveling in the feelings building up inside of her and directing all of her focus on that.

At one point Steve pauses, his hand retreating to her knee.  She can feel him trying to modulate his breathing under her, and she opens her eyes to see the docent slowly strolling past them.  And while the docent doesn’t seem to be looking at them with any sort of suspicion, Darcy can’t even bring herself to breathe until he’s gone past them.  “Too close,” she sighs.

“Should I keep going?” Steve asks, flicking his tongue against the shell of her ear, which he knows full well will ratchet up her arousal and turn her to putty in his hands.  

“Don’t you dare stop,” Darcy replies, muffling her moan against his shoulder as his fingers find her center once more.  It doesn’t take much beyond that before she’s falling apart in his arms, clenching around his fingers and nearly ripping a hole in his shirt as she holds the noises back.  She can feel his soft smile against her forehead, and she runs her hand up through his hair once more, stretching up to nuzzle her nose against his.

The docent walks by once more, and this time it’s all too clear to see the suspicion in his face.  “We should probably move,” Steve whispers.  

Much to Darcy’s amusement, he has her walk directly in front of him until they’re safe in the cab, away from prying eyes who may comment on his substantially aroused state.  “Hey, it’s your own fault; this was entirely your idea,” she says around a giggle as she runs a hand up his thigh.  “We’ll be back at yours in fifteen minutes,” Darcy continues as she traces the seam with one fingernail.  

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Steve says, taking her hand and moving it to safer territory while Darcy just keeps giggling.

**********

She grabs his hand and tugs him into the shadowy rooms, a smile dancing around pink painted lips and the fall of dark hair curving over her shoulders as she looks back at him.  “This was always my favorite room as a kid,” Darcy says, “so let’s see if it holds the same appeal now that I’m supposedly an adult.”  

While Steve has been to the American Museum of Natural History before, both pre and post ice, this room is entirely new to him, and it is an impressive sight.  Most of the lighting in the Hall of Minerals comes from the cases full of stones in every shade in the rainbow, some carved and polished, others in a rough, crystalline natural state that gleam and glimmer amidst the shadows.  The dark walls and the carpeting fade into the background, leaving all of the attention on the stones.  In the center of the circular room there are a few circular steps leading up to a pedestal that’s got a massive multicolored block of a stone standing on it, a spotlight aimed on it from above.  

Darcy stops in front of a giant amethyst geode that’s nearly the same size as she is set into the wall, deep purple points reflecting off of her glasses as she tilts her head to take it in.  “I always liked the geodes best,” she says quietly, like if she were to speak any louder it’d disrupt the air inside of the room.  “Rough on the outside, but crack them open and they fucking shine.”  

“Like taking off the mask and seeing the human behind it,” Steve murmurs, his mind going back to the first night they met so many months ago and that moment when the masks came off, leaving messy hair and smudged mascara in their wakes and making it that much easier to see the person there and make a real connection.  

“Bingo.”  Darcy reaches for his hand once more and tangles their fingers together, leading him to the next wall display.  “I used to have a rock collection as a kid, you know,” she blurts out, giving Steve a sheepish grin in the process.  

There’s something about the non-sequitur that’s so out of the blue and so entirely Darcy that Steve can’t help but smile back at her and back her against the wall between the geode displays, kissing her firmly enough until he’s certain that she understands exactly what he’s trying to say.

**********

Some links that helped me write the story:

http://www.jackson-pollock.org/one-number31.jsp (the Pollock painting)

https://www.moma.org/explore/inside_out/2012/07/25/where-is-one-momas-jackson-pollock-conservation-project/ (the room I imagine Steve and Darcy sitting and talking in during that first meeting)

http://www.amnh.org/exhibitions/permanent-exhibitions/earth-and-planetary-sciences-halls/harry-frank-guggenheim-hall-of-minerals (the final museum room they go to, because this really is one of my favorite museum exhibits ever)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harry_Frank_Guggenheim_Hall_of_Gems_and_Minerals

http://www.polyvore.com/valentines_day_inspiration/set?id=216562287 (Darcy’s outfit)

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/245938829632437586/ (Darcy’s mask)

And now I’m going to sleep, because I feel like I’ve hit the point of delirium.  Night, all!

[lindyhunt]

The Ultimate List of Marketing Tips

Googling “marketing tips” is like looking up a #MondayMotivation quote to post on Instagram … there are so many, and they all think they’re the very best.

If you think about it, though, finding the “best” marketing tip is relative — to your audience, resources, and marketing goals. What works for one business might not work for another. The same thing goes for #MondayMotivation quotes … and that’s why there are so many to choose from. We’re all different, and we’re all motivated by different things. And that’s a good thing.

But, how do you, as a marketer, consolidate those differences and find a new practice or process that works for you, your audience, and your product or service? Well, you experiment. You try new things. You learn from the experts and those who’ve come before us.

That’s why we’ve compiled this “ultimate list.”

We reached out to a bunch of INBOUND18 breakout speakers and asked them to share their very best marketing tip. Some responses have to do with their personal work, others are relevant to the company of which they’re apart, and a few are just really cool and new perspectives on tried and true marketing practices.

The best part about this list? It’s diverse — in terms of the answers and the people who gave them. There’s lots of great stuff in the responses below, so take your time combing through and take a few notes along the way. You never know what you’ll learn from your peers in the field.

The Ultimate List of Marketing Tips (From Marketers Just Like You)

On prioritizing your target audience …

“The best way to make sure things resonate is to put the audience at the center. The things we want to tell our audience, and the way we want to reach them, may not be the same as the things they need to know and the way they want to be reached. If we start with our audience’s needs, preferences and questions first, and build our marketing plans around that, we’ll likely be met with much greater success and we’ll see better results!”

-- Melanie Deziel, Keynote Speaker and Founder of StoryFuel

On personal branding on LinkedIn …

“Stop writing in the third person when it comes to your (or your business’s) LinkedIn summary. Your summary is not a boring bio; it's your introduction to the person viewing your profile, it's a handshake. Make it warm, personal, and don't be afraid to sprinkle your personality into it. It's your first impression — make it a lasting one!”

-- Michaela Alexis, Espresso-Fueled Expert on LinkedIn Personal Branding, Michaela Alexis

On the value of customer trust …

“I define sales as a meaningful transaction between two human beings, so before asking for anything, a customer’s trust must be earned. Brands need to build narratives that align with their organization’s values and then communicate those values to their customers. This leads to increased trust which then translates to brand advocates. Look at the passion of Beyoncé fans or Harley Davidson riders — those brands have created an identity that makes people feel like they’ve added value.”

-- Amanda Slavin, CEO & Founder of CatalystCreativ

On creating memorable marketing messages …

“Lots of marketers aspire to create memorable messages. Making something distinct increases the likelihood that it will be better remembered. If you have cereal in your kitchen on most mornings, pizza served in bed will be distinct. To create distinct, memorable messages, first detect pockets of similarity in your industry. You need some similarity in order for the brain to detect distinctiveness. Second, ensure that your distinct message fits within known mental models and then play off of them. Returning to the breakfast example, “having a snake for breakfast” would be too provocative and wouldn’t fit within existing mental models. Change the question of “How do I create a distinct message?” to “How do I twist an existing mental model?” to increase the chances of becoming memorable.”

-- Carmen Simon, Cognitive Neuroscientist, Author, and Founder of Memzy

On using events to set your business apart …

“In 2019, businesses will utilize event strategies more than ever before as human experiences will be how companies choose to differentiate themselves, especially those that can’t do so through technologies. The key to any great event strategy is very simple — identify the memory you want attendees to walk away with and work backwards. “

-- Kenny Nguyen, CEO of ThreeSixtyEight

On creating a dual content strategy …

“All content consumption is driven by two things: active search and passive discovery. Search takes place on channels like Google, YouTube, and voice. Discovery is driven by word-of-mouth, social algorithms, and media coverage. Consider splitting your content strategy into two — developing one strategy that optimizes for all search algorithms (not just Google) and one geared toward social algorithms and influence-driven channels. Youtube is a fascinating channel in that it is both the world’s second biggest search engine and a leader in passive discovery-mode viewing. When tackling YouTube, consider crafting your content to solve for one of those roles. Create highly findable, how-to content for your area of expertise or a truly engaging editorial series of videos, perhaps on two separate channels.”

-- Meghan Anderson, VP of Marketing at HubSpot

On investing in paid social …

“Everything has gone paid on social media. Gone are the days of brands organically growing audiences. Facebook and Google want your money, so give it to them. Never before has data and targeting been so deep and effective. Brands that nail paid social take control of their future.”

-- Travis Chambers, Chief Media Hacker and Founder of Chamber Media

On customer experience before the purchase …

“In 2019, customer experience initiatives will become inseparable from marketing strategy. Today’s customer wants a consistent, multichannel experience with a brand, and as marketers,  we have to make sure we’re meeting customers where they are. By making valuable connections throughout the buyer’s journey, we build a positive long-term relationship. Customer experience is no longer something that happens after the sale: it’s an integral part of the buyer’s journey.”

-- Patrika Alis, Customer Experience Marketing Manager at Hanzo

On the importance of consistency …

“SELF is a nearly 40-year-old brand competing in the buzzy and crowded health and wellness space. In order to stand out, we had to lean in to what really makes us special. That meant clearly honing our mission and values: We help people make the best choices for their personal health and wellbeing. And we do that by adhering to the values of inclusivity, accuracy, empathy, and autonomy. From there, it's all about making sure that everything we do ladders up to that greater vision. That consistency is key to our success.”

-- Carolyn Kylstra, Editor in Chief at SELF

On repurposing content …

“As both content marketing as a standard practice and your own content marketing program mature, it becomes more and more detrimental to ignore your old content. Having tons of old, outdated, and unoptimized content on your site is like forgetting to untag the most embarrassing pictures from college on your Facebook profile. Even though may not think about them anymore, they're still there, and people can find them and use them in creating their first impression of you. The more content you have, the more time you need to be spending monitoring, updating, and repurposing old content instead of creating new stuff.”

-- Brittany Berger, B2B Content Marketing Strategist at BrittanyBerger.com

On using data to connect the dots …

“Identifying, precipitating and connecting metrics that have a real business impact are arguably the most important things a data-driven marketer can do. It's critical to step back and ask, "Are we closing the loop between marketing activities and actual sales data?" What further separates the great marketers from the good ones is the ability to connect the dots in time to maximize customer impact. If you take too long to apply what your data is telling you, your customer will likely move on to a competitor. As marketers, we're lucky to be swimming in a sea of data and technology solutions, but make sure that your technology solutions allow you to quickly link your marketing efforts with results you can take to the bank!”

-- Sahil Jain, Co-founder & CEO of Adstage

On building a story around your product …

“As a product marketer, stories have become a crucial part of my day-to-day. Twenty years ago, a company could launch a product with simple messaging, and advertising. Over time, buyers have been exposed to so many messages they now filter out overly promotional ones. So, as you consider launching a new product, or an update to an existing product think about these two tips. First, it's not about your company. Your team built that product for a reason that matters to consumers, so ensure your messaging is squarely focused on them. Second, look at changes happening in the broader world. Tie your product message into a story with that overall narrative and show them how they can lean-in to that change to find success. It's a formula we've used at HubSpot, and our team continues to use for product launches.”

-- Jeffery Vocell, Senior Product Marketing Manager at HubSpot

On how to properly analyze events …

“Treat your live event portfolio just like you would any other marketing channel, rather than just something you manage for your sales team. Events need to be assessed with hard metrics, rather than just 'gut-feel' opinions and feedback forms to rate the coffee. Measure attendee engagement, rather than simply counting who registered and who showed up, as this is a great proxy for the effectiveness the event. Finally, integrate this data into your CRM, so marketing is driving event follow up (and keeping those sales teams happy at the same time!)”

-- Mike Piddock, Founder of Glisser

On telling visual brand stories …

“Attention is at the heart of marketing — getting it and keeping it. Arresting, powerful visuals are your key to capturing people’s attention, and storytelling is going to keep and help you turn that attention into something you can use. There isn’t a brand flourishing now without beautiful visual language and a compelling story. Google, Apple, Dropbox, Slack, Nike … you name it. As for Prezi, we wouldn't even exist without both of these factors being absolutely vital in any brand’s success.”

-- David Hooker, Head of Creative Services and Evangelism at Prezi

Over to You

Did you learn something new from our ultimate list? How about a new perspective on an old methodology? We compiled such a diverse list in hopes of providing a piece of advice for everyone. Now, go forth and use these marketing tips to grow your business in 2019 and beyond.