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queenbirbs · 4 years

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I was the son you always had | Ethan x MC

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x MC

Warnings: discussion of drug use, language, neglect

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: Ethan confronts Louise. Post chapter 13.

Notes: Title taken from the Bear’s Den song “Above the Clouds of Pompeii.”

------

The years have not been kind to Louise Ramsey.

If that’s still her surname, of course, Ethan isn’t sure. It’s what he gave Marlene for the admission forms; she had the wherewithal, at least, to not even bat an eye at the name. He’s always liked Marlene, even if attempting to curb hospital gossip is like trying to put out a fire with an eyedropper. Having been fourteen hours since she was admitted, it’s no secret that Doctor Ramsey’s mom is the OD in room 532.

It’s the same room he’s standing in front of, trying to gather his wits. The rest of the staff look on from behind their pillars and charts, as if the art of discretion is lost on them all. Ethan stamps down on the reflex to bark and snarl at them. It’ll only stoke the flames if he does.

“You have to turn the knob to open it.”

That tight feeling in his chest eases up a fraction. He turns to see Sloane, propped up against the wall beside him. In a sea of a thousand curious faces, her expression of concern is a welcome sight. Resisting the urge to reach for her, he opts for a look of disappointment at the joke, or attempt thereof. She answers with that gentle smile of hers, the one where the left corner of her mouth crinkles up and her dimple appears. Her gaze drifts from his and over to the window; on the other side is Louise, the pallor of her face covered in a light sheen of sweat. The hands that used to hold his as they crossed the street tremble around the pages of whatever magazine she’s pretending to read.

“I don’t know why I’m bothering. I already know why she’s here.”

“No, you think you know why,” Sloane says, and he hates it, but he knows she’s right. “The only way to know for certain is to talk to her.”

“And what would that conversation sound like? Hi, I’m Doctor Ramsey, the son you left without a backwards glance when he was eleven years-old. How was the turkey sandwich you had for lunch?”

She leans her temple against the wall, her eyes glazing over in that familiar way that tells him she’s deep in thought. After the eleven hours she’s been here, thick strands have come loose from her messy bun to settle against her neck. The urge to sweep them away, to settle his hand there and massage at the tight lines is a fierce one.

“Treat her how you would a patient. Ask her about her pain management, about her next steps once she’s discharged. That will give you a feel for her attitude towards you, and towards herself in general. It’ll give you a foundation to start with.”

Reaching out, Sloane squeezes his arm once, then twice, before letting her hand fall away. He misses the warmth of her immediately.

“Alright,” he sighs. “Yes, thank you, that… helps. Truly.”

Before he can work up the nerve, she beats him to his next question.

“I’ll be in the office when you’re done, if you--”

“Yes.”

That smile winks at him again as she pushes off the wall and heads down the hallway. Ethan watches her for as long as he can, until the throng of staff swallows her up. Turning back to the door, he catches Louise watching him before her eyes dart back to her magazine. She hasn’t turned the page for quite some time, and he doubts the full-page cologne ad is somehow keeping her attention. Before he has to resort to a pep talk, he turns the knob and steps inside.

Louise looks up as he closes the door behind him.

“Oh. Hello.”

“Hello,” he greets through a throat stuffed full of cotton. “I’m Doctor Ramsey. I’m here to perform a check up and see how things are going.”

Her mouth opens and closes, her eyes growing wide beneath her bangs.

“Well, okay, yeah, but -- I mean, I know you. I know who you are. You’re my son.”

The angry retort he prepared never comes, drowned out by the roaring pulse in his ears as he picks up her chart from the foot of the bed and reads through it.

“Yes, I’m aware.” He brushes off her words and continues in a forced monotone. “We’ve got you on lofexidine to help reduce the detox symptoms. Even with the assistance, those symptoms will likely peak in the next day or two, depending on how heavy your usage is.”

“I know.” She toys with the magazine as she speaks. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

Ethan lifts his gaze from the chart and looks -- really looks -- at his mother for the first time in twenty-six years. The dark brown hair she used to tease with her can of Aqua Net, making the hallway outside the bathroom smell of chemicals, is now a sallow gray. The warm arms that would hug him tight are gaunt from malnutrition. The bright face that he remembers smiling down at him, or blowing raspberries against his cheek, or peeking around his door to call him down for breakfast is no more. Pockmarks mar her skin, more visible now without the thick coat of makeup. Deep grooves circle underneath her eyes and along the curve of her cheeks, carving at her skin.

“When did the drug use start?” he asks.

“We were at the tail end of the nineties recession, but layoffs were still happening across the company. I was lucky to keep my job, but with a forty percent cut of staff, those duties had to be distributed elsewhere.” She heaves out a sigh, a weary chuckle following after. “Being the finance manager, I was elsewhere. My coworker, Brenda, she’s the one who got me started, going on and on about how it made her feel relaxed and on top of things. I grew up in the seventies, so I’d taken an occasional trip or two with LSD. It didn’t seem so bad just to try it out. At first, it was a line or two to get through the fourteen-hour work day. Then, after a few weeks, two lines became five. And then…” she drifts off, her hand dipping from side to side.

“Not that working those long hours helped in any way. I never got to spend time with you -- that was your father.” It’s impossible to miss the bitterness in her tone, the downward turn of her lips. “He got to play stay-at-home dad until you turned two. He got to hear your first words, watch you take your first steps. He’d tell me all about what I’d missed when I got home: how much fun you had at the park, how well you did in the spelling bee, how high you placed at the science fair. He got to be the parent, and I was just the moneymaker.”

The dull roar in his ears changes to a shrill pitch, drowning out every sensible thought inside his head. The sob story was to be expected, but the jealous jabs at his dad are a step too far. How dare she walk back into his life and insult the man who raised him? She knew nothing about that first year. How Ethan would come home from school and spot the late notices on the kitchen table. How Ethan would creep down the hallway at night and see his dad sitting on her side of the bed, going through photographs and crying. How, three days before Christmas, the electric was shut off and his dad made the living room into their own campsite, complete with a roaring fire to cook beans on and flashlights to tell make-believe stories.

“So you decided to skip out and miss twenty-five more years of my life?” he snaps.

“Oh, Ethan,” she sighs, “it wasn’t like that.”

“Bullshit.”

“I had to--” she stops and drags in a breath. “I snapped, that day. I’d worked there for thirteen years, right out of high school. I got called into the boss’s office. I thought I was getting a promotion. Instead, I was reprimanded for not performing well enough. That if I didn’t shape up I’d find myself without a job at all.” Her fingers tremble with effort as she pushes her bangs aside, her glare set firmly on the tiled floor. “And then I came home -- early, because I was crying in the bathroom to avoid making a scene -- and your father… he stopped me in the kitchen. He told me that I was working myself too hard, and that I should try to take some time off to be with you two.”

She looks up at him then, sympathy for her misdeeds plainly written across her face. Ethan wonders if he’s still that good at reading his own mother, or if she’s that good of an actress.

“Then you went to the store,” he finishes for her. “And you never came back.”

“I went to the bank,” she corrects, as if, in the grand scheme of things, it matters. “I took out my money and got in the car and drove. I made it all the way to Richmond before a state trooper took note of my tags. After I made it clear that I’d left of my own volition, he let me go, and that was that.”

The flippant way she describes those harrowing days feels like a slap in the face. His next words are spoken through clenched teeth, as he attempts to reign in the anger that burns through him.

“You could’ve… why didn’t you leave us a note? We both thought something terrible had happened. He never said anything in front of me, but I wasn’t stupid. I watched the news. I saw what happened to other moms who disappeared.”

He remembers sitting in Mrs. Lemon’s living room, their next-door neighbor and his babysitter while his dad was out searching. He remembers the ticking of her crochet needles and the smell of the litter box that needed changing and the feel of the corduroy couch under his flannel pajama pants. He remembers Unsolved Mysteries playing on the box television in the corner, the host stepping out from behind a shadowy pillar to ask for his help solving a mystery. He remembers asking for a pen and paper to write to Mr. Stack and see if he could air his mom’s case.

“I… like I said, Ethan, I just-- I snapped. I had to get out of there. Every day it felt like I was drowning, but then, seeing you, coming home to you, gave me enough air to breathe.” A wistful little smile appears, but soon falls away as she continues. “I made it all the way to Tampa and lived there for a few years with an old friend. After that, I moved around some, changed my name, tried to make something of myself.” She gives a hapless little shrug and reaches up to pull at the dry skin on her lip. “But I was hooked. Still am, I guess. And that always kept me from reaching out -- because I did think about it, Ethan. I did.

“I tried rehab a few times, and the other moms -- their children wrote them letters and came for visiting hours. They talked about all the wonderful things they were going to do together once they stopped using.” Louise yanks at her lip again, cursing when her fingers come away flecked with blood. “But when I thought about writing to you, the thought of you seeing me like that stopped me. And the longer I stayed, the more I watched those families stop visiting and the letters stop coming. And it seemed… pointless.”

Odd, he finds, that she refused to reach out over fears that he would abandon her. He wonders if she rehearsed her lines beforehand, or if she’s this good at ad-lib. The misty eyes and pitiful expression only serve to enhance the performance; she wears a mask, and her face grows to fit it. Buried underneath all that disappointment and resentment, though, is the what if. What if she’s telling the truth? She could have easily been another dejected workaholic that fell victim to her vices and sacrificed her relationships in the process. As a physician, Ethan knows how tight of a hold addiction can have on a person.

“It’s different,” Sloane had said in the on-call room, those bright eyes of hers shadowed with experience, “when it’s not an article or a case study, but your own parent -- someone you’re meant to rely on.”

But he can’t -- won’t, even -- play devil’s advocate, not now. Not with the mother who walked right out of his life and never looked back.

Wandering over to the window, Ethan watches his city move below him; people and cars and buses and trucks going and going while he wastes time here.

“For four days, I didn’t believe Dad.” Unwilling to turn back to Louise, he searches for city hall as he speaks, finding an odd comfort in the ugly, familiar structure. “I thought he was lying when he said you left. He told me you were okay, but that you decided you needed some space from him. I think that early on… we-- he thought you would come back. Then four days became a month, then three, then school started, and when I had friends over I had to explain how it was only Dad now and that you’d left. That no, we hadn’t heard from you, but no, we didn’t think you were dead.”

Though, in his weakest hours, during that first year of her being gone, Ethan had thought about it. Would that look of pity be easier to handle if the concept of choice was taken out of the equation? If cancer or a car accident had taken her away, would that be more palatable for his friends to understand, rather than her choosing to abandon him? He could’ve been the kid making lame dead mom jokes, instead of the kid hiding his tears and fumbling his way through an explanation on why he didn’t need to make a Mother’s Day card this year, Miss Riddleberger.

“You can imagine my surprise,” he says, “when Dad told me you were back in town and wanting to reconnect.”

“Because I -- I do want to, Ethan,” she pleads, her voice cracking over his name. “I’ve spent all these years wondering about you. But look at you! You’ve done so well for yourself. Your father, he told me about how well you did in college, that you graduated the top of your class at medical school.”

“That was nice of him.” The reply is sour in his mouth, bitter and painful. “Did he also tell you that when I was thirteen, I fell off my bike and broke my arm and, despite everything, I cried for you? Or when everyone else was getting graduation photos with their parents, Dad had to stop another family to get our picture taken?”

Louise’s breath hitches artfully; he imagines that she’s clutching a hand over her heart, the picture of a distraught mother.

“No, he… didn’t tell me about any of that.”

“No,” he agrees with a humorless chuckle, “no, I don’t imagine he would have. I imagine he also didn’t mention that I saw you leaving your motel.”

She makes a noise of interest at that. “Then,” Ethan continues as he finally turns back to face her, “my friend was in a nearby market and watched you shoplift. Oh, but before that, she overheard your interesting phone conversation.”

Louise studies him for a long moment and he feels eleven years-old again, sitting on that corduroy couch, hoping and hoping and hoping his mom would come home safe. Some small part of him wants to be wrong about her. But Sloane has taught him time and again that gut feelings can’t be brushed aside.

“That call had nothing to do with you,” Louise tells him.

Crossing his arms across his chest, Ethan settles his shoulder against the window.

“I’ve been a physician for almost a decade now, which means I’ve gotten rather good at knowing when patients are lying to me.” He holds up a hand to stall her immediate protest. “I also know that standing here and arguing with you is a waste of my time. There’s someone out there who I care about a great deal, who I treated horribly earlier because of you, yet here I am. So, here is my offer: once your three days are finished here, I’ll help you secure a spot with a rehab facility. One of the country’s best is right outside the city and I know the director there. Once you’re in recovery, you can decide what you want to do with your life.”

“I don’t think I can afford--”

“All expenses during your stay will be paid for by me.”

“Oh.” Her eyes grow wide and her lower lip trembles. “That’s-- thank you, Ethan, that’s--”

“Let me be clear about this, though,” he interrupts, straightening to his full height and pinning her down with his gaze. “This is the only financial help I will give you. This isn’t an act of forgiveness. I still don’t trust you, and right now, I’m not sure I ever will. But you--” he clenches his teeth against the sudden wave of emotion that batters at him, “--you’re still my mother.”

From his coat pocket, he pulls out a thick, crinkled envelope. Crossing the room, he hands it to her; she pops the tape and slides the card out. It’s been twenty-six years, but he can still remember the glittery flowers on the front, the curly font of whatever silly poem he read aloud to his dad in the card aisle when choosing it.

“You held onto this for all these years?” she asks, tears spilling out onto her pale cheeks. As she opens the card, the dried husk of a flower falls out and onto her blankets; a daisy, her favorite. He remembers sneaking onto Mr. Taylor’s lawn to steal it.

“You left before I could give it to you.”

It’s the last thing he has of hers. Something settles deep inside his sternum at the notion that he’s free of it. “Do you agree to the terms I’ve set?” he asks after a moment.

Louise looks up from the card and smiles at him.

“Yes.”

------

“You didn’t have to come with me.”

“You’re right. I didn’t.”

This late in the evening, with most of the patients fed and medicated, the only sounds are the low murmur of televisions and steady beeps of monitors; the white noise of second shift.

“Did you manage to get any sleep?” Ethan asks, unable to stop the quick once-over he gives her.

“I took a nap on the couch. When I woke up, someone had covered me with a blanket. It was sweet.”

Sloane side-eyes him, that little smile making its appearance for the third time today. He wonders when he’ll stop keeping track of something so silly.

“That was very kind of them to do,” he says.

“It was.”

They make it to room 532 and Ethan stops to shift the tray of food in his hands. Sloane lets out a grumble about men and opens the door for him. He’s forced to a halt right inside the doorway when Sloane stops and flashes him a concerned glance over her shoulder.

“Wait, where’s your mom?” she asks.

“What?”

Nudging her forward, Ethan steps into the room. He takes in the freshly-made bed, the chemical smell of a hospital-grade disinfectant, and, most alarming: the lack of his mother or her things. Turning on his heel, he beelines to the nurse’s station and slams the tray down onto the counter. The plate cover pops off, sending potatoes and green beans into the floor. Kendra glares at him from her seat behind the computer.

“What crawled up your--”

“Room 532 -- where’s the patient?” he growls.

With a huff, she moves to the keyboard and pecks at the keys. Ethan watches the realization spread across her face and hates seeing her anger turn to pity. He’d rather have the former.

“Says here patient discharged herself around four.”

“Why wasn’t I informed?”

“I’m sorry about that,” Kendra replies in a cool tone, then doubles down when he scoffs. “Really, I am. But you’re not listed as the primary attending, and shift change happened right about then. It fell through the cracks.”

Something wet slides across his hand. Ethan looks down to see apple juice dripping over the side of the tray and into the floor. Awareness of the mess he’s made shakes him out of the haze of outrage.

“No, I’m the one who--” he clears his throat and tries again, “--I’m sorry, Kendra. There’s no excuse for my outburst. I’ll get this cleaned up.”

“I can page for a janitor,” she offers.

Ethan shakes his head and crouches down, scooping up the cold food with his hand and dumping it back onto the tray. Before he can stand and start to locate the closest cleaning cart, familiar orange sneakers appear beside him. Sloane crouches beside him and hands him a roll of paper towels, spraying down the counter and floor as he tears off a few sheets. They pile the used towels onto the tray, now covered in a mountain of food scraps and trash. If Ethan were a metaphorical man, he would consider it an allegory for the day he’s had.

Kendra waves them off when they move to pick up the tray.

“I’ll have one of the dietary aides pick it up on their way through.”

“Thank you,” Ethan murmurs.

A nudge at his side pulls him from the slippery slope of his thoughts. Sloane tips her head down the corridor, the invitation hidden away in the lift of her brow. He answers with a nod and follows her towards the elevator.

------

Ethan drops down onto the couch, unable to quiet the weary sigh that escapes him. Jenner hops up to join him, knocking her big head against his shoulder as she snuggles close. He wraps his arm around her and rubs the white patch on her chest; Jenner settles her nose against his chin and lets out a chorus of happy grunts.

Circling the couch, Sloane takes her spot beside him and hands him a tumbler.

“How are you feeling?”

It doesn’t escape his notice that she completely skipped over asking him if he wanted to talk in the first place. The response to that would have been an emphatic no. His throat feels full of all the vague answers he could give instead, of all the ways he could brush aside her question. He thinks about sitting on Mrs. Lemon’s corduroy couch that first awful, terrible night; remembers Mrs. Lemon asked if he was okay; remembers how he boxed up all those new, scary feelings and lied.

A great, shuddering breath escapes him.

“What’s wrong with me?” he rasps.

“Oh, Ethan--”

“I’m serious, Sloane,” he interrupts, clenching his fist tight around the glass. “There has to be some explanation, right? Because that’s-- that’s twice now she’s left without even bothering to say goodbye. And she didn’t-- she never even said she was sorry, for any of it.”

He’s unaware of his own tears until he tastes the salt of them on his tongue. His chest aches from the uneven breaths he takes, his lungs burning from the effort. Jenner whines and licks at his jaw, sensing his distress.

“Why didn’t she stay?” he chokes out, unsure of which time he’s referring to.

Sloane slides her hand under his and takes his glass. Placing it on the coffee table, she turns back to him and wraps her arms around him, guiding him back into the cushions. He settles his head on her shoulder, where she runs soothing fingers through his hair.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. I could list your accomplishments until I’m blue in the face, but I know all that doesn’t mean shit to you right now, so I won’t. Instead, I’ll remind you that you’re loyal and honest and hardworking and, despite the losses you’ve experienced and despite the ways you try to hide it, you care more about helping people than anyone else I know.” She kisses the crown of his head and hums. “Well, besides me, of course.”

Her intended effect works; despite it all, he feels a laugh slip through his aching throat -- it’s feeble, but it’s there.

“She’s the one missing out on knowing you,” Sloane assures. “We can’t choose who our parents are. You and I happened to get stuck with the short end of the stick when it comes to our mothers.”

Ethan knows the gist of her issues with her own mother; knows she left Sloane and her little brother at their grandparents when she was nine.

“Tell me,” he requests, to which she hesitates. “I want to know. This isn’t some tactic to… I’m not trying to avoid my own troubles, I promise.”

Her fingers resume their movement as she heaves out a sigh.

“Most of the time, it was me and Milo by ourselves, waiting for my mom to come home from work or from the club. She would come in and pass out on the couch. I knew how mad she would get the next morning if she stayed there, though, so I’d wake her up and guide her to her bedroom, make sure she took her contacts out and took some ibuprofen. On the weekend, she would have her friends over and they would fill our little apartment. But it was exciting, being around so many people, watching all of them, talking to them, fetching beer or cigarettes for them when they were too drunk to stand. Sure, sometimes they would get violent, or steal, or fight, and I would hide Milo with me under my bed until the cops left. But she threatened to drive down to Indiana and leave us in a cornfield if we got her in trouble, and I believed her.

“Then Milo started school and cut himself on some playground equipment. He has hemophilia, so the blood wouldn’t clot, and they called her to come pick him up. When she called back to tell the school nurse to ‘staple the fucking wound shut,’ the school called CPS. The morning after that first state visit, my mom packed us a trash bag each and loaded us up in the car. She told us we were going on vacation to see Gramma and Grandpa. When we got to Virginia, she kissed us on the cheek and told us she’d be back in a week. I never saw her again.”

Ethan reaches up for her hand and holds it in his, warming her fingers that have since turned cold. He can feel the small hitch in her breath as she clears her throat to continue.

“Thankfully, Milo doesn’t remember much. But he was the one who sought her out when he got old enough. He tracked her down when he was in college, found her and her new family. She lives in Corpus Christi; she’s the wife of a lieutenant. They have two kids, a boy and a girl, both in high school. After she dumped us off, she started a new life for herself.”

“Did your brother reach out to her?”

The humorless chuckle tells him all he needs to know. He lifts their joined hands to press a kiss to her knuckles.

“She told him he was mistaken. Milo sent her a photo as proof. She countered with an offer for hush money.” Ethan can’t see from his position, but by her tone, he knows she’s rolling her eyes. “Some things never change, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Me too.” Sloane squeezes him tighter to her for a beat. “But I’m telling you my little sob story only because it makes me more appreciative of the people in my life who care about me. At first, that was my grandparents, who never once made me and Milo feel like a burden, who loved us unconditionally. Then, my friends at school, and my friends in college, and my friends now. And you have Naveen, you have me -- you even have your ‘boys,’” she teases. “But you also have your dad, who’s proud of you even when you burn pancakes. Just know that you can feel angry and hurt at her, but her walking away doesn’t diminish the love others have for you.”

Ethan closes his eyes at her reassurances, drinking them in. Unable to work up a response, he lets go of her hand to slide his arm around her waist and pull her impossibly closer. His heartbeat slows at the soft circles she rubs along his back, sinking easily, readily into his embrace.

“I don’t burn pancakes,” he says after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

“What?”

“My dad, he said that?”

“Oh, my god.” Sloane barks out a laugh; he enjoys the sound of its return. “Out of all that, you would focus on that?”

“Since it was a testament against my cooking ability, yes.”

“I don’t think he meant literally. More like metaphorical.”

“Metaphorical pancakes?”

“No, you’re-- oh my god you’re the worst.”

“I thought I was amazing and caring and thoughtful?”

“You are, but you’re also the worst.”

He moves out of her embrace and up to meet her gaze. Her kiss is a gentle one, a brush of her mouth on his.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“I think I know just the thing.”

------

Author’s notes and what-have-yous:

I barely googled AMA discharges or protocol for those, but I know that since she is his mom, Ethan would not be allowed to be her actual doctor.

“He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it” is a line from George Orwell’s Shooting An Elephant, changed slightly for this fic.

#open heart #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #Kaila writes things #f: I was the son you always had #okay second time's a charm right?

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 3 years

Link

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

May 10, 2021

Heather Cox Richardson

A poll today by the Associated Press (AP) and the National Opinion Research Center (NORC) shows that President Joe Biden’s administration is gaining positive traction. Sixty-three percent of Americans approve of how he is handling his job as president. Seventy-one percent approve of how he is handling the coronavirus pandemic; 62% percent approve of how he is handling health care. Fifty-seven percent approve of how he is handling the economy; 54% approve of how he is handling foreign affairs.

Fifty-four percent of Americans think the country is going in the right direction. This is the highest number since 2017, but it is split by party: 84% of Democrats like the country’s direction, while only 20% of Republicans do.

Biden’s weak spots are in immigration, where 43% approve and 54% disapprove, and gun policy, where 48% approve and 49% disapprove.

And yet, Biden’s people have been working to address the influx of migrant children; White House Secretary Jen Psaki noted last week that “At the end of March, there were more than 5,000 children in Customs and Border Protection Patrol stations. Today, that number is approximately 600…. The amount of time children spend in CBP facilities is down by 75 percent — from 131 hours at the end of March to under 30 hours now.”

The administration has backed that short-term work with a long-term initiative. Last week, Vice President Kamala Harris met virtually with Mexican President Andrés Manuel López Obrador, the leader of the left of center populist nationalist coalition party MORENA, to talk about finding ways to promote economic development to address the root causes prompting the flight of refugees from Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador and southern Mexico. They also talked about working together to protect human rights and dismantle the criminal networks that smuggle migrants. She will travel to Guatemala and Mexico in June, where she will meet with their leaders.

Disapproval of Biden’s gun policies might well reflect a desire for a stronger stance. In April, a Morning Consult/Politico poll showed that 64% of registered voters supported stricter gun control laws. We have had an average of ten mass shootings a week in 2021, 194 in all. (A mass shooting is one in which four people are killed or wounded.)

This week, Biden will be meeting with bipartisan groups of leaders, including Representative Kevin McCarthy (R-CA) and Senator Mitch McConnell (R-KY), to begin to hammer out an infrastructure measure based on his American Jobs Plan. He will also meet with Senators John Barrasso (R-WY), Roy Blunt (R-MO), Mike Crapo (R-ID), Pat Toomey (R-PA), Roger Wicker (R-MS), and Shelley Moore Capito (R-WV), who have proposed their own $568 billion proposal without corporate tax hikes.

As the good news from the administration is starting to filter into the media, bad news from the Trump wing of the Republican Party is also starting to get traction. On Saturday, we learned that at retreats in March and April, staff for the National Republican Congressional Committee refused to tell lawmakers how badly Trump is polling in core battleground districts, where 54% see Biden favorably while only 41% still favor Trump. Vice President Kamala Harris, the $1.9 trillion American Rescue Plan, and the $2.3 trillion American Jobs Plan are all more popular in those districts than the former president.

Indeed, it is more than a little odd that party leaders are bending over backward to tie their party to a former president who, after all, never broke 50% favorability ratings—the first time in polling history that had happened—and who lost both the White House and Congress.

Another set of data from Catalist, a voter database company in Washington, D.C., shows that the 2020 election was the most diverse ever, with Latino and Asian voters turning out in bigger numbers than ever before. Black voting increased substantially, while Asian-American and Pacific Islander voters had a decisive increase in turnout. The electorate was 72% white, down 2% from 2016 and 5% from 2008. Thirty-nine percent of Biden-Harris voters were people of color (61% were white); only 15% of Trump-Pence voters were POC (85% were white).

This demographic trend is behind the new voter suppression bills in Republican states. But the racial breakdown of the 2020 vote is not the only problem for the current Republican Party. The biggest turnout gains in 2020 were among young voters, 18 to 40 years old, who now make up 31% of voters, while those over 55 have dropped to only 44% of the electorate. Younger voters skew heavily toward the Democrats. Also notable was that women break heavily toward Democrats by a 10 point gap—79% of women of color support Democrats; 58% of white women voted for Biden-Harris—and women make up 54% of the electorate overall.

News out of the private “recount” in Arizona by Cyber Ninjas, a company without experience in election recounts and whose owner has already gone on record as believing that rigged voting machines in Arizona cost Trump victory, continues to be embarrassing as well. Although the Maricopa County Board of Supervisors, which has a Republican majority, said the count was fair and opposed a recount, sixteen Republicans in the state senate voted to give the ballots for Maricopa County, which includes Phoenix, to the company for a private recount. The count has been plagued by conspiracy theories—one observer claimed they are examining the ballots for signs of bamboo in the paper to show that tens of thousands of ballots were flown in from Asia—and it turned out that one of the people recounting the ballots had been at the January 6 riot at the Capitol. Now the “recount” is running so far behind it appears it won’t be done until August, rather than May 14 as the company promised.

State senator Paul Boyer, who voted for the “audit,” told New York Times reporter Michael Wines: “It makes us look like idiots…. Looking back, I didn’t think it would be this ridiculous. It’s embarrassing to be a state senator at this point.”

And then, this morning, the Washington Post dropped a long, investigative story by reporters Emma Brown, Aaron C. Davis, Jon Swaine, and Josh Dawsey revealing that the arguments former president Trump has grabbed to “prove” the election was stolen from him were part of a long conspiracy theory hatched in 2018 by Russell J. Ramsland, Jr., “a Republican businessman who has sold everything from Tex-Mex food in London to a wellness technology that beams light into the human bloodstream.” The story follows how Ramsland’s theories, which were debunked as “bat-s**t insane” by White House lawyers, got pumped into the media by Representative Louie Gohmert (R-TX) and Trump’s lawyer Rudy Giuliani, among others, and how Trump came to embrace them.

While Republican leaders are still standing behind those theories, and the former president, opponents of the party’s direction are pushing back not just against Trump but also against those leaders supporting him. Representative Adam Kinzinger (R-IL) tweeted this morning: “A few days before Jan 6, our GOP members had a conference call. I told Kevin [McCarthy] that his words and our party’s actions would lead to violence on January 6th. Kevin dismissively responded with ‘ok Adam, operator next question.’ And we got violence.”

Representative Liz Cheney (R-WY) has narrated a video distributed by the Republican Accountability Project recalling the violence of January 6, blaming Trump for spreading lies about the election, and reminding viewers that more than 60 lawsuits disproved his claims that the election was stolen. The video says “we are the party of Lincoln. We are not the party of QAnon” (showing an image of Jacob Chansley, the so-called “QAnon Shaman,” who wore a horned headdress during the Capitol insurrection) “or white supremacy” (showing an image of Fox News Channel personality Tucker Carlson). “We cannot embrace insurrection” (showing a picture of Georgia Republican Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene). “President Trump provoked an attack on the United States Capitol which resulted in five people dying. That is a person who does not have a role as a leader of our party going forward.” The video features an image of McCarthy standing with Trump. Cheney made it clear she was not about to shut up.

This afternoon, McCarthy released a statement calling for Cheney’s ouster as conference chair, featuring the line: “[u]nlike the left, we embrace free thought and debate.” (References to George Orwell, who famously wrote about how fascists used language to rewrite history, were all over Twitter.) McCarthy and other Trump loyalists have suggested that Cheney needs to go because she keeps talking about the past, but Allan Smith of NBC News points out that Trump himself seems to be the one who cannot stop talking about the past.

—-

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#political #corrupt GOP #criminal GOP #January 6 2021 #insurrection #Liz Cheney #Biden Administration #Heather Cox Richardson #Letters From An American

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tired-college-student-writing · 5 years

Text

Tim’s Secret Weapon Pt. 4

I’ve been slightly obsessed with @ozmav ‘s Damian Wayne/Marinette Dupain-Cheng pairing as of late, and just saw a post that has inspired me more than anything else has in months, so I felt the need to write it

Summary- Tim has always seen the numbers floating above people’s heads, been able to perceive their threat levels with a single glance. After being a hero for so long he thought he was desensitized to seeing high numbers above people’s heads until Damian brings a new friend home.

Part 1

Part 3

Part 4 (HERE)

Part 5

_______________________________________________________________________

“Yup!” Jason popped the ‘p’ before holding up the book Tim had given him, “Who’s ready for storytime?”

“What do you mean Tim is afraid I would throw him out?” Bruce pushed even as Jason led them towards one of the desks, “I want to help him with-”

“Yeah I’m gonna stop you there,” Jason cut him off, eyes hard as he set the book down with an uncharacteristic amount of care,“Tim was very offended by what we thought was going on with him and it just made him more sure that all of us were going to leave him behind as his shitty parents did. So let’s just cut to the chase and cool off before he seriously decides to run off before we can go talk to him because I’m pretty sure even after talking to him for twenty minutes, he’s still around seventy-five percent sure that’s going to be a better option than waiting around.”

Jason had never seen the energy of a room shift so fast, the anger and bloodlust that had been suffocating since Dick uncovered the file on Marinette vanished into a deep rippling uncertainty. If there was one unspoken rule of the household, it was that no previous trauma will knowingly be replicated. It’s why Jason always makes a point of leaving his guns in the cave and never points them passed Bruce unless it’s life or death. Why no one touched the trapeze unless Dick was going up with them and they always used a net, no matter how good their aerial skills were. Why no one spoke to Jason in angry or stern Arabic. No one told Damian he was overreacting, especially when it was about illness or injuries.

No one was allowed to make Tim think they were abandoning him.

Dick looked stricken at the very idea, “Jay, why is Tim so scared?”

“Short answer? Tim’s Meta.”

The whole room froze, eyes flying wide, making Jason chuckle, “Yeah that was my response to.”

“How long?” Bruce asked, hand gripping the back of his chair so hard, Jason wondered if he was going to break it.

“From what he said, he was born with his power, it’s always on and pretty impossible for him to block out.”

Damian’s face scrunched, “And father always made it clear that he doesn’t like Metas in Gotham.”

“Fuck,” Dick swore, turning to punch the cave wall, “How the actual shit did we miss this? We’re fucking detectives goddamn it!”

Seeing Dick lose it like that made Jason pause. It was rare to see the carefree brother truly get mad about anything, let alone for him to cuss up a storm, he always did prefer those filler cusses that make the rest of them groan.

But then again Damian looked pained and Bruce was sinking into the Bat-computer chair looking lost as he ran a hand through his hair.

“I never meant it like this,” Bruce whispered, “I just didn’t want anyone else coming to Gotham expecting to be able to fix it overnight. Did I really come off anti-meta?”

“I…” Jason winced, stopping to think, “I never thought so, but I can see how Tim thought you might be. We all need to talk to him, but I promised I’d explain some of this shit like Tim did to me, and look through his book so that we don’t all bombard him with questions.”

The four shared a look before they all surrounded the table as Jason began. He told them of the numbers, the skill Tim had that he never shared. After they opened the book they found that it was more complex than just that.

The entries started off very rudimentary, clearly written by a small child, the dates claiming that Tim began this journal when he was merely six years old. They detailed the color, font, and number of the person he had met. A few of the higher ranks having little ideas next to them on the cause, but as the list grew and the handwriting even outed, there were itemized lists on the reason for each number above a 5.

By the time they reached Bruce’s they were pretty dumbfounded as they read through Tim’s confusion and fear at the number that broke the code he’d knew through his whole life, his reason section was filled with sentences of ideas, instead of the short bullet points, trying to ration it out.

The most confusing part of it was he ruled things out that he couldn’t have known, insider trading and corruption would have been a logical conclusion for him to draw of the Billionaire he knew nothing about but he ruled them out instantly, not even bothering to consider they might be part of the reason.

Not to mention when he actually put it together.

“His power works on broadcasts as well?” Bruce mused, “I know I never saw he was never on the streets when I was out during this time period,”

“Adding it to the list of questions,” Dick said as he typed it out into the sheet he had made when they started asking too many questions only Tim could answer.

“Never mind that,” Damian brushed off, “Look at the traits he listed, all listed at the same time from the looks of the ink but if the date is to be believed, this is from before Todd was debuted as Robin, how did he know you had a mastery in hacking, spoke multiple languages and stunt flight?”

All of them froze at those words, hunching over it to look at the words.

There was no logical way Tim could know any of those things. Most of Batman’s skill set could be guessed through out the rumors and gossip that flew since the caped crusader started his reign of the city, but those skill sets still weren’t widely known to the public.

“I…” Bruce shook his head, “Add it to the list, we have a lot more of the book to get through to worry about this now. We should try and finish the book.

But the issue popped up again and again as the pages went on, each hero he met he knew their skills down to the littlest detail, things he shouldn’t be able to know, especially before he became the third Robin.

He knew Clark was Superman when he met the reporter first.

He knew Diane was made of clay before the woman had ever given away that little tidbit.

He knew that Barry was a wiz when it came to criminology before the speedster had ever given up his identity.

He knew Arthur had low-level empathic abilities that went beyond sea life before Arthur was even considered a hero.

They were only two-third of the way through the book, arguing over how The Commissioner could possibly know their identities, let alone why it would make his number rise so quickly when not even Bruce’s number had done so when he learned the other League member’s identities, when a stern voice cut through their thought.

“Gentlemen, There’s a bit of a situation that Master Tim and I discovered that could use your attention.” Alfred cut in, making them turn, stopping when they saw Tim practically sprint to the Bat computer, pointily looking at the wall to avoid looking at them, his shoulders so tight they shock.

“Tim?” Dick asked, concern dripping from his words as he started towards the younger man only to freeze as Tim visually flinched away from the word, curling inward as he frantically typed away on the keyboard.

Before any of them tried to break the silence again the giant screen lit up to show a battle play out. A young girl dressed in a red and polka-dotted outfit flipping and twisting out of the way of the pages thrown like ninja stars at her, a yoyo used to propel her, eyes filled with laughter behind her mask. Her moves were agile and practiced, as another figure, a boy her same age dressed in skin-tight black leather entered the frame.

“I figured out why Marinette is a 15,” He finally managed out, making the bats’, minus Jason, heads snap to him.

A 15?

The brat couldn’t just have a normal girlfriend, could he?

No, he had to have someone that shattered Tim’s power completely.

And he had no idea why, until now.

They really couldn’t blame him for being obsessive.

“I couldn’t find out why Mari was so powerful,” Tim rambled on, “But Alfred helped me realize that she’s a hero too. A hero with the power of the god of creation on her side, which makes sense for why she completely broke my, uh, my power. She’s been-”

“Tim,”

“-fighting a supervillain,” Tim just continued as if he hadn’t heard Bruce, his voice skipping up a few pitches, “ who also uses the power of a god to help him make others into villains to do his bidding. They’ve been locked in battle for years now. Years! We really should have noticed before now, but better late then never right? Heh, she has some allies though so it’s not like she was fighting on her own or anything, and-”

“Drake,” Damian cut in, ducking past Dick to grab Tim by the shoulder to spin him, staring into his eyes with the type of harsh determination only the demon spawn seemed to be able to, ignoring the quacking fear in Tim’s own eyes, “I am the byproduct of the daughter of one of Father’s greatest enemies drugging him. I was raised will one goal in mind, to be the ultimate weapon to take down all that stood in the way of the League of Assassins, and yet Father, Grayson, Todd, Pennyworth and you gave me safety and taught me why my grandfather was wrong. Todd was murdered by a clown with psychopathic tendencies, was brought back by the magic that my grandfather has a monopoly on, went crazy with Lazarth sickness and thought the best course of action was to become a crimelord in the very city he vowed to protect, going as far as trying to shoot Father, the man he saw as an older brother and you, the boy he was convinced Father had only brought into the circle to die as he had, and yet once the sickness faded Father welcomed back in with open arms, shedding tears for the child he thought he had lost. Father may have made it clear that he’s not a fan of metas operating in the city, but you’re a moron if you believe for a second that means he’s going to disown you or take Red Robin away from you. You’re also lost all my respect if you think this means I or any of the others that dawn the bat moniker are going to feel any different about you for having these powers.”

Tim’s mouth opened and closed several times after Damian’s speech had come to a close as the others waited for him to break the silence of the cave. All he could feel was his hands trembling as his eyes welled up.

Damian was still looking at him before sighing, “You really are an idiot,”

He wanted to retort, wanted to bite out a response as he blinked back the tears but he suddenly found Damian’s arms wrapped around his waist, a tight grounding embrace, the younger boy’s chin resting on his shoulder.

Tim wasn’t sure he was breathing, his whole body shaking like it was trying to shatter into a million pieces. The brat, Damian, the one person he thought would gladly cast him aside given the slightest of reason to was…

“You’re family, Tim,” Damian stern voice cut through his mental frenzy, “If I’ve learned one thing since moving to Gotham, it’s that you don’t give up on family, not for anything, and certainly not for something like this.”

Tim felt something inside him break and the next thing he knew he was sobbing into Damian’s shoulder the pair on their knees in the middle of the cave, gripping Damian back like he thought if he let go the boy would vanish. Slowly as he felt his breathing calm down and his sobs fade he could feel more arms surrounding him. The entire bat family was surrounding him, silently holding him through his breakdown.

He pulled back, scrubbing his eyes as his family slowly untangled from around him.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, voice scratchy from the tears, “I guess I should have known none of you would hate me but… I’ve been so scared that I’d lose you guys too. I didn’t want to risk it, I couldn’t risk it.”

He flinched slightly when a large hand squeezed his shoulder looking up into Bruce’s eyes, softened by a love that could destroy the world if his child was hurt. A love that none of the Waynes needed to put words to because of looks like this.

Glancing back to his brothers he saw the love in Bruce’s eyes reflected in theirs, all of them accepting him and loving him still.

The weight Tim had carried for as long as he knew to grow lighter as a small smile worked its way onto his face.

His eyes burning with the same intense love for his family back at them.

For the first time in a long time, Tim knew without a doubt

It would be okay.

_______________________________________________________________________

Tim couldn’t stop the whimper from falling from his lips as Marinette’s class came pouring out of the doors of the school.

All of the Wayne boys had decided to surprise Marinette by showing up at her class when it let out, in addition to not wanting to wait to reveal they knew her secret. It wasn’t hard to get all of them to Paris merely days after Tim’s secret came to light, especially since Bruce was planning on checking up on the Paris branch of Wayne Enterprises the following week before everything happened. Expanding the trip last minute to include all of them had taken little effort, and all of their suits were tucked away in their hotel suites, waiting to be dawned once they got Marinette alone.

Tim was ready to turn back now though and for a very good reason.

In the normal sea of threes and fours, normally Marinette stood out with her overwhelmingly soft pink 15, but now...

The tanned girl that had hoards of kids surrounding her had an obnoxious copper 9 floating above her, the font looking like a tiger had scratched it into the very fabric of space.

A trio of students, a bulky boy, a small pink-haired girl, and a dark-skinned nerdy-looking boy, were messing around as pale numbers circled their heads, a pair of stark white 12s over the boys and an icy blue 13 over the girl.

A pair of girls, one blonde and one of Asian descent, were bickering as they made their way down the steps, a canary yellow daintily drawn 14 for the blonde and deep burgundy calligraphed 13 for the more stoic girl.

And the blonde boy Marinette was happily conversing with, looking even more softspoken and sweet than the baker girl.

He had a venomous green 15 swirling over him in it’s rounded bubble-like font.

His brothers glanced at him warily.

“Everything okay Timmy?” Jason asked, eyes flitting over the crowed on instinct, looking for the threat that spooked him.

“I’ll tell you later,” He groaned back, “... but keep an eye on the girl in the orange jacket, she feels slimy from all the way over here,”

His brothers nodded, but even so, Tim felt a migraine coming on.

For once Tim wished for an alien invasion so he didn’t have to deal with this bullshit.

_______________________________________________________________________

Taglist: @vixen-uchiha @iggy-of-fans @mewwitch @roseinbloom02 @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @mochinek0 @royalchaoticfangirl @09shell-sea09 @mystery-5-5 @derpingrainbow @aloha-posts-stuff @hauntedfreakdeputyhero @maribat-archive @blue-peach14 @kae690 @zazzlejazzle @vincentvangoose @be-happy-every-day-please @xxmadamjinxx @celestiacq @peculiarlylostdreamer @dani-ari @melicmusicmagic @themcclan @nyctamaximoff @nataladriana9 @drama-queen-supreme @miraculousbelladonna @urbanpineapplefarmer @graduatedmelon @lexysama @hecate-hallow @ki117h3dr4g0n @vinerlover @interobanginyourmom @bluefiredemon @imanerddealwith @tinybrie @clumsy-owl-4178 @shizukiryuu @whogavemeaninternet @schrodingers25 @lunar-wolf-warrior @urbanpineapplefarmer @xxmadamjinxx @crazylittlemunchkin @littleredrobinhoodlum

#miraculous ladybug #batman #maribat #marinette dupain cheng #Tim Drake #meta!tim #BatFam #Damian Wayne #dick grayson #Jason Todd #bruce wayne #Alfred Pennyworth #miraculous class #numbers AU #Tim is so tired

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therainroguefanfiction · 4 years

Text

☁ Drifting Away (Giotto) #08

📑 Table of Contents | ◂Previous

Author’s Note: Okay! I want to clear up a few things c: First off, this is the last chapter that my younger self wrote (I think I was like 16?). Now, in these past eight chapters, I’m sure you’ve come across things that seemed impossible for the time period, and I will do my best to stick to the year 1870 as best as I can from here on out! I hope you will go easy on me~

Rather than using google translate, I now have a wonderful friend willing to help me with the Italian translations (@kiralushia) who also has this wonderful comic that you should definitely go check out! She has also been so supportive and is the main reason I want to finish this story!

I have decided to keep the flip cell phones for plot purposes and Salmon’s laptop (the story behind this is that they brought the technology from the future along with the necessary components in order to use them in the past). I hope you can overlook this plot hole for the sake of the story!

Finally, I want to state that I have NOT read the manga (yet). I wanted to get this final chapter posted first and now I am going to go and read the proper arc within the manga in order to learn more about the first generation so I can do them proper justice within this story. Thank you so much for reading!

━━━━━━༻🌧️༺━━━━━━

☁ Cafe ✗ Guardian ✗ Confrontation ☁

You and Zakun had been walking for a good hour or so and, to be completely honest, you weren’t too sure he had a destination in mind. You were starting to think that he was just walking for the sake of it. After ten more minutes passed, you began to get annoyed.

“Oi! How the hell are we supposed to find this guy, anyway?”

“We search.” Another stoic response. Did this guy even have any emotion? Maybe he should have been the cloud guardian.

“Obviously, but we can’t just walk around blindly, ya know. You have to have some sort of plan or idea or something.”

“No.”

You facepalmed, sighing deeply as you begrudgingly followed after him. It seemed kind of hopeless, just walking around aimlessly. How would you even know if you had the right person? You were pretty sure that you didn’t have time to waste but, whenever you looked at Zakun, he looked totally relaxed. Then again, he’d probably be that way even if the world were about to end.

“Okay, how do we know we got the right guy? Just go around slipping the ring onto people’s fingers until we find one it doesn’t reject?”

He sent you a ‘get real’ look over his shoulder and you scowled. “When you first got the ring, it started resonating in sync with your own, giusto?”

You nodded.

“I knew you had gotten a hold of the ring because mine did the same. When you got close to me, they started resonating again, this time glowing brighter. The same thing will happen, only brighter than the first two times, when we get close to the bearer of the ring,” he paused, glancing over at you as you fell in step beside him. “It will act as a compass. The closer we get, the brighter it will become. The further we get, the less it will glow, until it eventually goes out, like now.” He motioned towards the ring on his finger.

You hummed thoughtfully, grabbing his hand and sliding the ring from his finger. You had seen the Gardiano rings before, but never actually paid attention to its detail. The shank of the ring was the body of a dragon, cloud gray in color and the same width as the Vongola rings. On top was the head of the dragon, the same color as the body. It’s mouth was open wide and inside was the Gardiano family’s crest. Its color was the respective multi-colored hue of the fire guardian and the eyes were the same color.

It truly was a badass looking ring.

Zakun slid the ring back on his finger without a word.

“What if they aren’t in Italy?”

“Then we have a problem.”

You stared at him blankly.

He returned the look. “Salmon says the probability of the barer being in Italy is seventy-five percent.”

“That still leaves a twenty-five percent chance that our guy is somewhere else in the world.”

“Are you always so negative?” He questioned, glancing at you.

“No,” you scowled. “I was just being honest.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly closed it and stopped walking. Digging into his jacket pocket, he produced a cell phone which he then flipped open and pressed to his ear. “Hello?… Not yet… Are you sure?… Fine.”

You raised an eyebrow as he snapped it shut. Honestly, you had never witnessed such a short phone call before.

“Rorian says we should split up,” he paused, holding out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

“Uh, sure,” you pulled the cell phone from your pocket and sat it in his open palm. His fingers pressed into the keys, entering his contact information into the device, along with a couple of the other members, just in case.

“We can cover more ground this way. If you find him, or get lost again, call me. Salmon will call you if I find him.” He turned in the opposite direction and started to walk away.

With a shrug, you continued on your way, your mind running wild with various thoughts. “If I were a missing fire guardian, where the hell would I be? Hmm.”

━━━━━━༻🌧️༺━━━━━━

When the sun finally began to rise, you decided it was time to take a break. Fortunately, you came to that decision in front of a bookstore. Opening the door, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and pristine, new books filled your nostrils and it was such a wonderful combination. The bookstore was small, but offered quite a selection of books.

On the right side of the store, in the corner, was a small cafe where you could read and drink coffee or even have something sweet to snack on. The whole atmosphere was calm and quiet, the perfect place to relax. You knew that Zakun would probably be mad, but you were exhausted and needed a few minutes to rest and regain some of your energy. After all the searching you had done, surely a five minute break wouldn’t hurt.

You sighed as you fell into the wooden chair near the corner, arms folded on the small round table with your head on top. The cold wood felt nice against your skin and that, mixed with the sound of pages being turned and coffee being poured, lulled you to sleep. You hadn’t even realized how tired you felt, but it was no surprise since you had been walking since nearly four in the morning and it was now just after eight at night.

You slept soundly with no strange dreams or interruptions which was rare for you since finding yourself thrown into the past and your body was soaking it up.

At least until a burning against your lower chest and stomach jolted you from your peaceful nap. A small groan passed your lips as your eyes slid open. It took a few minutes to realize that your shirt was glowing – or rather, what was underneath it.

You blinked in surprise, pulling at the collar of your shirt so you could see the ring, which was glowing pretty brightly. Looking around, there were only four people around you.

The woman wiping off the counters. A dark-skinned male reading his newspaper. A pale-skinned man reading a Josh Grisham novel. And another male that had just walked in, briefcase in one hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm.

As he walked closer, the warmth and glow of the ring increased, almost to a painful degree and, by the time he took a seat at the table beside your own, it was almost unbearable. His hair was sandy brown and slightly spiky, but slicked back away from his forehead, and his eyes were a moonlight silver. On his forehead was a crescent moon shaped scar and he was dressed in a navy blue suit.

‘What should I do? I know Zakun said to call him… but what if he doesn’t make it in time?’ You stood up, hiding the glowing rings as best as you could, before approaching his table. He was scribbling away onto a thick pad of paper, which had been removed from his briefcase. “Excuse me?”

He glanced up at you, his expression nothing short of serious. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

The man’s slim brow rose and he glanced around the cafe, which was practically empty, before looking back at the paper and shrugging. Without a sound, you took a seat across from him, fiddling with your fingers that were flat on top of the black table. Now, what in the hell were you supposed to say?

‘Hey! Just thought I’d let you know that I’m part of the mafia and I need your help to save the first generation of my family! Oh yeah, I’m from the future, too! That should go over well,’ you glanced up at him.

His eyes were scanning the page, his hand flying across the page at a nearly inhuman pace. You wondered what he was writing, but you couldn’t understand the language.

“Mind if I ask you something?”

He glanced up at you, paused for a moment and nodded before returning to his work.

“Do you… believe that the mafia exists?”

His hand paused, the tip of the pen hovering above the page, but he didn’t look up at you this time. When he spoke, his voice was deep. “A foolish question.”

You scowled, clenching your fist against the table. ‘Be nice, Y/N. Remember that you need this guy, so just be nice.’ “You believe, then?”

“Italy is known for their mafioso.” His voice was monotone, not a single speck of emotion within. Damn, he might just be colder than Zakun.

“Right. So I guess it’s safe to tell you that I’m part of the mafia, then.”

The man’s hand froze and his eyes narrowed into a glare at you before he gathered up the papers and placed them back into his briefcase, standing up. “I don’t know what game you’re playing at, but I refuse to believe that a mere child is in the mafia. Do take your games elsewhere.”

You sat frozen in your chair, blinking a few times as the words sunk in. You then shot up from your chair and growled out, “I’m not a child!” but it didn’t matter, because the man was already gone. With a groan, you fell back into the chair. ‘Now what am I supposed to do? Rory-chan is so gonna kill me.’

“Mi scusi?”

You looked up to see the female worker from before. She smiled softly, placing an espresso in front of you. “Oh, uhh… thank you.”

Realizing that you spoke English, she switched to using it, a thick accent present but her words easily understandable. “No problem. You looked like you needed it,” she smiled brightly, tilting her head to the side and causing her blonde bangs to fall across her closed eyes. “So tell me, did you know that guy?”

“No,” you sighed, leaning back in the chair with your hand clasped loosely over the base of the drink. “I need to, though.”

“You’re not like a spia, how you say, a stalker are you?”

“No. I have better things to do than stalk some guy.” You rolled your eyes. “Especially not someone as rude as him!”

She giggled. “Alright then! I can give you some information on him. Though I don’t know much, I know a little.”

“And you’d tell me, just like that?” You quirked a brow at her. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch!” She smiled, nodding her head. “It seems kinda important that you get through to him, but I’m warning you, he’s a tough costumer!” She giggled again. “His name is Holland and he’s a twenty-three year old owner of some shop on the other side of town. He’s all business – never smiles, never laughs, never even shows any emotion unless it’s annoyance! He’s so stuffy!” She pouted, folding her arms over her chest as she took the seat he had previously occupied.

“What kind of shop is it?”

“Hmm, I believe it’s a book shop, but I am not certain.”

“Do you know the name? Or an address.”

“Un attimo,” she held up her finger before standing up and heading over to the counter, where she grabbed a thin strip of paper. She pulled the fountain pen from the ink bottle, gliding it across the page before returning it and heading back to you, setting the paper onto the paper. “Careful not to smear the ink.”

You glanced at the address written there and had no clue where the hell it was, but you could just ask someone on the street and hope they knew English. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?

“I’ve tried so many times to be nice to him,” she continued. “But he’s just so mean! He comes in here every morning around nine o’clock, reads a few pages from his paper, and then spends close to two hours scribbling away. I thought, maybe, since he comes in everyday, I’d try and be nice, but half the time, he does not even respond! Che maleducato, you know?”

“Y-Yeah…” No, you really didn’t know, but you cleared your throat, shifting in your seat. “So, everyday, then?”

She nodded again. “It was actually pretty surprising, though! Usually he just ignores everyone that talks to him or whatever, but he didn’t ignore you! He actually let you sit with him and he actually talked to you in that deep sexy voice of his, I can not believe it! Maybe it’s because you’re so young,” she put her finger to her bottom lip, which slightly jutted forward as she pouted. “But I’m young, too, you know?”

Again, no, you did not know, but you pretended you did. “Uhh, right… weird…” You dug into your pocket to pull out some money for the drink only to freeze as you came to a realization – you only had yen on you, and you were pretty sure that they didn’t accept that in Italy.

Sensing your rising distress, the girl crossed her legs and waved you off with a friendly smile. “Non preoccuparti, it is on the house. I’m Sandra, by the way, Sandra Moretti. I’m half-American and I struggled learning the language when I came here as a child, but do not worry, you will pick it up soon!”

Normally people didn’t give that much information to someone they just met, which worried you a bit, but you let it go. “Cool, thank you.”

“Sure thing! See you around~”

You chuckled nervously as you stood up, keeping your eyes on her as you headed for the door. As soon as your back hit the glass, you bolted from the store and down the street. Sure, she seemed nice enough, but you knew from experience that coming across people that friendly and willing to give away information to a complete stranger were usually pretty dangerous. Still, you got some useful information from her.

Just then, the phone started to buzz within your pocket and you fished it out, flipping it open without so much as second thought. You instantly came to regret this decision, having to pull the phone back in order to keep your hearing in tact.

“Why didn’t you call?!” came Rorian’s angered voice. You could hear three voices in the background, probably trying to calm him down. “Zakun called thirty minutes ago and said you found the first generation fire guardian!“

“Er, yeah… about that…” you cleared your throat, leaning back against the brick wall. Night had fallen, the streets barely lit up by the pale street lamps scattered too far apart from each other. It was silent in the city, something you weren’t used to. “I did find him… kind of.”

“‘Kind of’? What in the hell does that mean?“

“Calm down, Rorian!” cried a voice that I did not recognize.

“Give me the phone, will you?” Rorian’s cries faded into the background as Sylvian took over, his voice soft and warm. “Hello, Y/N sweetheart. Don’t mind Rory. He’s a bit moody tonight.“

“I told you not to call me that!” was Rorian’s muffled reply.

“I hear you found the first-generation guardian of fire. Is this correct?” Sylvian inquired. It sounded like he had left the room, because the background of the call suddenly became silent.

“Yeah, I’m sorry Syl. I should have called Zakun, but I didn’t want to risk him not getting there in time. I had ’em, too.” You sighed, closing your eyes and leaning your head back against the wall. If you weren’t mentally kicking yourself before, you certainly were now.

“Don’t worry about it, you simply followed your instincts and did what you believed was best.” He paused. “Did you get any information on him? What did he look like?“

“I talked to a girl that worked there. She said his name is Holland, twenty-three years old, and he owns a bookstore on the other side of town. I got the address. He also visits the same cafe every morning around nine.”

“Then we still have a chance. Good work, sweetheart.” His warm smile could be heard within his tone. “Do you remember how to get back to the hideout?“

“I think I can manage.” You responded, but the truth was that you probably couldn’t and would end up just wandering around aimlessly for a while. That was fine, though, because you figured the others would be pretty angry for letting Holland get away, even Sylvian, despite how calm he sounded on the phone.

“Alright. I’ll call Zakun and tell him to return, as well.“

The line went dead and you heaved a tired sigh, flipping the phone shut before sliding it back into your pocket. Back in your own era, you had often made mistakes because you were, in Reborn’s words, brash and reckless, acting before thinking – a lot like Gokudera, but much worse. You often screwed things up and got yourself hurt because of it, but Tsuna was never mad at you.

No matter how badly you screwed up, Tsuna always forgave you, even for your most stupid of moments. The others… not so much. Gokudera would always get pissed off at you for causing trouble for the Juudaime, despite the fact that he causes just as much trouble. Yamamoto usually just shrugged it off, and Reborn and Bianchi would often give you the silent treatment for a week.

You know how when parents get angry at their kids and the kids feel like shit because of it? Well, when someone you care about is disappointed in you, it makes you feel even lower than that, like the scum of the earth.

Now, you may not have known these guys long enough to be considered close with them, but they did feel kind of like family and you were also already feeling pretty low because you had betrayed one of the two people you swore you would never betray – Giotto.

‘And after he stuck up for me. And Asari and Knuckle… I wonder what’s going through their minds. Wait… I take that back. I don’t wanna know…’

━━━━━━༻🌧️༺━━━━━━

Three hours later, you found yourself standing in the kitchen of the old abandoned house, staring at the knife. You had never actually tried this, but it should still work. Igniting the flame on your ring, you gripped the handle, letting it engulf the knife. Seconds later, a click was heard and the hole appeared on the fridge. You inserted the ring and the circle of flames appeared, the door swinging open.

You walked down the same dimly lit hallway, taking small, slow steps because you still weren’t looking forward to facing the others, but it had to be done. Better sooner than later, right?

You finally came to a stop in front of the door bearing the Gardiano Family’s crest. Taking a deep breath, you pushed the door open and slipped into the brightly lit room, a fairly large change from the almost pitch black hallways that led up to it. The hushed whispers of the group stopped as they all turned to look at you, a thick silence falling over the room.

You shifted from one foot to the other, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze as you attempted to swallow down your increasing nerves. ‘Man, this sucks. I feel like a kid about to be scolded.’

“So you have finally returned,” Rorian didn’t sound angry like he had earlier on the phone, but the annoyance was still quite present. Guess that’s better than seething rage, though.

“Did you get lost?” Salmon questioned, glancing up from his laptop.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did.” You rubbed the back of your leg with your foot, forcing a smile. Your hesitation to return was not a fact that they needed to know – or maybe that was just your damned pride getting in the way.

━━━━━━༻🌧️༺━━━━━━

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littleoldrachel · 4 years

Text

i am burned out (i smell of smoke)

okay, look. I wasn’t gonna post this until it was FINISHED because i am trying to learn to actually finish my wips. but. the world is sorta falling apart and i hope that maybe i can help even one person feel temporarily less anxious about it all.

i wrote this for @gumnut-logic‘s birthday and am now over a month late, so! good! (so sorry nutty, you’re so incredible at blessing us with your words, i just wanted to do something nice for you since you’re so so good to us)

my love for virgil tracy + my silent lurking in this fandom have brought this about. i never thought i’d be writing thunderbirds fanfiction and yet. here we are (my father would be so disappointed in me).

this is my first time writing these characters, as will become painfully clear. pls be nice to me, i am fragile lol. i am horribly aware that my virg is probably too ‘floppy’ as per your post, nutty, so sorry in advance! this is me whumping your boy emotionally and mentally, but i’m gonna fix him, i swear! there are five parts (i have written the first three).

virgil is always written as being very good at taking care of his mental health, and it occurred to me that some of the best people at this have had to learn to be that way, and so I guess this is an exploration of that? anyway, have some virgil aggressively loving his family.

brains isn’t in this and kayo isn’t much either sorryyy. oh my GOd shut up, here you go:

i am burned out (i smell of smoke) [on ao3]

summary: in which virgil falls apart, learns how to put himself back together, and realises he doesn't have to do it alone.

word count: 2.8k ish (part 1/5)

warnings: mental health issues

timeline: i suppose this is set in early TAG verse? jeff is missing and nobody is Coping Well.

happy belated birthday, nutty!! <3

He isn’t quite sure where it began. Somewhere between three back-to-back rescues, pulling a child’s body from thick, black mud, and failing to reach the scientist before smoke ravaged her lungs, a weight settles in his chest that none of his usual coping mechanisms can shift.

To say it’s been a hard week would be an understatement, but then again, they’ve had hard weeks before. Any time a rescue mission turns into a recovery mission, they all feel it - how can they not? - but this time, this time is different.

Perhaps it was seeing the kid’s mother break down completely at the sight of such a small corpse. Perhaps it was the abuse hurled at him and his brothers by the scientist’s girlfriend for failing to rescue her soulmate in time. Perhaps it was sheer exhaustion and pain, perhaps it was feeling ribs break under the force of his CPR efforts, perhaps it was knowing that in spite of it all, it wasn’t enough.

It’s like he can’t quite draw a full breath. Like his throat has half-closed and tears are creeping at the back of his eyes, but neither is willing to break the damn. It’s the heaviest kind of emptiness he’s ever known.

And so Virgil forces it away - or if not away, then at least to one side - whilst he takes care of brothers who need to talk about the horrors they have just witnessed and the fresh guilt they now bear. He’ll take care of himself later (probably) and then he’ll finally be able to shift that god-awful weight on his lungs. It’s fine.

Alan is easy enough to handle; Virgil’s pedestal will never be as high as Scott’s or John’s but he’s still Alan’s big brother, and Alan feeds on reassurance and praise. Virgil knows that both Scott and John will be in later to check on their youngest too, but for now, Alan needs him.

“You did well today, kiddo,” Virgil says, leaning against the doorframe to Alan’s suite. His littlest brother is lying flat on his back staring up at the ceiling.

Alan blinks slowly, twists to meet his eyes. Overly-bright cornflower blues meet steady browns and Virgil catches the tremble of Alan’s lower lip with an aching heart.

“You did, Allie.” Virgil strides across the room and has Alan scooped into a hug within seconds. “All those people are gonna wake up tomorrow because of you.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough, Virg,” whispers Alan. “So many people didn’t make it.”

“I know.”

(The weight on his chest and struggle to breathe will never let him forget it).

Alan sighs, rests his head on his brother’s broad chest. “I just - I keep remembering her face. When she realised I couldn’t save her. I close my eyes and she’s just - there.” He closes his eyes and digs the heels of his palms into them.

He’s so young. It’s not the first time that Virgil has had doubts about forcing this responsibility on a teenager, but it is the first time Alan’s watched someone die in his arms and none of Virgil’s carefully crafted words will change that. Especially not now, whilst the pain is raw and jagged and demanding to be felt - no, Virgil and his brothers will be helping him to untangle this over the next few weeks.

“Wanna play something?” he asks instead.

The response is less enthusiastic than usual, but soon Alan has a fragile smile on his lips as he thrashes Virgil’s Princess Peach with Waluigi (and so what if Virgil deliberately chooses the tracks he knows he’s shit at just to make Alan chuckle when he falls off Rainbow Road again?).

His water-loving brother won’t be so easy (though of course, there’s nothing easy about watching someone so young trying to carry the weight of the world). Still, Gordon is at least predictable in his frustrated misery and rolls his eyes as he sees Virgil coming towards the pool with a towel in hand.

“I’m not in the mood, Virg,” he calls, before hurling himself underwater and sinking to the bottom of the pool.

It’s Virgil’s turn to roll his eyes, but he kicks off his shoes, sits on the poolside and dangles bare feet into the water, waiting. When Gordon finally emerges from the water, annoyance flickers across his face at the sight of his waiting brother, and he turns, kicking away from Virgil with a powerful breaststroke.

Virgil waits until Gordon’s swum four lengths before speaking. “How are you doing?”

Gordon’s perfect rhythm barely falters as he grabs his brother’s leg and yanks, pulling Virgil into the pool and immediately swimming away. Virgil shakes the water from his hair, internally cursing his stubborn-ass younger brother and treads water until Gordon reaches his end of the pool again.

“How many lengths is that?”

Gordon ignores him, switching fluidly into butterfly stroke and splashing away from him once more.

Virgil can’t help but sigh; his limbs are aching and his chest is heavy and he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed. But his younger brother is hurting - emotionally, sure, judging by the way he’s slicing through the water like it’s done him wrong, but physically too if the minute winces are anything to go by. (And Virgil can’t stand it).

The next time Gordon comes by, Virgil is ready. He seizes his brother around the middle, and bodily drags him to the edge of the pool. He doesn’t often use his size and strength against his brothers, but this time calls for it. Once out of the water, the fight goes out of Gordon, and he staggers, murmuring “ow, ow, ow, ow.”

“Come here, you idiot.” Virgil pulls Gordon into a shady spot by the loungers, and begins helping Gordon stretch out overworked muscles. Gordon hisses as Virgil presses down on his calf muscle. “Sorry, Gordo.”

“S’okay.” Gordon glares up at the sky. “Just stupid cramp.”

Rolling his eyes, Virgil shakes his head. “Yeah, that or the fact you’re reliving your Olympic training after having been up for forty-eight hours straight.”

“You know if you keep doing that, your face will get stuck.”

Virgil pulls a hideous face, then grins in response to Gordon’s laugh. It feels good to smile, it shifts the weight on his lungs the tiniest bit.

“Flip over and I’ll do your back.”

“Virgil Tracy, you’re a goddamn saint,” Gordon declares, obediently flopping onto his stomach.

There’s a pause whilst Virgil runs expert hands over the rock-like knots in Gordon’s back and Gordon melts into the mattress. When Virgil next speaks, his voice is gentle even as his hands dig in: “You know that punishing yourself isn’t going to bring them back.”

Gordon tenses then sighs. “Damnit, Virg. Can’t a guy get a massage without psychoanalysis?”

But his voice is a great deal lighter than it would have been even half an hour before.

His wrists are aching by the time he drags himself out to the cliff edge where Kayo likes to perch.

His brothers have different uses for this particular stretch of rock: Scott likes to end his morning runs here by stretching in the breeze off the waters. For John, it’s a spectacular place to stargaze, not least because it’s so very quiet and dark up here. Gordon can often be found diving off these rocks, cheered on by Alan, much to the constant stress of their oldest brother, who attributes more than seventy percent of his grey hairs to this cause.

For Kayo, it’s a watchpost. Her stormy eyes skim the horizon for non-existent threats, calculating, calm, controlled. And after a bad rescue (or three), she sits and waits for hours at a time, gazing into choppy waves and brilliant sunsets with the loneliest eyes Virgil has ever seen. He’s supposed to sit with Kayo in silence until she tells him what she needs from him, be it a hug, his presence, or just distance.

This time, she makes it clear the moment he pads towards her, fading into the rocks like she was never even there. Distance, then.

John is possibly the hardest to handle of all his siblings, purely because he’s the hardest to get a hold of. John knows Virgil’s antics only too well, knows that a meaningful conversation about how he feels is coming, and has therefore made himself scarce.

Virgil sighs as John misses (read: rejects) his third call in a row. Two can play at that game, Jonny.

Instead, he dials straight through to EOS.

She answers him immediately, as usual. “Virgil. I have been anticipating your call.”

“You have?”

“You have all had unsuccessful missions. You always call after missions with a body count.”

Virgil swallows, fresh guilt rising in his throat, and forces it back down.

“Please can you put me through to John, EOS?”

“Of course, Virgil.”

Silence for a second, and then John’s hologram appears. His red-headed brother is studiously avoiding eye contact, hands darting over controls in an anxious pattern.

“This isn’t a good time, Virgil, I’m busy rerouting some calls to local emergency services, and-”

“John.”

“-and there’s a call from Tehran that really needs me, so if that’s all-”

“John.”

Silence.

“How long since you last ate?”

John’s eyes meet Virgil’s and he looks away at once. “Uh… this morning?”

“Negative,” EOS chimes in, “last intake was twenty-six hours ago.”

John’s jaw clenches. “Thanks, EOS.”

“John, you need to eat.”

“Smother Brother.”

“I’m serious.”

EOS pipes up again, “John also needs to rest. He has been operating for twice the recommended period of time.”

John glowers, but says nothing.

“Don’t make me set Scott on you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Virgil raises his eyebrows and John sighs loudly in frustration. “I will. I will. I just - thinking about food makes me feel nauseous. Like…” He swallows, looks away. “Like I’m eating mud.”

The sharp hurt in Virgil’s heart twinges violently and he wishes more than anything he could wrap John up in a bearhug and stop the world from hurting him. “What if I’m here whilst you try?” he asks softly.

Another sigh. “Fine. But only if you eat something too,” John says. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that your stomach was growling even louder than Two’s engines on the way home.”

“Smother Brother,” Virgil’s voice is hopelessly fond, even as he goes to make a sandwich that he can’t face eating (which for him, is a bad sign - he who has forced down Grandma’s inedible chilli through sheer willpower and love). The bread is hard and tasteless, the filling bitter. He chokes down a half slice, focusing instead on the fact that his younger brother is carefully chewing at his toasted bagel, eyelids heavy. Eventually, John’s shoulders slump, and his head lolls back into slumber.

His work here is done.

Well, almost -

“Hey, EOS?”

“Yes, Virgil?”

“Can you put that playlist I made him on a loop?”

“Of course, Virgil. Venus Bringer of Peace is now playing.”

There.

His oldest brother is hurting. Virgil doesn’t need ESPN or whatever freaky connection Gordon and Alan accuse them of having to know that.

There was a death toll, and therefore Scott will be hurting. Every life lost becomes a personal fault for the man, and nothing Virgil says or does will change that. They have this argument every two or three weeks, increasingly frequently as the months since their father’s disappearance have ticked into years. And he’s so very tired of rehashing the same words over again and again, he’s so tired of being utterly powerless against his brother’s borderline suicidal recklessness, he’s so tired of his uselessness in convincing Scott to stop treating his life like some replaceable trinket.

(So very, very tired).

And yet, Virgil stands in the doorway to his father’s office, bracing himself for yet another battle with his older brother.

Because taking care of the idealistic, brash, self-flagellating workaholic is what he does best - especially when said idealistic, brash, self-flagellating workaholic least wants it.

Scott is hunched over the desk, poring over debriefs with an almost-empty glass of something amber in his left hand. Virgil makes a mental note to re-encrypt the code to the drinks cabinet - Scott had cracked it far too quickly last time, but he doesn’t stand a chance against John…

“Hey, Scott,” he finally enters the room, but his brother doesn’t even spare him a glance. Virgil takes the seat opposite him - the one he used to sit in as his father waxed lyrical about his dream of an elite rescue organisation (it hurts) - and waits.

After five or so minutes, Scott looks up blearily, blinking in surprise. “Virg? What are you - when did you-”

“It’s gone midnight, Scott. We agreed you wouldn’t do this anymore.”

A muscle in Scott’s jaw twitches. He’s wound tight from alcohol and stress, and it hurts Virgil to see it. “I have to get this done.”

“Not at one am, you don’t.”

“Don’t start, Virg, you know debriefs are essential - you know I have to - to -”

“To what?”

“What?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you have to get done? What’s so important that it can’t wait till you’ve at least slept?”

Scott breaks - quicker than usual (thank you, whiskey) which is a relief, because Virgil’s energy is down to its last droplets; hell, it’ll be a miracle if he even makes it to his room after this.

“To figure out where we fucked up! To explain to the fire services that we did fuck-all for their rescue efforts! To figure out why I wasn’t fast enough to get to those children! I have to - to know,” he flings himself to his feet and begins pacing. “Fifty-four people died today, that’s fifty-four lives we should have saved, and I have to know why we failed so it never happens again.” He slams both hands down on the table, scattering papers to the floor. His eyes are wild and slightly bloodshot, and Virgil’s heart aches for the pain in those cerulean blues.

The fight leaves Virgil’s spirit, because for once, he’s having a hard time reconciling his own failings with the number of bodies he’s pulled from mud and rock today. Usually, he is the first to reassure his brothers that they did all they could. But on a day like today, with the weight of whatever-it-is on his chest, it’s just not good enough.

But that doesn’t mean he’s going to leave Scott alone in his pain.

“What can I do?” Virgil asks quietly, and Scott stares at him.

A pause. “Just - just be here,” Scott allows at last, sinking back into his chair.

“Always,” Virgil says, and he means it, even through the fog of this exhausted, low, heavy feeling.

“You okay?” Scott says, looking him over with a frown, and Virgil curses internally, because of course, Scott notices what none of his other siblings have.

“As much as any of us are right now,” Virgil answers, as honestly as he can. Scott clearly doesn’t quite believe him, because he keeps shooting Virgil surreptitious glances laden with concern, but he lets it go. Perhaps he too lacks the energy to fight him on this.

(It’s not enough and Virgil knows it. It’s not enough to stop his brother from working himself into an early grave and it’s not enough to blame poor construction work for the collapse of a tower block when he should have been able to save them).

(He’s not enough).

He’s exhausted. He had thought he was shattered before, but now -

The heaviness in his chest is a gaping wide hole, and the edges are raw and ragged from trying to hold himself together. His throat closes and clogs, but the tears won’t come, even as misery wells inside of him.

He looks blankly at the piano he sometimes uses to pull himself back from edges like these - edges that plunge down, down, down into an abyss he daren’t explore. Only the tug in his chest isn’t there. The canvas on his easel remains blank, his paintbrush untouched. Hell, even the idea of a nice, hot shower has him cringing at the effort and self-care involved.

What the hell’s the matter with him?

He can’t quite explain it, and for one usually so attuned to others’ emotions, this awful lowness is startling. Because it’s more than lowness, and it’s more than heaviness - it’s more like a complete absence of feeling, an emptiness that he doesn’t know how to name.

Perhaps, it will shift in the morning. Perhaps, this is the consequence of pushing yourself to over-exhaustion and beyond, and then expelling what little energy remains to support your loved ones. Sleep will help, Virgil tells himself. Rest makes everything better, you will be better in the morning.

#thunderbirds are go #virgil tracy #littleoldrachel writes #not wolfstar #happy belated birthday nutty!

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letterboxd · 4 years

Photo

How I Letterboxd #6: Sean Boelman.

Talking 2020 movie trends, the year’s best documentaries, and Elijah Wood’s death-stare with peach emoji lobbyist Sean Boelman.

“Honestly, there’s not much I like to do other than watch movies or go to theme parks, and one of those things wasn’t an option for months.”

In a year like no other for the movie business, it’s still possible to see hundreds of new films if you have the right connections. For professional critics, the downside of missing the in-person festival buzz and tent-pole previews is somewhat offset by the upside of being able to pace out your screenings in the comfort of your own home.

Wondering who might possibly hold the title of “the Letterboxd member who has watched the most new releases so far this year”, we poked around in the server room and found Sean Boelman, who has logged well over 400 films from 2020 in his diary. So far this year, Sean (20) has covered the Sundance, SXSW, Tribeca, Florida and Fantasia Film Festivals; he also reviews films via screeners sent through from PR firms. Sean hails from Orlando, Florida, and is the founder of movie review platform disappointment media, which he created to promote a wider range of voices in film criticism.

Park So-dam and peach in ‘Parasite’ (2019), directed by Bong Joon-ho.

How long ago did you join Letterboxd? I joined Letterboxd back in 2015. I attended a film class that summer and the teaching assistant had an account and encouraged all of us to create our own. I’ve been using the app religiously ever since.

You’re our youngest ‘How I Letterboxd’ participant to date. How would you describe your experience on Letterboxd as a teenager? When I was in high school, I was one of the earliest adopters of the app, so I told all of my friends about it and suggested that they use it too. By the time I got to college, it was already in the mainstream within the film community, so I was just the guy with the most extensive account. I love how Letterboxd is a community for film fans to talk about films we love, and with the exception of a few trolls every once in a while, it’s really conducive to good discussions.

Which features have you found the most useful? I’m definitely an obsessive logger. The diary feature is without a doubt my favorite part of the app. I started logging in June 2015 and have logged every feature-length film (and some shorts) I’ve watched since. I made the decision not to retroactively mark everything I’ve seen in my life as watched, because that would be too monumental a task. I also find Letterboxd particularly useful during a festival. It’s interesting to see the buzz about what movies people do and don’t like so that I can adjust my schedule accordingly.

And what’s a feature you wish Letterboxd had? I really loved when you guys changed the stars to flames for Portrait of a Lady on Fire. It would be awesome if you started doing that more regularly for releases that get a sizeable following. Like, give Parasite peaches.

Ivana Baquero and Doug Jones in ‘Pan’s Labyrinth’ (2006), directed by Guillermo del Toro.

What film kicked off your passion for cinema, and specifically, which films or community of film fans motivated you to watch as many films as you can find for the current year? I’ve loved cinema for as long as I can remember, but the film that I credit with really birthing my love for film as art is Pan’s Labyrinth. When I saw that in theaters at the—probably too young—age of six, I felt like [Guillermo] del Toro transported me into Ofelia’s world, and I then realized what magical capabilities the medium of film has.

As for why I’m motivated to watch so many new releases, I have a bit of an issue with saying no, haha. As a film critic, I’m inundated with requests to review movies, from major studio releases to B-movies most people have never heard of. I’ve done my fair share of adding titles to TMDb. I end up reviewing anywhere from ten to twenty new releases a week, depending on the season.

You’re a film critic, but you only post short summaries on Letterboxd instead of your full reviews. Why share only brief thoughts? Much of this boils down to the fact that when I watch something, it’s still under embargo for full reviews, so I can only log it in my Letterboxd diary and leave a little blurb. I also find that there isn’t as much room for humor in my full reviews, so I like using this platform to get my jokes out.

So, as of writing, you’ve ranked 457 films from 2020. What percentage of your total films seen are from these new ‘Roaring Twenties’? Out of the films I’ve logged on Letterboxd, it seems like about ten percent are listed on Letterboxd as movies from 2020. The actual percentage would be quite a bit lower than that, though, since my Letterboxd doesn’t include anything I watched prior to June 2015.

Before Covid-19 shutdowns, how many of these films did you have the opportunity to see in theaters? Which were your most memorable theatrical experiences of the year? In 2020, I was able to see 29 films in theaters, either paid or in a theatrical press screening, before they shut down. I’ve also gotten to see some since the shutdown in drive-ins or from the Florida Film Festival holding socially distanced, in-person screenings. But I definitely went through a bit of theater withdrawal. I missed the smell of popcorn dearly.

For my favorite theatrical experiences in 2020, seeing The Invisible Man on opening night with a packed crowd was definitely a hoot. I was sad at first to have missed the press screening, but like most great horror movies, it was awesome to see it with an audience and hear them gasp in surprise in the action sequences. Another one was getting to see Weathering with You in 4DX. Normally you wouldn’t think of that as a big, spectacle-driven 4DX movie, but it was super-immersive in all of the Sunshine Girl scenes.

And I have some awesome memories from SXSW 2019. At the world premiere of Us, I was pushed into Elisabeth Moss. I once got a death stare from Elijah Wood who seemed to think I was going to approach him. Don’t get me wrong, I love his work—but I wasn’t going to because of etiquette. I watched Long Shot with one of the world’s leading geneticists and then got to see Boyz II Men perform live. And I laughed hysterically when Robert Patrick said in a Q&A that even he didn’t understand the movie he was in. It’s a fun time. I definitely encourage any cinephiles to attend an in-person festival when things get back to normal.

You have more than seventy films in your 2020 list with five or four and a half stars. Would you describe yourself as a generous rater? I was definitely a lot more generous when I started my Letterboxd than I am now. I’m sure if I rewatched some of those films I logged in 2015 and 2016, they’d get a lower rating today. But I really don’t mind it. I don’t see my purpose as a critic as to tear apart the filmmaker’s art—I want to appreciate it. Maybe I’m a little liberal with my five-star rating, but what can I say? Gosh, I love movies. And for me, a five-star rating doesn’t mean perfect, it means great. I don’t think there’s such thing as a perfect film. A five-star [rating] from me means that it connected with me in an extraordinary way. I reserve the ‘like’ for films that set themselves apart from the rest of the five stars by some virtue. If I give it a five and a like, now that’s something you should definitely not miss.

Tunde Adebimpe in ‘She Dies Tomorrow’ (2020), directed by Amy Seimetz.

Your best film of 2020 so far is Amy Seimetz’s She Dies Tomorrow—it’s also your number three of all time. What resonated so strongly with you about the film? Are you surprised about its divisive reaction? I absolutely adore She Dies Tomorrow. I’ve really admired Amy Seimetz’s work as an actress for a long time, and her work behind the camera on this blew me away. I haven’t seen Sun Don’t Shine yet, but it’s on the top of my list. It connected with me because it really captured some of the anxieties I’ve been going through recently. She obviously didn’t set out to make the definitive Covid film, but that’s what it ended up being. And of course, how could you not love that film’s extraordinary use of color. It looks magnificent. But I’m not at all surprised at how divisive it is. It has a very segmented and unorthodox narrative, and not everyone is a fan of that type of structure. I understand why it hasn’t worked as well for some people.

What are the other most overlooked films of 2020 so far? In terms of overlooked 2020 films, I think the big one is the Russell Simmons exposé On the Record. I think that Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering’s The Hunting Ground is one of the most harrowing documentaries I have ever seen in my life, and On the Record combines a lot of that relevance while also offering a really compelling look at the life of a powerful woman in the music industry. It’s great, and only about one thousand members have logged it on Letterboxd. Watch it on HBO Max!

There are a lot of great movies released in 2020 that are widely available and [fewer than] 5,000 people having logged them on Letterboxd. A White, White Day is a great little revenge thriller from Iceland. But what makes it stand out from the genre is that it’s a lot more understated and character-driven than most. It has similar vibes to You Were Never Really Here, but perhaps even quieter. Maria von Hausswolff’s cinematography is absolutely breathtaking, and Ingvar Sigurðsson gives one of my favorite performances of the year. It’s just a gorgeous film.

Hlynur Pálmason’s Icelandic revenge thriller ‘A White, White Day’(2019).

The Painted Bird is a bit harder to recommend because it is by no means fun, but it’s one of those that you have to watch once and will never want to see again. I described it as “auteur shock cinema”. It’s a three-hour-long Holocaust drama that’s bleak and filled with torture, but it’s powerful, heartbreaking and harrowing. It also features great performances all around, especially from child actor Peta Kotlár.

I think Michael Winterbottom is one of the best directors working right now and I’ve always loved what he did with the Coogan-Brydon combo in his The Trip series, and this year’s entry, The Trip to Greece, is probably the best one yet. Over the course of the decade the series has spanned, Coogan and Brydon have changed a lot, and this series—in which they play themselves—has adapted to reflect that. This one’s a lot more heartfelt, but still features plenty of great impressions and tantalizing food shots. This really is one of my favorite film series of all time, so you should check all four out! Some other overlooked films I can think of are Jasper Mall, Aviva and Sword of God.

Which 2020 films would you say are the most overrated? Any absolute must-avoids? This is going to be a really hot take, but there was a trifecta of homebound horror flicks that came out in July—Relic, The Rental and Amulet—and I didn’t care for any of them. I think all the directors are talented and show a lot of potential, especially Natalie Erika James, but I wasn’t a fan of any of the films. As for ones to avoid, I try not to call out bad movies unless there’s a reason to [do so], and there are only two of those this year: Coffee & Kareem and Elvis from Outer Space. Coffee & Kareem is just offensive, and Elvis from Outer Space tries to be so-bad-it’s-funny and falls flat.

Jahi Di’Allo Winston in ‘Charm City Kings’ (2020), directed by Ángel Manuel Soto.

What films that you’ve been fortunate to preview via screeners or film festivals are you certain will be a big deal once they’re available on general release? Ugh, there are some I wish I could talk about but I’m still under embargo! So I’ll have to talk mostly about festival ones. Alice Gu’s The Donut King is wonderful. It was supposed to debut at SXSW, but obviously that got cancelled. On one hand, it is a food doc about donuts—who doesn’t love donuts?—but it’s also a moving story about the immigrant experience. It scored distribution from Greenwich and should be released soon. Charm City Kings is great, and HBO Max picked that up to be released sometime this year. That’s a really awesome coming-of-age movie with a story by Barry Jenkins. And I saw a work-in-progress cut of this indie called Millennium Bugs made by an up-and-comer named Alejandro Montoya Marín. He was part of the Robert Rodriguez show Rebel Without a Crew. It’s a great little movie about Y2K and the Latinx experience that will be debuting online at Dances with Films and is looking for a distributor after that.

Fill in the blank: “2020 is a great year for ____ in film”. What patterns have you noticed? I really think that 2020 is a great year for documentaries. We thought 2018 was a great year with Won’t You Be My Neighbor?, Free Solo, RBG and Three Identical Strangers, among others, but this year is shaping up to be even better. Boys State, The Donut King, On the Record, Rebuilding Paradise, Dark City Beneath the Beat, A Secret Love and Disclosure are all excellent, and that’s just scratching the surface.

I think what makes these documentaries stand out is their ability to make the viewer feel connected to their story. I love documentaries that take a story you might not have otherwise heard of and tell it in a way that feels intensely personal. By taking these stories like the problems inherent in American democracy, the immigrant experience, the California wildfires, the #MeToo movement, and issues with trans representation on screen and telling them in a way that people can relate to them even if they can’t personally identify with their subjects, these documentary filmmakers are making the world a more compassionate place.

What films are you most looking forward to that are scheduled to release in 2020? Any awards season predictions you feel strongly about? In terms of mainstream releases, I’m most excited for No Time to Die, unless it gets pushed to 2021 like some have rumored. I’m a huge Cary Joji Fukunaga fan, so I’m excited to see what he does with the franchise. For indies, I’m really looking forward to seeing Promising Young Woman, The Green Knight, Save Yourselves!, Nomadland and Another Round.

For awards seasons predictions, there are a few I’m pretty confident about based on what I’ve seen. Boys State is an early frontrunner for Best Documentary. I think Eliza Hittman will get some love for Never Rarely Sometimes Always. Dev Patel is a pretty good bet for a Best Actor nod for The Personal History of David Copperfield, even though the movie itself probably won’t get much more love. And there’s an upcoming Netflix movie that has a screenplay nomination in the bag, and maybe a couple other categories too, but shhhh, I’m under embargo on that one so I can’t say more.

Dev Patel in ‘The Personal History of David Copperfield’ (2019), directed by Armando Iannucci.

You keep thorough distributor rankings as well as year and franchise lists—how would you sum up the way each of these recently formed companies inspires you? Obviously A24 and NEON have amassed a pretty big cult following, and for good reason. There’s a particular identity their films have, despite the differences in genre, and I enjoy ranking them because of that. For the streamers, their films are a little more diverse, but I use my lists as a way for people to discover some of my favorite films they can watch at the click of a button. And for Blumhouse, it’s just because I absolutely adore the work Jason Blum does in supporting filmmakers’ voices. I’m usually pretty cool-headed around celebrities because interacting with high-profile people is a part of our job as critics, but I admittedly froze when I met him at SXSW since I’m such a big fan of his. I’ve always said that once I score an interview with him, I can “retire” as a critic, haha.

You’re of Guatemalan descent. Which films do you best relate with your Latino heritage? Of course, Pan’s Labyrinth is a big deal for me given the fact that it was a formative film in my life. [Alejandro] Jodorowsky’s The Holy Mountain is one of my favorite Latino classics. El Mariachi is great because Robert Rodriguez is the epitome of Latino DIY filmmaking and has always been such an inspiring figure. I got to interview him last year for Alita: Battle Angel, and it was an awesome experience. And in terms of more recent films, I think the Netflix doc Mucho Mucho Amor really captures the importance of community amongst Latinos.

What films are highest on your list of shame? I will say that I’ve seen more classics than I have logged on Letterboxd, but there are still a few embarrassing gaps on my list. I love the work I’ve seen from Akira Kurosawa, Brian De Palma, Agnès Varda and Chantal Akerman, and I really want to finish up their filmographies. Probably the most shameful omission I have is the fact that I’ve never seen a film by Ingmar Bergman. I’ve been lightening my workload for my site a bit, so I’m hoping to catch up on some of those soon.

Who are three Letterboxd members you recommend we follow? My friend Camden Ferrell who co-founded disappointment media with me. He’s also very passionate about film and does a lot of reviews for the site. Another one of our contributors is Sarah, who came on to the team during Sundance this year. She’s great and basically started the Portrait of a Lady on Fire fandom. I also want to give a shout-out to Jon Berk who was actually the critic to challenge me to start a blog back in 2016 when he was doing the Doug Loves Movies challenge, and now I’ve gotten to where I significantly outpace him, haha.

Sean’s site accepts story pitches from, and offers constructive feedback to, aspiring writers from under-represented and minority groups. Email Sean to find out more. Check out these 2020 rankings from Letterboxd members who have watched more than 100 releases this year: Orlan Harris, Austin Burke, Jerome, Joey Magidson, Kevin Yang, Jack, Jordan Raup, Matt Neglia, Weather Boy, Julian D, Johann Rucker, Mikey Brzezinkski, Ewan Graf, Denis Eremeev, Aaron King.

#How I Letterboxd #letterboxd members #letterboxd community #film criticism #film critic #latino cinema #portrait nation #letterboxd

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nimblermortal · 5 years

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The Saint who Sold His Soul to the Devil

Feel like I ought to ask @hello-delicious-tea‘s permission before posting, since this was a joint effort, but it also feels like an Eastery sort of story.

Excerpt: “Initially he proceeded as expected, granting himself large sums in foreign banks and a magnificent estate. But then he turned the magnificent estate into an orphanage, invested heavily in philanthropic concerns to end world hunger, and started purifying water like a blessed unicorn.”

One day the devil came to a holy man, and he was pleased, for the holy man said, “I have spent many years on this earth trying to accomplish great works, and never succeeding; I have learned all there is to learn, of science and metaphysics, and nothing has enabled me to achieve the ends I set myself. In all this time I have never had one thing for myself or one measure of satisfaction, and I am tired, so I will sell my soul to you for the power to do what I wish, how I wish, when I wish for a year and a day.”

This was the sort of thing the devil liked to hear from holy men, and he said a contract would be drawn up and a meeting arranged, and he went back to Hell well satisfied. The holy man expected this to take some time, at least a week, but Hell is bureaucracy, and Hell had templates. They were back within the hour.

“Initial here, here, and here, and then sign this,” said the devil’s advocate. “Unlimited power for a year and a day, standard issue.”

The holy man said, “Whatever I wish, however I wish it, whenever I wish?”

The advocate wrote it into the margin.

“Are marginalia legal and binding?” asked the holy man.

“As binding as the gates of Hell,” said the devil’s advocate; and vanished back to Hell, where the contract was stamped, sealed, and forgotten about until the quarterly review.

“And item number three on the agenda, unlimited power to one holy man,” said the devil’s secretary.

“Previously holy,” the devil corrected. The stenographer took note. “How is he doing?”

One of the devil’s minions cleared his throat and shuffled his papers. The devil glared at him until the shuffling subsided. “Initially he proceeded as expected, granting himself large sums in foreign banks and a magnificent estate. But then he turned the magnificent estate into an orphanage, invested heavily in philanthropic concerns to end world hunger, and started purifying water like a blessed unicorn.”

“Ah,” said one of the other officials. “That’s item number seven, climate change. We had to dispatch three devils to dump nuclear waste into the Hoover Dam Reservoir to make up for it.”

“It didn’t work,” sighed another. “That ‘previously’ holy man wished all the nuclear waste into a secure holding facility and breathed life back into the Great Barrier Reef.”

“That’s item seven,” the secretary said severely.

“The ozone hole is looking sufficiently whole,” said another demon, “but we haven’t had the resources to send someone that high ye -“

“Item fifteen,” the secretary interjected. “We are on item three.”

The devil sighed. “Oh, just send two of our tempters up. He’ll be wallowing in sin and decadence again in no time.”

“Dispatch the best tempters,” the official in charge of water pollution whispered. The secretary glared, but made a note.

“Motion to table this issue until the midyear review,” the devil proposed.

“Seconded,” said the secretary sharply. There were nods down the table.

“Let’s move on to item four,” said the devil. “Counterintelligence.”

“At least that’s got nothing to do with him,” muttered the water pollution official, who was about to be kicked out of the meeting.

-------

“Sir,” said the secretary, “Sire, my Lord of Hell, the temptation tiger team is here to see you.”

“Ah yes, the progress report,” the devil said. It was 3:15 PM on a Wednesday. The devil had benevolently allotted them an entire fifteen minutes of his work day, which ought to be suprasufficient for a report on their temptation of a thoroughly previously holy man.

“They aren’t… quite up to the standards you are accustomed to,” the secretary murmured.

The devil frowned. “Why the devil not?” he demanded.

“They do field work,” the secretary said. The devil brightened.

“Ah! Smeared with the effluvia of their toil,” the devil said, understanding dawning.

“Quite,” the secretary said, and withdrew.

It was clear what the secretary meant the moment the two agents entered the room. The secretary’s wings were a very appropriate black, reminiscent of ravens, crows, and other beasts of carrion. The tiger teams’ had taken on a distinct ashy hue, which, while not inappropriate to their work, was not in keeping with Hell’s regulations either.

They probably had not yet been to see the wingblackers. It was tacitly understood that, while not every agent of Hell’s wings were a naturally lustrous ebony, ranging from iridescent midnight to the rather tattered matte black of lower officials, all agents of Hell were expected to maintain the appearance of deepest night.

“My Lord of Flames,” said one of the agents nervously, which was the way the devil expected his subordinates to feel in his presence. “We are here to tender our resignation.”

The other agent quietly set his horns on the devil’s desk.

“Nonsense,” said the devil. “Just because you haven’t damned the bugger yet doesn’t mean you won’t. Chin up! We can certainly allow you another three months to get the job done.”

“It isn’t that,” said the designated speaker. “It’s just… we’ve had an alternate offer, and we’re looking for opportunities outside the traditional career hierarchy, with more scope for expanding our creative direction.”

“Your creative direction is what I tell you it is,” the devil said.

“Well, you see sir, that’s the problem,” began the speaker.

“We’ve been offered redemption and I’m going for it,” said the other. The devil stared.

“That’s not possible,” he said. “It says so in the Holy Books. Fallen angels, once fallen -“

“- may never return,” finished the first tempter. “But you did offer him unlimited power, to use “however he chose, whenever he chose, for whatever he chose,” to quote the contract.”

“He showed it to us,” added the second.

“It’s signed,” said the first.

“In triplicate,” said the second.

“They initialed the marginalia. In blood. And it has your personal seal.”

The devil snapped his fingers to summon a replica of the contract, and stared. It did indeed bear his seal.

“If that’s all, we’ll be going now,” said the second. “Our bodyguard positions begin in… oh, about five minutes.”

They left, closing the door behind them. And at 3:26 on a Wednesday, the devil watched the former temptation tiger team depart, wondering what on Earth he was going to tell his subordinates at tomorrow’s midyear review.

-------

At the third quarterly review, the table of officiation was down three members. That was due to item one on the agenda.

“This blasted holy man,” the devil announced as soon as everyone was present. “We have to do something. He’s hiring my people right out from under me. We’ve lost the Ministers of Water, Hunger, and Health in the last three weeks alone!”

“We are the deepest circle of Hell,” the secretary muttered. “There is no more ‘under.’”

“We have to rally the faithful,” said the Minister of War. The devil looked at him with disfavor. He always had to couch things in the most ridiculously religious terms. “Contract or no contract, the man must be stopped. This is my department now.”

“Soul intake for the year is down seventy percent,” the secretary chimed in. “Turns out people do a lot less sinning when they’re not desperate.”

“We’ve known that since five thousand BC,” the devil said. “What of it?”

“I am merely seconding the Minister’s motion,” the secretary said. “This man must be stopped.”

“Stopped like a heart,” said the Minister of War with satisfaction.

“Make it so,” said the devil.

-------

A year and a day after the signing of an almost standard Ultimate Power contract, S— T— died in his sickbed. Doctors agreed that they had never seen a man contract so many sicknesses all at once.

-------

The heavenly auditor who showed up on the devil’s doorstep looked apologetic and very familiar.

“Beelzebub?” the devil asked incredulously.

“Ah, yes, sir. As it were, sir. It’s Beelziel now, sir.”

“And?” asked the devil, casting himself back upon his unholy throne.

“I’m afraid we’ve run it through all of the tests, sir,” said the auditor. “We’ve checked the Book of Names. Twice. The judgment of St. Peter, the Three Kings… We even ran it by the Feather of Truth, and no matter how we run it, sir, the soul is still holy. Clean as the newfallen snow. And I do mean new snow. Snow after we got rid of all that pollution and ash in the atmosphere.”

The devil stared. “He signed the contract!”

“In good faith!” agreed Beelziel. “If he hadn’t, it wouldn’t have worked. But he truly believed his soul was damned. And as such, every act using Hell’s granted unlimited power became a holy miracle.”

“And?” the devil demanded.

“And so he sacrificed himself for the greater good,” said Beelziel. “Willingly. Holding nothing back. Sound familiar?”

“You can’t be serious,” said the devil. “But even so, the contract states -“

“But contracts are not valid when they violate the law of the land,” said Beelziel. “In this case, the laws set down for souls when Adam and Eve first ate of the Tree of Eden. Besides, you tried to have him assassinated. That tends to weaken the foundation of a contract. You didn’t succeed, which would have voided the contract, but it certainly doesn’t look good in the Appeals Courts. That worked in his favor.”

And so the devil relinquished his claim upon the soul of the holy man, for the bargain was poorly made. And since that time he has made no bargains with holy men, for fear the world would be made right and all his works destroyed.

#theory and chalk

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feelingsdusk-writes · 5 years

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Fides

I was going to wait a bit more for this one, but since it's my birthday, y'all get an unbirthday present today... or birthday present, if you're a 26th of April baby like me lol.

Also, in case you're wondering, for now I'll only be posting this here and my AO3 will come later.

Cheers!

---

Chapter 2

They don’t trust each other.

The fairies are wary of Stiles and Stiles is wary of them. It’s understandable, though, in both cases. Although the fairies have been watching Stiles since they came, they’ve only seen him when he stays in his room, which means that about seventy percent of that time he has been asleep. And now they find themselves dependent on him, which means that a complete stranger holds the security of their livelihood, and isn’t that a terrifying thought? And for his part, Stiles knows them even less and he knows they’ve already seen him naked and asleep. Some would think that the second is nothing compared to the first, but it’s not. He’d take being naked and awake in the presence of a possible hostile over vulnerable and unconscious every day. Not that he thinks of them as hostiles, but desperate people can do a lot of things they’d normally be against doing to survive.

In short, they’re at an impasse.

"Um," he starts awkwardly. "Apart from dishes and glasses, what else do you need?" He's not trying to butter them up. If anything it should be other way around. But someone has to take the first step and Stiles figures that the survivors of a massacre aren't going to be the ones to do it. "I still have fabrics if you need clothes too?"

"That- That would be- Yes, please, if it's not too much trouble," a girl answers. Stiles doesn't know her name yet and she hasn't volunteered it.

"I can make blankets and easy stuff," he admits sheepishly, "but if you want anything more complicated... I think I can make dresses and all that, but don't expect them to be too, you know, high quality."

"Oh, that's- We will manage, thank you," she replies, trying avoid pulling at her threadbare clothes self-consciously.

"But you can have the fabrics and make something else yourself if you want? I have a lot."

"That would be wonderful!" she answers, clearly brightening.

God, he's such a softie, dammit.

So Stiles makes more cutlery and the like with the remaining polymer clay and they drop some pearls of wisdom about what being a spark entails. He sews some fabrics to use as blankets so that they don’t have to share and they talk about some other creatures that Stiles thought a fantasy but aren’t. He sews some clothes rudimentarily because they still don’t have needles and they share a little bit more about the supernatural world. Then, he shapes some wood into tiny itsy bitsy needles and cuts the fabrics as they ask him to, and they explain about fairy society specifically.

And that’s that.

Getting any kind of cooperation out of them is like pulling teeth and Stiles is pretty frustrated by now. Don’t get him wrong, he gets it, he really does. Besides what they told him when he found them, they haven’t talked about what happened to their colony and the circumstances that brought them to his terrarium, but he doesn’t have to be a genius to know that the whole thing has marked them, that they are traumatized by what happened. Putting himself in their shoes, Stiles knows he would be as distrustful and closed off as they are.

Knowing or understanding that doesn’t make it any less frustrating, though.

Because everything he has found on the Internet is pure bullshit. Because supposedly he has a lot of power at his fingertips and he can’t try it. Because there’s a whole new fascinating world that he’s taken a peek at and then it has closed on him. But above all, because there are hostiles in that world that are capable of destroying a whole fairy colony, bypassing all the security measures (magical or not) that he’s sure they had, and he can’t prepare in case they come at him searching for the survivors.

And he hates that so, so much.

But he isn’t sure about how to proceed in this situation because he feels that whatever the outcome of his approach is, it’s going to be bad. His approach right now is working to some degree, but if the threat is real, it’s nowhere near enough to be of any use, because if they attacked today, he’d be useless. If he kicks them out (and mind you, that’s not a possibility, he’s not that cold-hearted), not only is there no guarantee that the hostiles won’t show up anyway, but he’ll lose the only connection and source of knowledge of the supernatural that he has. Now, if he explains to them why he wants the knowledge, he may spook them into leaving, getting the same results as if he kicked them out. Then again, it could convince them to talk to Stiles, but, being honest, he doesn’t like the odds at all, because in that aspect they’re like Stiles, whom doesn’t like to be dependent on anyone and normally doesn’t ask for help unless there’s no other way.

So yeah, it’s a stalemate alright, because they don’t trust each other and none of them want to make the first step (help with utensils and clothes non withstanding). So it’s been nearly a month since Stiles found the fairies in his terrarium and they haven’t moved a single step further from just cordial interactions. And all those have been initiated by Stiles…

… which is why he’s so surprised when he finds six of them waiting for him just as he opens the door of the house, coming home late after Track practice. Up until now he hasn’t even seen them leave his room and they choose to do that on the one out of the five total times a year that his dad comes to pick him up.

The word flail doesn’t even begin to describe what he does when he notices them and he realizes that his dad is only a couple of steps behind. He recovers quickly and gestures frantically in the direction of his room, only breathing normally when they disappear upstairs, his dad being none the wiser.

“So,” his dad starts just as Stiles starts climbing the stairs to get to his room as fast as he can without being suspicious. “I had an interesting conversation today.”

Stiles knows that tone of voice. Although it’s not outwardly noticeable, he instantly checks mentally what he may have done and gotten caught for. He’s been too busy trying to subtly convince the fairies to talk to him and after his retaliation of last month the twins haven’t dared to mess with him, so nothing comes to mind. Still, in these cases the best defense is silence and a poker face, so he only turns to look at his dad with a neutral expression, like he always does in all of their conversations lately.

His dad’s serious expression turns severe. “Come here and sit,” he orders and it takes all Stiles’ willpower to keep his stance as he approaches the chair his dad has just pointed at. “Last chance to come clean, son,” the man warns as he also takes a seat.

Stiles suddenly adds two and two. When he finished practice today, on his way to the changing rooms, he saw his dad’s patrol car already parked from the hall window, but he never actually saw his dad inside or near it. He was actually waiting by Stiles’ locked bike by the time he finished showering and everything, about fifteen minutes later. It doesn’t take much to deduce, seeing the current situation, that it probably means that he was in a meeting with his teacher or with the principal. Maybe even both. Which means he was probably summoned.

Which means he probably (most likely) wouldn’t have come to pick him up if he hadn’t been called.

There are lots of probably’s in his guesswork but Stiles has good instincts and he’s rarely wrong about these kinds of things. The ratio up to date is that one out fifty he’s wrong, so he feels justified when anger starts to bubble under the surface. Especially so when he goes over the small talk his dad had been trying to make on the way back home and he finds lots of hinting that he had taken as a joke or he had just plain missed.

“Are you sure this is the way you wanna go, son?” his dad insists, expression even more pinched, as if he’s exhausted.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he answers firmly. And for the life of him, he doesn’t. If his dad had asked this same exact question about a month ago, he would have had about three different answers for it just at the top of his head: hacking into a senior’s PC to plant a virus because he had nearly pushed Stiles down the stairs as a joke; anonymously tipping the police into finding the steroids that same senior’s best friend still kept in his locker because he hadn’t distributed them yet; and turning on the megaphone just as the math teacher was making out with the vice principal (both of them are (maybe now were is the correct word to use?) married) just because he felt like it and because Mr. Jones’ wife is a sweetheart and Stiles really likes her, and, most importantly, he heard them talking about having a baby, and that’s… nope. He isn’t even counting what he did to the twins because he just had to lead Mr. Andrews in the right direction and the rest came by itself. But all this happened nearly a month ago, which leaves him at a total loss about what his father is talking about.

“Stiles,” his dad warns, “this is not a joke.”

“What do you want me to say?” he finally snaps, his anger at the whole situation mounting. It adds to the worry he feels about the fairies, because if they sought him out and risked being found out, whatever their problem is, it must be serious. And he’s stuck here with his father without knowing what hell is happening, both with his dad and with the fairies. He sure isn’t a happy camper right now. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about!”

His dad then tries that stern no nonsense look that used to make him crack and had him confessing in no time when he was little, and Stiles tries to reign in his temper. It’s difficult because apart from the worry and the anger, his resentment is starting to build up again, no matter how much he tries to quell it (because this is his dad and he still loves him no matter what). And the hurt, oh, the hurt. It stings so bad that this is the most time they’ve spent together these last three months and it’s because his dad has made time in his busy schedule to scold him and probably punish him. Stiles won a track competition three weeks ago and the most he got was a phone call that evening and a celebratory brownie in a paper bag waiting for him the next morning on the kitchen table. In his more uncharitable moments, Stiles thinks that it was Anderson who reminded his father about the competition.

His dad sighs and then proceeds to pull out two carefully folded papers to place them in front of Stiles. They are exams. Specifically, one of them is the copy of the Science exam he took this Monday and the other is Mathew Collins’ exam. Also known as twin number one to Stiles. The answers are, if not completely, nearly the same. Stiles instantly sees where all this is going. He doesn’t know how they managed it and he doesn’t care. Stiles is going to counter back so brutally that the mere thought of going against him is going to make both twins piss themselves in fear. At the very least.

Internally, he’s seething. Externally, he’s so cool that he might as well be ice. His voice is level when he speaks. “Are you accusing me of cheating?”

“How else would you call this, Stiles?”

“How about him copying me? I don’t know, seeing that my grades are always among the best of my class?”

“Stiles, don’t make things worse,” his dad interrupts him, anger and disappointment seeping into his voice, and Stiles clenches his jaw. “I asked Mr. Andrews and he said that the kid was a little ahead of you and he would have caught him if he turned continuously to copy from you to this extent. The only answer is that you copied from him then, and I want to know why would you do this when you normally have good grades on your own.”

“I haven’t cheated.”

“Stiles…”

“I haven’t cheated,” he cuts in, deeply offended and hurt by his dad’s refusal to believe him. He picks up his bag and takes out his Science textbook, throwing it angrily to the kitchen table. “Ask me anything.”

“Stiles, you’re just making things worse for…”

“Anything,” he cuts in again. “I know the whole damn book, not just what we’ve seen so far. Ask away.”

His dad’s phone interrupts the silent battle of wills that proceeds Stiles’ affirmation. When the man comes back from where he had gone to ensure his privacy, so does his disappointed look. Stiles wants to rage but before he can get a word out, his dad raises a hand, stopping him.

“This matter is not closed. We’ll talk again tomorrow after school. I talked to Mr. Andrews and agreed that you’ll go an hour early tomorrow and you’ll retake the exam. You should be happy I convinced him to leave this out of your record because this was a first incident. Take the chance and study.”

“I don’t need to because I didn’t cheat!”

The sheriff sighs long-suffering as he goes to the entrance. “Study, Stiles. We’ll talk about your punishment tomorrow.”

“I didn’t cheat, dad!” Stiles shouts frustrated just as the door closes behind his dad.

He’s going to make them regret ever crossing Stiles. They want war? Okay, war is what they’re going to get. And he’ll take no prisoners. Stiles takes a deep breath because he's so angry he's shaking. But first, the fairies.

“We’re alone,” he says through gritted teeth as he opens the door of his room, and almost all the fairies leave the terrarium instantly, coming to meet him.

“They’re gone!” Eglantine cries as soon as she’s nearly in his face, making him recoil startled. Lorelle comes near, placing a calming hand on her shoulder and the woman tries to compose herself. Aelfdene joins them, throwing a grim look at him that makes clear how little he likes having to come to him for help. Stiles instantly tenses because if both Lorelle and Aelfdene, the only remaining elders, seek him out, it means that the matter is really serious and they have exhausted any other means at their disposal.

“Odette and Ehaldun have disappeared,” Lorelle informs him, her throaty voice dark.

Stiles blanches. Odette is the kid that interrogated him that very first day about where had all the hair gone. She comes almost every day to look at his textbooks while he does his homework but never talks to him because her mother (Eglantine) told him to not to talk to strangers (or non fairies for that matter). When she’s curious about something she asks her brother in a raised voice so that Stiles hears it too, hoping that he’ll explain without having to break the rules of not talking to him. Stiles finds it funny but Ehaldun doesn’t. But she’s his little sister and it’s his job to protect her even though she kicked that cockroach when he was afraid the other day, and… And at that the little boy cut himself, noticing he was talking to Stiles when his mother had told him not to. Stiles still snorts when he remembers that. They’re both funny.

And now they’re missing and Stiles doesn’t understand how, because he left the windows and doors closed this morning before leaving, just like they asked him to. Moreover, his dad left before him and according to the fairies he hasn’t been back throughout the day, so the doors and windows remained like he left them. And he doubts the kids left the room by themselves. Oren says that it took three of them to open the door to his room to search for them and that they only did it just in case there’s any little hole that leads to the rest of the house that they don’t know about.

Stiles doesn’t bother asking them stupid questions like if they they’re sure. Of course they are, they wouldn’t have come to him if they could solve this themselves. Which means that they have already searched the whole house for them multiple times already and found nothing. So either they’re asleep, unconscious, or not in the house. And Stiles is completely sure about that, because he also knows that if they were in the room (or in the house, for that matter) they would have come out already and not let their mother suffer this way.

”When and where was the last time you saw them?” he asks instead.

Some saw them by the waterfall, others in the big house where he keeps his picture… Depending on the person, it changes, but it’s Aelfwine’s answer the one that catches his attention. ”Before you left, I think, because they were over your bag.”

”My school bag?”

When he nods, he frowns. After a second of consideration, he turns to go back downstairs to pick it up from where he left it at the kitchen. It’s a long shot but it doesn’t hurt to check it out. Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise him if he found out that Odette had tried to peek inside and that Ehaldun had followed her just to not leave her alone. If that’s what happened, they’ve probably spent the whole day in his bag.

He brings it up to his room and, when he calls for them and they don’t answer, he starts to empty it just in case. When he finishes doing that, he even turns it around to shake it. Nothing.

Eglantine shakes trying to control herself and Stiles winces in sympathy, not knowing what else he can do. It just doesn’t make sense. Eglantine says that they barely know any magic because they’re still too young. And they are, because in human years Odette is five years old, and Ehaldun is just a year older.

“Maybe,” Stiles bites his lips, “they went outside.”

“They know not to!” Eglantine cries out, hugging herself to control her shaking hands.

“I know,” Stiles says, voice soft, “but we don’t lose anything just checking the backyard just in case.”

“Time, that’s what we lose,” she bites out. “Time. And they may already be…”

“No,” a man Stiles doesn’t know the name of cuts in. “Don’t even think that.”

“But…” Sobs start to make her whole body shake and the man and another woman hug her tightly.

“I’m gonna check outside,” Stiles says pained and Aelfdene nods.

Aelfwine and his partner, Beriadan, join him in the search but keep themselves in the pocket of his hoodie to avoid being seen. They check the whole yard, both in the back and in the front of the house and nothing. It doesn’t take them more than ten minutes because there’s only grass and one lonely tree.

He goes back to his room and he almost winces when the desperate hope in Eglantine’s face vanishes at his shake of the head.

“Don’t you have any tracking magic?” he asks awkwardly after a moment of silence. “Because the only option here… is…” He stops himself to think. What are the odds of that happening? What if they did get inside the bag but didn’t stay in when it stopped moving? He always bikes his way to the school like a madman because he normally leaves the house late and he has to sprint there… Which means that they could be at his school. He shudders. If he’s right and they are there, unless they stayed put and didn’t move from any of the five different classrooms he had class in today, they could be anywhere in that enormous building.

“What? What option?” Eglantine asks desperate.

“If they got into my bag, maybe they’re at my school,” Stiles finishes, pursing his lips. “It’s a long shot, but it’s not like we have other options.”

“I’m coming with you,” she says, echoed by many others.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. If I get caught, they’ll ask me to empty my pockets. At most I can bring one of you with me, just in case the kids don’t answer to me because I’m not a fairy or whatever, but even that is a bad idea.”

“I’ll go. They’re my children. I’ll go.”

“Eglantine,” Lorelle starts firmly, only to be cut off by her.

“They’re my children.”

“Ok,” Stiles says coming forward to stand2 right in front of her. “But I want your word that you’ll stay put and do what I say. If I have to run the hell out of there to not get caught…”

“I won’t give up,” she states stubbornly.

“And I’m not telling you to. I’m telling you that I don’t want to have to search for you too when I enter back in from a different window because you didn’t stay in my pocket like I told you to. And think about this, if I get caught I can’t search anymore and you won’t know how to get back here even if you finally find them.”

Stiles can see her taking a deep breath, trying to steel her nerves. Was his own mom like this? Fragile yet diamond hard at the same time? If she hadn’t gotten sick and was alive right now, would she have believed Stiles? Would have his dad? He shakes his head chasing the thought away and goes to his closet to change his clothes into darker colored ones.

It occurs to him that now is not the best time to break into the school with his father so angry. Part of him is screaming that if he gets caught it will solidify and somehow prove right the idea that he cheated on his exam, which makes this whole venture stupid and foolhardy. Another part of him, the one that’s bitter and furious and hurt, thinks that if he’s going to get punished anyway, it’s better if he gives his dad a real reason to do it.

“I’ll do what you say, I give you my word,” Eglantine says finally, cutting his train of thought and he nods in response.

He picks up his phone, putting it on silent (he’s not getting caught for something as stupid as his phone ringing when he’s hiding) and then makes an inviting gesture pointing to the hood. When she looks hesitant, he explains.

“It’s better if you hide inside the hood on the trip to the school. I may hurt you if you go in my pocket while I’m biking there. Besides, if I get caught they may not think to check in the hood. Or at least at first, which will give you time to slip into a sleeve or something like that while they check my pockets.“ As she flies to get into the hood, he takes out his secondary phone (the avenger, he calls it, because it’s the one he normally uses to get revenge because, well, his dad’s the sheriff and he’s not stupid, and since he took it from a bully that was too ashamed to admit that a scrawny little kid taught him a lesson, if someone ever manages to trace it, it will lead them straight to him, not Stiles, which is definitely a plus) from a box inside a drawer and shows it to the rest of the fairies. “Here,” he says as he turns it on. “If the kids come back before we do or if you hear my dad coming, text me. If we find them, I’ll text you too. I’ll show you how. It’s easy.”

He takes five minutes to explain to them how to unlock the phone and how to send and read texts. He leaves three drafts (Dad is home, Kids came back and Danger) to make it easier for them. Just in case he shows them how the calls work too, but advises them to just call him if it’s an emergency or they may get caught. When he’s sure they get it, he hides the phone inside the biggest ewok house, where his mom’s picture still is. Before going to get his bike, he leaves the window almost unlocked so that the fairies can finish opening it with just a push, in case he needs to come in through it.

It’s going to be a long night, that’s for sure.

It’s very dark and pretty chilly when he exits the house. He takes the shortest route he can take to school. It’s not the safest but he has to sacrifice that in favor of saving time. Taking this route means that he won’t be spotted by patrol cars either, so that’s definitely a plus. When he’s a block over before reaching the school, he stops and hides the bike. He doesn’t lock it, just in case he needs to beat a hasty retreat. It’s a risk, because the bike may not be there when he comes back but it’s a risk he’s willing to take.

”Ok, plan of attack,” he murmurs as he creeps sneakily to the school. “There are two buildings of three floors each connected by a large hallway on the second floor. We’ll go around both of them until we find an unlocked window. Whichever is the building that we enter, we check it floor by floor before going to the other building. The problem here is that we can cross paths with them without even noticing… Do you have any way to mark each floor so that the kids will know we’re searching for them and can come to us?”

”I can place a communication rune that relays the message that only fairies can hear, but it takes time that we may not have,” she answers.

”And if you place it someplace where the sound carries? Because there’s a staircase that connects the three floors on each building…”

”That would work.”

”That’s the plan, then. Here’s to hoping that we don’t get caught,” he sighs as he walks briskly.

When he reaches the school, the first thing he does before he starts to circle it, is to check the parking lot for cars. There are two where he expected to be only one (the security guard’s), which means that he has to watch out for two or more people. Awesome.

(Not.)

He sighs but he starts circling the nearest of the two different buildings that constitute his school, hoping to find an unlocked window anyway. The first he finds is a bust, because when he climbs onto the windowsill he finds that the reason why the window is not locked is because it’s stuck. And Stiles may be small for his age, but there’s no way he can slip through that tiny space. Also, he’s not even going to try because if he got stuck it would be a disaster. And he can’t afford making a racket trying to open it either.

“Eglantine,” he murmurs and she appears over his shoulder almost instantly, “try to open the lock of the other window.”

She nods in response and flies into the room. She has toned down the glow of her wings all she could but he can still see her when she’s trying to open the lock. As it is, a firefly is way brighter than her right now, but he’s going to have to watch out for that. It could be worse, he thinks as he waits for her. When Eglantine returns defeated he’s not even surprised, because he knows from experience that those windows are pretty hard to unlock. Still, it was worth a try.

He continues going around the building until he finds another unlocked window. When he tries to widen the gap it emits a creak that has his heart nearly jumping out of his throat. He makes a sprint until he can hide under a bush and waits with bated breath and a thundering heart. Damn the stupid and old as dinosaurs building! Do they not grease the damn windows??? What the hell!

Ten minutes and no hellfire or damnation later, he dares to leave his refuge to creep around in search for an opened window that leaves a gap big enough for him to get through and doesn’t emit beyond the grave sounds while he’s doing so. And dammit, the list of prerequisites keeps growing, but if this keeps going like this that’s going to be the least of his worries because he’s going to die from a heart attack. And he hasn’t even entered the building yet.

(There’s a reason why he doesn’t like Silent Hill, dammit.)

He takes a deep breath and steels himself when he finds another unlocked window. Third time is a charm, indeed. It creaks a little when he pushes it to widen the gap, but he figures this is the best he’s going to get, so he bears with it and suffers through the nearly five minutes it takes him to open it enough to be able to get in. He waits in silence, trying to hear through the thundering of his heart if someone has noticed the noise and has come to investigate. When nothing happens, he climbs inside what looks like a small audiovisual room.

The room is locked, so he’s going to have to put his lockpicking skills to test. But the thing is that there are no windows besides the one he climbed through, which means that he can’t check if someone is coming. Which is bad, very, very bad.

“Eglantine,” he calls her again and points at a the slightly bigger gap between the door and the wall, just at the corner. “Do you think you can go through that?“

“If I squeeze I think I could…”

“Careful with the wings,” he warns her. “If you can’t I’ll think of another way, ok?”

Stiles is starting to respect her quite a bit. She’s terrified, he can tell, but not for herself, for her children. Even so, besides the completely understandable meltdown from before, she’s holding it together admirably.

She squeezes trough the gap, belly up so that her wings don’t get scratched by the door and then she disappears. He waits for a minute before he starts picking the lock and he waits another minute after he’s done. When nothing happens, he calls her softly so that she doesn’t get caught by the door if she’s attempting to cross back and then carefully opens the door. She flies up to hide in his hood again when he’s closing the door after him so that it doesn’t raise any suspicions.

Stiles crosses the hallway as noiselessly as he can. He has put on the softest sneakers that he has just for that, but he’s seriously considering taking them off and just keeping the socks on, because every single little noise sounds like a bang to his ears. Thinking logically, he knows that it’s not like that, that it’s just his own senses that are heightened. But if that happens to him, it surely happens to the guard too. He doubts for a moment but he decides to keep them on, just in case he has to run to escape.

They comb through the first floor, calling softly to Odette and Ehaldun inside each room and closet that they find. On the ones locked, Stiles either waits, hidden as well as he can, as Eglantine slips inside through a crack, or he picks the lock when she can’t. He waits with his heart in his throat while she places the rune on the second floor (we’re searching for you in this building, come to the second floor and don’t leave, it says according to Eglantine). The search is slow, tortuous and nerve-wracking, and the fact that they still haven’t seen hide nor hair of the security guard is driving them up a wall, but, floor after floor, they persevere.

It takes them an hour and a half to clear the first building and he has to wait again for her to change the message on the rune before they proceed to the second one. This one is actually where Stiles’ classrooms are, but since they were going to check the whole school anyway, it was better to have a method to it, to avoid having the children slip through a crack unnoticed. They go back to the second floor, nerves wracked by the long staircase, no matter that Eglantine looks out all ways before they brave each stretch.

Stiles bites his lip as he eyes the long hallway that connects both buildings. It’s pretty long and there’s just one small teachers' room right in the middle along two big doors to the outside and a lot of windows. To make matters worse, Stiles would bet his own life that the room is locked, which officially makes this a nightmare worse than all the staircases combined. And that’s without taking into account that they have to check that room too.

They decide that Eglantine is going to check that room to see if there’s a crack where she can slip through. If there is, she’ll look inside and then, if the kids aren’t there, she’ll go to the end of the hallway to signal to Stiles if the coast is clear. The can’t do it any other way, because as it is, with so many windows and doors along the hallway, Stiles is going to have to crawl his way to the end of it and also pray to any deity listening that no one is looking when he’s passing the doors.

He has a sudden desire to bang his head to a premature death when he sees her check the whole door and then fly lower and stick to the opposite wall to come back undetected. Fuck his life. He doesn’t need her to tell him that there’s no crack to slip through and, by the time she’s halfway, he’s crawling towards her, signaling that he wants her on the lookout at the end of the hallway. Eglantine gets it and turns around, flying as fast as she can.

He reaches the door, heart in his throat, and then nearly dies from terror when one of the tools slips through his fingers and nearly meets the floor. He grabs it just in time but his hands shake from adrenaline when he tries to open the lock, and it takes him almost five minutes to finally succeed. The door creaks ominously when he pushes it a bit and he wants to die. Eglantine starts to flutter and flying back up the hallway on the corner of his eyes and he calls to the kids urgently before closing the door half a minute later, wincing at another creak it emits as he does so. He pulls off his sneakers before sprinting down the hall, grabbing Eglantine as he passes her, and then hides inside the last audiovisual room he lockpicked into.

Heart thundering and trying to contain his harsh breath, he waits hidden behind the big furniture thingie that holds the oldest TV Stiles has ever seen. About a minute later, he sees the light of the guard’s flashlight coming from under the door. He nods to Eglantine as it starts to diminish and she goes to look to signal to Stiles when to leave the room. Meanwhile, Stiles tries to control his breathing, his hands clenching around his sneakers. This is nothing compared to track, he can take much more that this actually… but then again, in track there’s no security guard jumping at you like a zombie to eat your flesh… Ok, maybe he’s exaggerating a bit.

He puts on the sneakers again before she gives him the coast clear sign, and then starts crawling down the hallway. She places the rune again to warn her kids to not leave the building, to let them know they’re still looking for them and the rest is the same message as before.

They start clearing the second floor. Stiles is still wary because there were two damn cars in the parking lot and they’ve only encountered the security guard. To make matters worse, this building’s structure is much more complicated than the other because it doesn’t have the gym and the pool attached to it. It starts like a normal hallway, then it turns into a rectangle with both classrooms on the outside and at the center of it, and then it turns back into a normal hallway again. And if that’s not sufficiently terrifying, there are stairs both at the beginning and at the end of it.

They clear the first couple of rooms easily, but before they can go on they notice a light coming from one of the classrooms from inside the rectangle. They creep near to take a peek inside but before they can even try it, the one-sided conversation taking place inside reaches them. It doesn’t take him much to realize that it’s a phone call, because they never hear a second voice, and what they hear is inconspicuous enough, but something about it chills Stiles to the bone. Maybe it’s because he’s pretty on edge after all the night’s happenings, and that’s what's making him suspicious but he won't risk it.

He tiptoes to the opposite hallway inside the rectangle to take a peek from there without being noticed. It’s difficult to see through an entire classroom but he recognizes her, he’s seen that teacher around. If he recalls well, she’s new this year and teaches gym to a grade below him, but he can’t recall her name. As he guessed, she’s on the phone, but that's not what catches his attention. She has a box in front of her. It’s colorful and has more pink glitter than actual paint, that he can see. It looks like the art project of a first grader and he doesn’t know what a gym teacher could be doing with that, but again, that’s not what catches his attention the most. She keeps touching it as she talks about taking care of something, then she stops, stays silent for minute or so, and then she taps her fingers on it pretty harshly.

Stiles can recognize a scare tactic when he sees one.

And it’s obvious that Eglantine can too, because he barely manages to catch her before she bolts. He brings the struggling fairy up to his eye level and he mouthes that she gave her word. She stills and throws such a desperate look to Stiles that his heart almost breaks. He shakes his head because if she was a normal teacher, he would just let himself be caught, giving Eglantine enough time to rescue the kids. But with a person that talks so casually about killing children you can’t use a tactic like that, it will get you killed because it’s obvious she won’t care that he’s just a twelve-year-old. Especially since there are no witnesses.

Stiles rakes his mind for an idea but he doesn’t know what to do. They have to be sneaky about it and quick and they don’t have time to plan. Stiles hates it but they're going to have to wing it and do a classic, which means that they’re going to have to create a diversion and run for it. At least they’re lucky and the window is open. Even if it’s a second floor that’s better than nothing.

He steels himself for the umpteenth time and starts crawling to the other end of the hallway. They’re right in the middle of it when they hear the guard coming back from upstairs. When the man has gotten to the second floor, Stiles doesn’t know, but he curses under his breath, takes his sneakers off again and tries to hurry without making a single noise. Just as he sprints and reaches the stairs of the other end, the guard starts going to the lighted classroom.

Stiles eyes the teachers' room in front of him and nearly cheers when he sees that they’ve left the printer on. He runs downstairs, through the entire floor and upstairs again in record time. The guard is talking to that teacher, perfect. He then takes out his phone, accesses the printer and just lets it go until it either runs out of paper or ink, whichever happens first.

The guard jerks, surprised, and it’s no wonder, because even Stiles can hear the startled shout that comes from the teachers' room from where he is. He nearly cries with relief when the teacher follows the guard, and as they go, he starts tiptoeing towards the classroom. He hides for a moment, crouching in front of the classroom on the center. He peeks in as he hears the guard unlock the teachers' room and enter with an exclamation. For a moment he thinks that he hears more than two voices, but the moment she follows the guard in, he doesn’t care.

He sprints inside the classroom, looks inside the box to see if both children are there, then grabs the box itself and peeks outside to see if he can just run the hell out of here. She’s just exiting the teachers room and he jerks back. He goes to the window, gets out through it and prays that he doesn’t die, because this is nothing like climbing a tree.

There’s a gutter to the left and he just hopes that it can hold his weight. He opens the box, takes both children out to place them in his hood beside their mother and then throws the box and his sneakerd to the ground. He then grabs the gutter with his hands covered by the hoodie’s sleeves and lets himself slide down, holding for dear life because his socks make it so that he can’t control the fall. Everything is trembling by the time he touches the ground but he forces himself to grab the box too because he wasn’t thinking when he grabbed it and there’s no way he’s leaving something that has not only his fingerprints but the print of his whole hand, and then he keeps running.

Not even when he finally reaches his bike does he stop to put the sneakers back on. He just makes sure that Eglantine and the kids are still holding on before speeding the hell out of there.

Stiles doesn’t really stop until he’s back to his room. While the fairies rejoice, he just sits on his bed, trying to get his whole body to stop trembling from the fear and the adrenaline. And just as he’s getting the hang of it, his dad’s cruiser pulls into the drive again. He shoots into action, taking his clothes off as fast as he can, making them a ball and hiding them in his closet along with the glittery box. When he turns to search for his pajamas, he finds that the fairies are holding them out for him mid-air. He doesn’t even question it and just grabs them to put them on. He doesn’t even bother turning off the lights because his dad will have seen them on already and it would look more suspicious to turn them off. He’s going to get scolded for being up this late anyway, he’s not going to add another count for trying to cover it too. By the time his dad comes in, he’s in bed with a book in his hands and the fairies are nowhere in sight.

He ignores his dad pointedly until the man comes near the bed to let the Science textbook that Stiles left exactly where he threw it on the kitchen table hours ago, fall onto the sheets. Stiles doesn’t lift his eyes from the book, doesn’t look at him even when the sheriff takes the book from his hands and pointedly turns off the lights.

“I didn’t cheat,” Stiles says simply into the darkness and receives no answer.

(Kicking the textbook to the floor doesn’t make him feel any better.)

---

Gimme some love? 😘

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#fides #teen wolf fics #my writing #teen wolf

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ahgastae · 5 years

Text

O Holy Nightlight

Felix x Reader

Enemies to Lovers/Fluff

Word Count - 1.9k

Quick A/N: this ended up being...a bit longer than i intended lol. srry abt that

“Look, I get that you go all out with Christmas decorations, but I can see your flashing lights through the blinds on my bedroom window and they’ve kept me awake the past few days…”

I groan, tossing and turning in my bed in a vain attempt to get comfortable. No matter which way I turn, how many pillows and blankets I use to cover my face, the blinding lights outside my window still manage to invade my closed eyes. Throwing off my comforter with an irritated sigh, I sit up, glaring through the glass of my window at the offending sight. Next door, my lovely neighbor’s holiday decorations still dance, sparkle, and shine, well into the late hours of the night.

I have no problem with showing a little Christmas spirit, but around the clock 24/7 is a little much, especially when said ‘spirit’ is constantly blaring right outside my window. For the first few nights, I tried to put up with it, thinking maybe he would realize how much electricity he’s wasting, or that acting as the neighborhood nightlight isn’t necessarily a good thing, but it’s been four days now, and I’m just about at the end of my leash. So I do what any sane person would do.

I slip on my hoodie, step out into the hallway, and immediately start banging on my roommate’s door to get him to deal with the problem.

“Y/N...?” Hyunjin slurs tiredly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What are you doing up this late?”

“Jinnie, I need you to go tell the neighbor to turn their lights off.”

Hyunjin blinks at me, “...Why?”

“Because they’re really bright and I can’t sleep!” I cross my arms, trying to keep my frustration down. Four days without a solid night’s sleep is really starting to weigh on me, but I don’t want to take it out on Hyunjin.

“No, I mean...” He pauses, a small yawn interrupting his words. “I mean, why can’t you do it?”

“Because he’s your friend! Now go tell Felix to turn his stupid lights off before I cut the power to his house!” I point at the front door to emphasize my empty threat, and Hyunjin sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

“If I do that, will you let me go back to sleep in peace?” I nod eagerly, and Hyunjin sighs again before trudging towards the front door. As soon as I hear it close, I race back into my room, hopping on my bed, and watching the window with bated breath. Sure enough, Hyunjin comes through, and minutes later, the flashing lights are no more. I sigh in relief, flopping down on my bed, and curling up for a wonderful, dreamless night of sleep.

The next morning, I feel unbelievably refreshed. Refreshed and, admittedly, incredibly surprised. I honestly didn’t think Felix would give in so easily. Knowing him, I thought he definitely would have put up more of a fight. Maybe it’s because Hyunjin asked, instead of me.

Lee Felix and I don’t exactly have the best track record. When I first moved in with Hyunjin, I didn’t think much of the red haired boy next door. He was cute, and I recognized him from our college campus, but I was much more focused on getting settled in my new home than flirting with the neighbor. Unfortunately, maybe flirting would have been helpful, considering one day I came home to find a mysterious intruder raiding our fridge, and immediately started attacking them with my umbrella. That ‘intruder’ turned out to be Lee Felix, our next door neighbor and one of Hyunjin’s closest friends. I’ll admit, not my best first impression.

Ever since then, Felix has basically had it out for me. From putting lemon juice in my soda to plastic wrapping all the furniture in my bedroom, he’s made clear that he’s not letting go of the fact that I almost gave him a concussion for stealing some strawberry yogurt. This whole lights charade is just the next prank in his arsenal, I just know it.

I skip out of my bedroom, smiling gleefully when I find Hyunjin milling about in the kitchen, “Jinnie, you are a god!” He laughs when I tug him into my arms, showing my thanks by wrapping him in a giant bear hug.

“It wasn’t that big of a deal, Y/N,” He pats my head. “All I had to do was tell Felix that you were having trouble sleeping.” I freeze, suddenly pushing Hyunjin away, and staring him right in the eyes.

“You told him what?”

“Don’t be so paranoid,” Hyunjin just waves me off, going back to digging through the fridge for breakfast. “You really don’t give Felix enough credit.”

“Oh, I give him plenty of credit,” I object, starting to count Felix’s ‘accomplishments’ on my hand. “I give him credit for throwing paint on one of my nicest shirts. F feeding the essay that was worth seventy five percent of my grade to Kkami. For stealing the baby pictures from my room and posting them on Instagram. Oh!” Hyunjin cringes when I throw my arms up in growing irritation. “Lest we forget the time he hung my bra on the power line outside!”

“That one was pretty funny, wasn’t it?”

I shriek, whipping around to see Felix leaning against the doorway, amused look in his eyes and that damn arrogant smirk on his face.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Just wondering why you don’t have the balls to talk to me yourself,” Felix bites back, laughing when my eyes narrow into a glare.

“You insufferable-”

“Okay, you two! Enough!” Hyunjin cuts in, inserting himself between me and Felix. He fixes us each with a stern look, “You two are going to settle whatever it is going on between, and it happens today.”

“Mate, you said we were going to the skate park!”

“I lied.” Felix shuts his mouth, and crosses his arms with a pout.

“Jinnie, I love you, but you’re crazy if you think I’m willingly going to spend time around that asshole,” I roll my eyes, starting to walk away when Hyunjin grabs my arm.

“He’s going to take down the lights.”

“Bullshit, I’m not!”

Hyunjin’s eyes narrow at Felix’s outburst, “Yes, he is.” He looks back at me, wicked eyes betraying the sweet smile on his face. “And you’re going to spend the day helping him.”

“That’s not where those go.”

I stifle a groan, slowly turning to face Felix while holding what feels like the hundredth string of lights to come off his house, “Then where do they go?”

“In the blue tub because they’re blue,” He says this as if it’s supposed to be obvious, rolling his eyes and going back to playing around on his phone. I huff, dropping the lights, and stomping over to where he’s sitting in his garage. Felix barely has time to look up before I snatch his phone out of his hands. “Hey!”

“We’re supposed to be doing this together,” I remind him, and shove his phone into the front pocket of my sweatshirt. “Your phone stays with me until we’re done.”

“Bold of you to assume your pocket’s going to stop me from taking it.”

“Bold of you to assume I won’t karate chop you in the throat if you try,” I finish my threat, and Felix thankfully seems to get the message. He throws a fit about it, but stands up to help me detangle all the lights hanging from his house. I roll my eyes, “You know, neither of us would be here if you didn’t put up all this shit just to spite me.”

Felix scoffs, climbing up the ladder to yank down a string of purple icicles, “Don’t be so full of yourself. Not everything I do is because of you, princess.” I look away, fighting down the blush on my cheeks. He just used a stupid nickname, Y/N, get a hold of yourself. It’s not like he meant it as a good thing.

“If it’s really not to piss me off,” I grunt as I force another box of light closed, “then why do it?” Felix eyes me from atop the ladder, hesitation and something else I can’t decipher written across his face.

“Why should I tell you?”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Forget it, you don’t have to. Just trying to make conversation...since we’re gonna be here for a while....” Felix goes uncharacteristically quiet, and, for a moment, I think he fell off the rungs onto the snowy driveway. I turn, expecting to be dialing an ambulance, only to gasp when I find Felix standing right behind me, conscious and well. “Holy shit, you ass! I thought something bad happened!” I clutch at my heart, shoving his shoulder in frustration, but he doesn’t budge. Felix’s eyes search mine, and my heart starts to race when I notice how close he really is.

“Why are you pretending you care?” His voice is deep and strained, and it takes my fuzzy mind a moment to process his question.

I swallow, trying to force down the butterflies in my stomach, “Are you messing with me again? I’m not in the mood for it, Lee, I just want to get this done.”

“Me messing with you? You’re the one standing here playing with my head!”

“Are you kidding me?!" I shout, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “Felix, all you’ve done since the day I met you is toy with me and my emotions! I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot all those months ago. I tried to move past it and become friends, but you didn’t seem too interested in anything other than making my life hell!”

“What do you mean, ‘move past it’?! You acted like you hated me every time you saw me,” Felix says, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “The only way I could get a reaction out of you was by pissing you off!”

I scoff, jabbing my index finger in Felix’s chest, “Do not tell me you’ve been doing all this shit just because I ignored you! I was embarrassed, Felix. I tried to beat up my new roommate’s cute best friend with a cat umbrella, how else am I supposed to react?!” Felix freezes, eyes widening as he stares down at me in shock. His mouth hangs open, but I’m far too into my rant to notice the sudden change in his demeanor. “Maybe, just maybe, Lee, if you actually tried talking to me instead of putting baking soda in my cereal-”

“Did you just call me cute?”

I stop abruptly, the frustrated words I had in mind immediately falling from my lips. My mind goes completely blank, realizing that I had, in fact, shared something I hadn’t meant to say. Especially not to Felix’s face.

“Um...” I retract my hand away from Felix’s chest, but he’s quick, and grabs it before I can pull it back to my side. His hold only tightens when I try to struggle, soft enough to not be painful, but just firm enough to keep me in place.

“Y/N, did you call me cute?” Felix repeats, warm brown eyes boring into mine. If he leans in just a little bit more, I’d be able to....I shake my head, ripping my hand away from his, and stepping back.

“....Maybe I said you were a little cute,” I begrudgingly admit through gritted teeth. “But don’t get too excited about it. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yes, it does,” Felix grins, closing the distance between us once more. He leans forward, close enough for me to count the individual freckles on his face, and smirks at the way my cheeks heat up when he whispers, “I think it means you like me, Y/N.”

I lick my lips, heart pounding when his eyes flit down to follow the movement, “And what if I do, Felix?”

“Then putting away these lights is gonna have to wait.”

#felix x reader #lee felix x reader #stray kids felix x reader #stray kids xmas!!

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bezazzled · 5 years

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more quotes that nobody asked for

my friends are really dumb sometimes there’s some ns//fw in here, change pronouns to fit also sorry this one’s extremely long lmao, i’ve heard a lot since i last posted one of these. i’ll be nice and throw it in a readmore for dash convenience

“What if I don’t want extra bones?” “I got a backstack on I’ll still drop this ass what you doin’.” “The trap card is me! Fuck!” “Hey, how many voices do you have in your head?” “Hang on, lemme count how many skittles are in this bag and then I’ll tell you.” “Milk neutralizes the evil.” “Yo, that is piss accurate.” “Vote for me and maybe I won’t piss on your dick.” “That’s not Pepsi, that is straight carbonation water.” “If the word ‘toy’ was a person, it’d be that really annoying kid in your class that acts really fuckin’ dumb because he thinks it’s funny.” “No, listen, what if we only existed... on weekends?” “If you hard, you hard.” “This has been a public service announcement, brought to you by paper fuckers.” “Do you want weed lotion?” “This is why we pick apples, so they can’t touch our teeth.” “Do bees have souls?” “Don’t slurp the chocolate pudding. That’s not okay.” “You made me talk about my kinks again, damn it!” “Y’all eat your rice krispies all at once or one at a time?” “My face is two inches long.” “It’s in first person AND backwards.” “So you met H.P. Lovecraft as a hemispherical dresser?” “Things don’t last, but dick jokes are forever.” “How do you fight a man that’s a hundred percent nut?” “I am a really attractive salmon.” “All the weak chips are at the bottom.” “Choke on cotton candy, you amazing fucker.” “I’m offended by my own existence.” “I’m the wing boy!” “Are you telling me that tops deal with internalized homophobia?” “Just for that, I’m forcing you to kin me.” “You’re just a fish.” “We could always play youtube, youtube is multiplayer.” “He’s a burnt piece of toast with some peanut butter on it.” “What the fuck is a sport?” “I didn’t know his name so I’m the homophobe.” “Just spilled water all over me because I’m a dirty water whore.” “Oh dude, that’s a fuck good thought.” “My legs are made of meat.” “I can’t wait to die because Republicans.” “Your sexuality is heterphobia, you’re welcome.” “He is at least seventy-five percent done at all times.” “Apply at your local grocery store. They’re always hiring and don’t care if you’ve committed a crime.” “Oh, I forgot, you’re a napkin.” “Brains are wrong sometimes.” “If anyone’s a bad significant other, it’s me. Call me signif-I-can’t.” “I got paid to eat chicken, bitch!” “I am the god of your happiness.” “Go be unhappy in your unhappy pants.” “Oh look, now they’re offering existential dread meals.” “Welcome to the SS, here’s your shitty trash meme pistol.” “I would a hundred percent dedicate my entire life to the first person who buys me a subway sandwich right now.” “That’s my life. Just one big dab.” “We’ll be stroke twins.” “Time is fake, fuck you.” “I am a dribbling bag of sodium and carbon.” “Sorry for the flex, I’ll go.” “It’s not my birthday anymore, cowards.” “One thing I liked about becoming you is that I got to call everyone a coward and I didn’t have to feel bad about it.” “You thought it was over? Ha. The central time zone exists.” “I’m really not drunk enough to dance right now.” “I’m into... Animal Farm... That’s about... communism...” “His mouth is like a triangle.” “Black holes are the bisexual agenda.” “A man just needs to not exist sometimes.” “Good noodlin’, brother.” “I will take mayonnaise to get my mayonnaise.” “Why am I always up to something in your brain? Maybe sometimes I’m just stupid.” “Fucking spelling is stupid.” “You need triangles?” “I think celery tastes like the devil’s armpit, and you can fight me.” “You wanna join me in the bitchening?” “Don’t forget, your dad flossed today.” “It walks like it’s got a whole tree in its ass.” “My eyes are absolutely burning. The sun is an asshole.” “Oh, good! I wasn’t sure that the English language existed.” “Eat grapes with your duck!” “The seventies can suck my ass!” “Please don’t make me eat my sarcasm.” “Real allies let us shut the fuck up.” “Do you think love can bloom in a Taco Bell?” “I don’t need drugs because I already don’t make any sense as it is. I wish I was a breadstick.” “Yeah, I’m just not that passionate about soup.” “Unless something of minor inconvenience happens, I cannot cry.” “Who else tryin’a start beef with onion boy by calling him a Shrek offspring?” “Is this almost over? I’m gonna have stage four cancer.” “This movie is a fucking fake.” “The amount of gay I am is rising significantly, and that’s really saying something.” “Heterosexuality is stored in the boobs.” “Pepsi man is my polar opposite in these trying times.” “Everyone go to the nut house group chat, I’m about to post a link.” “One day I’ll be successful, and one day after that I’ll be able to write without going through all seven stages of gay after writing one word.” “Hey, wanna hear something controversial? I don’t care.” “Would you fistfight a kindergartner for fifty bucks?” “I’d fistfight a kindergartner for a dollar and a Reese’s cup.”

#sentence starters #rp starters #;; ok to reblog #lost boy // ooc #[[ this is so long.................. ]]#[[ to tbf i havent posted one since july '18 ]]#[[ and a lot has happened since then ]]

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iphoenixrising · 6 years

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For 600 Followers: The Surgeon, The Captain, and the Soldier

From the Dr!Tim Universe: civilian!Tony, Captain America!Steve, and Winter!Bucky Barnes. Mr_Flamingo said he would read the shit out of this. Welp, there you go.

Dr. Stark is a busy, busy man. Even without the weight of Stark Industries on his back (thank-you Miss Potts), he still runs from one emergency to the next.

This one just happens to be to The Captain America.

Which is so Classified even the top level brass don’t know the guy’s real name. Probably because his files have been sealed longer than most of them have been alive, which is just grand. If there’s anything Dr. Stark likes, it’s a challenge.

When Nick Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D came to him because honestly, he the best surgeon they’re going to get in this half of the hemisphere anyway, Tony tried to throw him out for approximately twelve seconds–

Until the file was tossed over his desk and a picture flops out pretty much in his lap.

And that picture is of a beautiful man.

With a star on his chest.

“I don’t put Cosplayers over people with real problems, Nick.”

“Stark, when I say he’s the real deal, that’s what I motherfucking mean.”

Mmhm. And he graduated from Med School yesterday. “Captain America has been dead for only seventy years, give or take. Looks spry for his age, good for him. I bet he’s Osteo’s wet dream, right?” Because he really does enjoy having witty banter with his rejections.

That’s when Nick Fury leaned over his desk, “you’re the only civilian the Black Widow has ever let work on her, and you think I’m bringing you someone in a costume?”

Some of the incredulous is creeping out of this exchange with the way Fury’s remaining eye is focused. “Seventy years? Nick, that’s–” but when Nick hasn’t moved a muscle, hasn’t blinked, probably hasn’t so much as inhaled.

That’s when the possibility becomes reality.

“Holy shit.” Tony’s eyes blow wide and the run-of-the-mill play date in the lab to make something to help with those pesky arteriovenous malformations is right on the backburner. “You’re kidding me.”

“Would I be here if I was kidding, Stark? He is the real World War II veteran. You save his life and I will give you what we have on a certain reason he survived.”

Dr. Stark stares for approximately thirty seconds, judging. The next instant he’s in his sharp coat and red shades, riding to DC in an Apache helicopter.

(Once upon a time, he would have told the engineers how he could make it better, but since his Dad died, he didn’t have to build for SI anymore. He could build for his passion and not feel one fucking bit bad about it.)

Forty-five minutes and he’s scrubbing in, the situation crucial. Agent gave him the run-down without giving him any real information on how this happened. He got a glance at scans of the cranial fracture and hemorrhaging. Shards of skull had been embedded in the grey matter (which makes no sense how he survived this long except as another shred of proof he’s the real deal. Captain Fucking America… his inner fanboy is screaming behind his calm, cool, surgeon demeanor.)

The team S.H.I.E.L.D gave him for the procedure are obviously all military, and in such need of a good laugh. Dr. Stark is sure they’re under order to watch every twitch of his fingers just in case he’s going to try making Captain America a drooling moron or something while poking around in his brain. So, he has to pull out the old SI CEO song and dance, being an unrepentant witty smart ass and talk fast before any of the sternly gowned agents can threaten him with horrible dismemberment if anything should happen to their delicate snowflake.

He gets the one called Barton to crack a smile while they’re scrubbing up, and it’s all going to be fine.

All is right with the world, except when he comes into the nice, sterile OR–

Where he finds the patient awake.

“Hey there, big guy,” he pats the shoulder of the utterly stunning blonde (who is apparently as old as his great-grandpa and has abs for miles), “we probably shouldn’t be meeting this way, considering you’re apparently the biggest secret in the Modern World, next to Big Foot sightings and the what is that gross ring around the tub really made of debate, but still, it’s nice to make your acquaintance. I’m Dr. Stark, and I’ll be your surgeon for the evening. Let me guess, gurney for one?”

He’s talking but checking machines, supplies, and sliding the special eyewear, taking the opportunity to review the site opened at the scalp to show the skull fracture at the side of Captain America’s head. While he watches, the skin is trying to heal around the clamps and a nurse apparently familiar with the Captain’s rate of healing is constantly re-adjusted to keep the wound open enough for surgery.

(The impact should have killed him. How did it not kill him? “Time is of the essence, Dr. Stark. You need to pull the bone fragments while he can keep his skull from healing over it.” Christ, Agent Tight-Ass, full work-up next time for Project Super Soldier Sandwich.)

“Hm…” slurred from behind the oxygen mask, and if Dr. Stark wasn’t one hundred percent invested on making sure he had everything he would need to fix the oddly not healing bleeder in the Captain’s temporal lobe (with things like Wernicke's aphasia hovering in the background), he would have shuddered. “Got that reference, Doc. S’funny.”

Watching the electroencephalography to monitor the Captain’s brain activity, Tony glances over as S.H.I.E.L.D’s people start filtering in around him and the ones with guns watch him closely through the observation windows.

“Never doubted you for a second, Captain. Guy that punched Hitler should be right above a Yeti in my opinion. Anyhoo,” and Tony, gowned, gloved, and masked, comes around to look at the very, very blue eyes and hold a hand close to the Captain’s blonde eyebrows to check the dilation. “The nice esthetician over there is going to hit you up with something to make you very, very sleepy so I can fix that terrible headache you’re probably having right now.”

And Captain America looks up at him from under those lashes, quirks a small shit-eating grin, “ssorry, Doc Stark. Knockouts...won’t work on me. S’ ‘causea the Serum. Gonna be awake no matter how much they gimmie.”

Blinking with his heart in his throat because he can’t imagine the pain the Captain must be in right about now, Tony gets himself back with, “oh? Then I have your witty repartee to look forward to while I work, don’t I Captain?”

“SSteve, Doc. I’m SSteve.”

“Nice to meet you, Steve. I’m Tony, and I’m going to save your life.”

“Soundss like ya gotta plan, Tony.”

And when the slightly familiar red-headed nurse gives him the thumbs up and it’s time to start, he has to step back around to the site being kept open for him.

“I always have a plan, Steve. Fortunately for you, part of my plan involves great music and nice conversations while we discuss your vitals.”

AC/DC starts in with a little Back in Black. And since he is who he is, him mouth moves on autopilot while he works with a delicate touch, fast and efficient, getting side-tracked from his running monologue with Captain Awake and Alert and Answering to accept vitals and updates from the other staff.

It’s been hours, and he’s on up-to-date knock-knock jokes.

They’ve run the gambit of must-see movies (and no he doesn’t see Agent Tight-Ass writing down the ones Steve asks about in detail because yes, he should see Firefly. Alien cowboys, Captain. Alien cowboys), and spent so much time on just the 60’s.

He’s gotten some stories that are absolutely hilarious (because Steve was so curious about the most oddball shit, ATMs, Fitbits, Twitter…) and is closing the wound in Steve’s scalp before he realizes he’s...done.

“Feels so much better, Tony, thank-you.”

“Hey, glad I was in the neighborhood. You’re quite the conversationalist when I’m poking around in your brain.”

“Could say the same. Thought ya might re-wire me to do something silly. Bark like a dog when someone says bell or something.”

And the staff is cleaning up around them, giving Tony the space to ease down just a notch, and wink, “sorry Captain, something I save for the bedroom, not the operating room.”

The sparkle that lights in Steve’s eyes–

–is really his undoing.

Riding the high of saving Captain America’s life got him all the way home and to his bed, still churning over the events of the surgery. Butterfinger and U were happy Daddy made it home in one piece (he’d kept the failed surgical bots, unable to decommission his first attempts at independent AI just because they’d rather play fetch than learn procedures...besides, they’re his creations and with their capacity to learn, they’re still evolving), and absolutely pampered him with coffee while he told them about why he was so late.

Butterfingers booped and patted his knee lightly while U rolled back and forth in excitement. Their favorite part was about the Apache, of course. His children were Philistines (but what would he do without them?).

Waking up at one am to Agent Tight-Ass leaning against the bureau in his bedroom was probably the fright of his life.

(Probably not, but no one needs to know that. Few people knew about his kidnapping in Afghanistan from a Medical Conference five years ago.)

“The Captain won’t let another doctor examine him.” Agent Tight-Ass said without even a hello or the decor is nice. “He’s asking for you.”

Tony completely blames it on sleep deprivation when he almost says my Captain? but shakes himself out of it at the last second.

The implications of Agent being here strikes him in the very next second and he’s throwing the covers off and climbing out of bed fast. A clean pair of purple scrubs and Agent knows he goes commando under his expensive and stylish pj pants. “Post-Op complications?” The litany of problems Steve could be experiencing after such a difficult and delicate surgery flash through Tony’s frontal lobe, a slideshow of problems he should have been able to catch before anyone else.

(They shouldn’t have made me leave him. He needs to be under close observation.)

“No. But, S.H.I.E.L.D needs to verify the Captain is physically fit for duty. He won’t let another physician check him out. We’d like you to come back to DC just to make sure.”

And, well, he’s Tony Stark, so he tries to play it off in front of Agent just to be a pain in the ass to deal with, but even before he’s had a single cup of coffee, Tony is riding in another Apache with his leg bouncing in anticipation.

He’s thrown a Henley on under his scrub top, cuffs up to his elbows and probably looking like a derelict resident, but dammit, at least he has good hair.

The damn corridors are long and Agent Tight-Ass is silently striding beside him while Tony desperately holds a cup of coffee in one hand and the Captain’s chart in the other, taking in every detail and plotting out all the worst case scenarios. What he absolutely doesn’t expect is to see the gorgeous man in dark jeans, red t-shirt, terrible trucker hat, and a single black-gloved hand standing against the wall like he’s the only thing holding the building up. Tony manages to keep his tongue in his mouth when Agent Tight-Ass stops to introduce them.

“Sergeant Barnes, this is Dr. Stark, the Captain’s neurosurgeon.”

And those eyes are like winter, grey and cool, taking him in from dirty sneakers to the half-curl just above his temple. It’s terribly frightening and arousing at the same moment and Tony is absolutely, completely out of his depth in hot men.

(And in-between relationships, isn’t he? Why are the Gods so damn cruel?)

“Very nice to meet you, Sergeant. I understand you’re an unapologetic smart-ass that can kill pretty much anything a mile away and make the worst borscht known to man. Pleasure is all mine, really. Borscht is already terrible, but making is worse? That has to take substantial talent.”

What he doesn’t expect is the tall, intimidating brunette with the sexiest stubbled jaw to blink down at him, head cocking sideways like an inquisitive cat, “s’at so? I think the pleasure is all mine, Doll. After all, Stevie ain’t quit talkin’ ya up all night. ‘Preciate ya taking good care a’ him fer me.”

Ah. Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes. Always thought those stories were exaggerated.

Tony absolutely does not, does not (think about them together), lick his bottom lip while staring up into those eyes. “Anything I can do for the red, white, and blue, Sergeant Barnes. Just showing my...patriotism.”

Tony grins wide when he gets the Sergeant to laugh out loud, ruining his intense I will murder you vibe.

“Speaking of the Captain,” Agent Tight-Ass interrupts smoothly.

Both of them give the agent waiting with a patient, pleasantly neutral expression, and when Tony looks back, he can see the tension in James Barnes, and lets himself be his usual kind of confident.

“Honestly, I’m going to take good care of him. If the slightest thing deviates from absolutely normal, you will be the first person to know.”

“Thanks, Doll. Good t’ know he’s in the best hands,” and the gloved one squeezes his bicep, right above his elbow (and he is completely imagining that hand has absolutely no give whatsoever) before he turns to where Agent is holding the door open.

The Captain is awake at this ungodly hour and apparently more chipper when he wasn’t in horrible distress from bleeding all up in his grey matter. It was really nice to see this side and observe his handiwork, amazed the staples had already worked themselves out and there wasn’t even a scar to show surgery had ever taken place.

(Steve’s hair is soft and unfairly naturally fluffy. Tony’s bare fingers are threaded in it while his thumbs press lightly over the surgical site to test the healing and be fucking amazed.)

Sergeant Barnes is there for the examination, back in a corner, with that sensual bad boy thing going on, arms crossed over his chest, eyes sweeping the room every few minutes (like he wouldn’t notice?).

And once he checks the normal vitals and signs, looks for all abnormalities, any hint of a complication, Tony Stark–

–lies through his teeth.

“You need at least a week of rest. No strenuous activity at all. No punching Nazis, jumping out of planes, or potentially dangerous anything. Watch terrible daytime TV, eat your weight in bad food, and take it easy. The possibility for complications, or of re-opening the bleed site is high, even for a Super Soldier. Normal downtime would be months, I’m giving you a week. No arguments Captain.”

He turns to look at the Sergeant over his shoulder and they exchange a nod, but he sees James Barnes rolling his lips down like he’s trying not to smile.

“A week? A whole week?” The Captain honest-to-God whines, looking up at him, sitting up with perfect posture that makes his chest thrust out in such a distracting way.

(Those eyes should really be illegal.)

“Absolutely. I’m saying only a week, okay? That is very, very good news for you. From the scans taken less than an hour ago, you’re healing quickly and well. Still, we’re not going to take anything to chance.”

He grins down, completely confident he’s giving Steve the chance to get out in the world more, maybe get out from under all the Agent-Agents around here.

It’s all too soon he’s being ushered out the room and back to his Penthouse in New York, his heart thundering in his chest. The last twenty-four hours seem like some kind of dream, some kind of forbidden fantasy, something he couldn’t have really done, and being set back at his place with his bots and his lab, his nice office in Stark Medical waiting for him tomorrow, with endless calls from Pepper about the Board really wanting him present for the Quarterly Meeting this time, all of reality lays so heavy on him that he thinks maybe Agent Tight-Ass messed with his memories somehow so he’d never be able to tell anyone why S.H.I.E.L.D really wanted him in the first place.

He goes back to bed for an hour of sleep, thinking about Sergeant Barnes’ hand and Captain Roger’s eyes.

Dodging Pepper’s calls the next day between consults, residents, trips to the robotics, and some time spent in the lab, he’s in his office for a whopping fifteen minutes when his secretary knocks on his door.

“I’m sorry Dr. Stark, but they said they know you and he’s your patient–”

When Captain America and Bucky Barnes appear over her shoulder, looking a devilish mix of sheepish (Steve) and smary as hell (of course, the crackshot), Tony wonders how much effort it would take to clear his schedule completely–

–for the next seven days.

#crossover #tonystevebucky #tony stark #steve rogers #bucky barnes #Dr!Tim au #my drab #my writing #for 600 followers

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jaehyunpeachy · 6 years

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i am you // you are me - yoonkook - 5k

some weird soulmate shit happens.

read: yoongi keeps running into this cute cashier boy. and they keep matching?

(music to listen: 1. belief - mabinc 2. i am you you are me - zico 3. soulmate - zico ft. iu)

man, seoul has a completely different atmosphere and air to it - way different than in daegu. literally, the air smells different here and yoongi thinks it’s not necessarily a bad thing, but the fact that he notices this small and random detail just makes him a little more depressed because he longs for his cozy home back in good ole d-town.

he’s lounging in a flimsy lawn chair on his apartment balcony and distastefully sniffs the stuffy seoul air again. his mind wanders back to old, familiar places - the bustling family restaurant, his mom’s soothing voice, his father beckoning him to taste the family’s famous galbi-jjim , his brother’s annoying method of showing affection via noogies when yoongi grudgingly accepts his chores for the day.

the fond memories in his head are juxtaposed with the outside sound and sight of the bustling nighttime atmosphere. everything in seoul is so,fast-paced , even the night life, which he can clearly see from his vantage point. he hasn’t really gotten used to it all, more like, barely tolerating it. he’s kinda stubbornly refusing to settle completely which serves to make him more homesick and then he’s stuck in this cycle of stubbornness and nostalgia and longing and stubbornness and nostalgia and longing.

yoongi breaks his nostalgic reverie when he stands up, the chair loudly scraping against the floor. if he’s going to drown himself in memories and be a sad, depressed sack he might as well do it right - with some alcohol.

he checks the fridge to grab a can of beer but fuck - he’s out. all that’s left is a pack of sliced turkey meat, a sad pile of lettuce, a lone half-empty gallon of milk, and a fully empty carton that used to hold eggs.

damn, his produce is mocking him.

just a few hours ago when he opened his fridge he saw the same turkey, lettuce, milk, and egg carton and the word minimalism smugly appeared in his head. yoongi prides himself on not being wasteful; he’s able to use each and every one of his ingredients until they’re completely gone, thank you very much.

but seeing as he’s in a less than ideal mood to be holed up at home and he has a dire need of alcohol, yoongi tears his eyes away from his sad produce, grabs his wallet and keys, and wrestles himself into a big sweater to combat the chilly night-time seoul air. he grumbles as he steps out of his apartment complex. daegu was always on the warmer side. who knows, maybe the seoul air will help clear his head. maybe.

yoongi finds himself deep in thought as he’s walking, a result of his melancholy mood and the atmosphere of night probably. as a result, he doesn’t realize that he’s actually not walking in the direction of the nearest 7-eleven. when he hears the distant sound of a car angrily honking five times - goddamn, chill - he’s shaken out of his thoughts and glances at his surroundings.

nice. he’s in a random alley.

well, way to go min yoongi. this night is just continually fucking with him and becoming more and more disappointing. he takes a minute to inwardly curse at himself for his obliviousness before he has the smart idea of grabbing his phone out his pocket. he googles the nearest convenience store. the top result is ten yards from his current location.

he rounds a corner and walks a few paces before he spots it. only a single neon sign that reads “ level” adorns its storefront and he assumes that’s what the store is called. yoongi power walks toward it, through the front door, and straight towards where he thinks they should be keeping the alcohol because dammit, he is a man on a mission.

somewhere on the other end of the store, which isn’t actually far from where yoongi stands now, the clock goes from 11:59 to 12:00.

yoongi surveys his surroundings. he’s bombarded with neon colors from every angle, which makes the store feel bigger than it actually is. from the outside, it looked cramped and dull and drab and not colorful. due to this very misleading outward appearance, yoongi immediately thinks that this is exactly the type of store that is empty seventy-five percent of the time and will most likely be out of business within the next month.

okay, it is midnight, but yoongi can tell when a store is being frequented or not, in this case: not. it’s the only possible explanation as to why his sneakers squeak so unusually loud on the unusually pristine tiles.

he strides towards the refrigerated area and for some reason, he feels a strange sense of familiarity, like he’s been here before; a type of vague awareness that comes from something like a dream.

actually, yoongi’s seen stores like this before. namjoon has a very cultured and particular sense of tumblr aesthetic and this store fits the bill perfectly.

yoongi chalks that niggling feeling as a latent reaction to all the posts he witnessed namjoon reblogging to his tumblr, as they sat on the couch on their respective phones. he’s suddenly bitter again because now, with his current situation and location , he can’t even call namjoon out for trying to be hipster because he’s too far away to even see namjoon or his stupid hipster-aesthetic-whatever tumblr in person.

yoongi spots the alcohol, finally, and grabs two - he hesitates and turns around - three bottles of the brand he likes and walks to the checkout station.

well fuck, he was hoping for a some sort of self-checkout machine - this is seoul, the largest metropolis of korea after all - but he should have known not to expect anything when he set foot inside.

god, he’s too impatient and drained and sad to deal with another human being but sucks up his feelings once again as he steps up to the counter. no one is actually there and yoongi spots a bell and rings it twice. a couple more times, more insistently, for good measure. suddenly he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. he checks and sees it’s from namjoon.

at that moment someone stumbles out of the ‘employees only’ door and utters a quick apology for making yoongi wait.

yoongi quickly glances up from the phone and sees that the cashier is a young twenty-something boy. all he sees is a mop of soft brown hair and just under it, a pair of soft brown eyes which he unwittingly makes eye contact with. but suddenly it is broken - the cashier beginning to ring up yoongi’s items, and yoongi looking back at his phone.

dance monster [12:10 am]

hyung

you’ll never guess wat happend today

me [12:10 am]

what

dance monster [12:11 am]

so u kno that tattoo i got a while back ????

me [12:11 am]

joon ur gonna have to be a little more specific

dance monster [12:11 am]

ok ok that one on my wrist !

the moon one !!1!1 !

me [12:11 am]

so...what

dance monster [12:11 am]

idek hyung like

ok fuck

this sounds so weird but like

for some reason i woke up this morning

me [12:11 am]

a goddamn miracle

dance monster [12:12 am]

shut up hyung

anyway i woke up

and now i have a new sun tattoo

me [12:12 am]

wait

what

dance monster [12:12 am]

idk !!! hyung idek wats goin on ajoer

i think it’d be better if u called me

asklejroijga

“excuse me?”

right, yoongi still needs to pay for his things. he jams his phone into his back pocket and fishes for his wallet. he awkwardly fumbles for some bills, “ah, sorry - here you go,” and all but flings them on the counter in his haste to get back to his conversation with namjoon and to go back home and avoid strangers altogether, let alone semi-attractive strangers.

it looks like his original plan of drowning in sorrow will have to be put on hold. nonetheless, he welcomes the new interruption in the form of his dear friend.

right as yoongi’s about to exit the store, the cashier calls out to him.

“um,” he pauses cutely, “nice sweater.”

yoongi looks down. it’s an old number, one that jimin got for him as a christmas present. it’s kinda not his style because it’s colorblocked - well, color in general - but it’s the first thing he found as he left his apartment and it’s oversized and it’s a gift. from jimin. so.

he looks up again and sees the exact same sweater on the cashier.

o-kay. what a coincidence.

at this moment, yoongi gets a really good look at the twenty-something cashier boy. well, as good of a look as he can seeing as half of cashier boy’s body is obscured by the counter.

the cashier is clearly taller and bigger than yoongi but the sweater still looks oversized and his fingers just barely peek out from under the sleeves. yoongi gets a good look at cashier boy’s doe eyes and button nose and his whole look just screams soft. fuck semi-attractive. this guy is possibly the most attractive guy yoongi has ever seen. the most attractive person in seoul, by far. at least to yoongi’s standards. and this is only the visible half - yoongi gulps - doesn’t even want to think about anything lower than that.

he eloquently chokes out a word. “cool.”

real smooth, min yoongi.

well, time’s up. yoongi’s just about done with social interaction and he’s itching to get home and he wants to maybe forget this whole thing because goddamn, he’s awkward and the cashier is cute.

cashier boy blinks and fuck, yoongi can see his eyelashes from here. and then, cashier boy smiles , all twinkling eyes and soft lips, “have a nice evening, sir.”

yoongi bolts out of the door.

jungkook just barely managed to keep his fluster in check. he tried to not to stare at the strange man’s silvery hair, or at his sharp profile, or at his attractive piercings, three silver hoops on each ear - fuck, since when did jungkook find piercings on anyone but himself attractive?

but the thing that caught jungkook’s attention the most was the sweater. not the fact that it was so large that it swallowed the man’s entire frame but still made the entire fit scream effortless and attractive. not the fact that the color palette complimented his silver hair.

they had the same fucking sweater?

taehyung, who is privy to jungkook’s unique tastes, had carefully chosen the very sweater as a christmas present. he claims that he happened upon it in some random thrift store and thought it screamed jungkook and bought it even though christmas wasn't for another three months.

jungkook thinks otherwise. the sweater is just. so nice. taehyung probably bought it at a non thrift shop last minute, which would explain why jungkook ran into another person also wearing it. yeah. that would explain the coincidence. it’s definitely embarrassing, but people are bound to be caught wearing the same clothes, seeing as they’re mass produced for that reason - to be worn.

as he starts cleaning up, jungkook silently thanks himself for choosing the night shifts at level supermarket because 1. he likes staying up late 2. he gets to meet interesting and colorful characters like that one sweet ahjumma with cotton candy pink hair that comes in every day at 9:36 pm sharp to buy a bag of lollipops and nothing else, for example.

jungkook’s checking the inventory for the third time - it always helps to be extra thorough - but his mind begins to wander back to that silver-haired man.

a small - admittedly very small - part of him wants to never see that man again because he was a stranger, a very attractive stranger, and jungkook acted like such a freaking loser. god he’s blushing again. but the bigger- much bigger - part of him wants to see the silver-haired man again. like, he was fucking attractive. but also something about a frustrated looking man coming in a store at midnight that hardly anyone ever comes to just.

he’s like a novel jungkook is itching to read.

jungkook just wants to know.

jungkook wants to know. jungkook wants to know how this man likes his eggs cooked. does he have any tattoos? is he a morning person? okay, maybe not that because he’s up and about at midnight.

what is his opinion on soulmates? does he listen to dean? what does his smile look like? does he like smiling? is he a smiley person? is he doing okay?

because most of all, jungkook wants to tell him that things are going to be okay. something about this man seemed - lonely and jungkook has an urge to reach out and be like, me too, i understand, i hope you’re okay.

but. jungkook shakes his head to clear the thoughts. he’s doing it again. he’s getting ahead of himself and he’s doing that fantasizing thing he tends to do. at his core, jungkook is a very kind and empathetic person and the times he does feel good about himself he wants to meet people and reach out. back at his small hometown, the people were very friendly and accepting, and this made it easy for him. and with the town being so small, eventually jungkook knew everyone and everyone knew him and he was very comfortable with this.

however, this is seoul. and after making the difficult decision to leave the comfort of his town to pursue his dreams in the form of a dance degree, jungkook has learned that not everyone feels the same way in this city.

‘city people’ he thinks with distaste - but mostly - disappointment.

jungkook closes and locks the store’s front door, as well as his hopes for seeing the silver-haired man again. he’s no stranger to how this kind of thing works. nothing good happens when he gives into wishful thinking.

as soon as yoongi is back in the safety of his apartment he calls namjoon. “joon, what’s up?”

“okay, so. like. yeah. i don’t know, hyung!” yoongi goes to open a bottle of beer, his silence prompting namjoon to continue.

“i just woke up and now i have a new sun tattoo on my wrist! honestly, it looks pretty good paired with the one i already have of the crescent moon.”

“well, as long as you’re happy with it joon, i guess it’s cool.” yoongi takes a long gulp, “could’ve been worse. could’ve woken up with the word ‘penis’ tattooed in large letters instead.”

namjoon cackles heartily and yoongi smiles at the sound. “yeah, you’re right hyung.” he laughs again, “this is like some weird soulmate shit.

yoongi elegantly swallows some beer down the wrong airway. “yeah,” he coughs a few times to clear his throat, “come to think of it-,”

on second thought, maybe yoongi will keep cashier boy to himself. what happened earlier that night still felt - unreal. yoongi feels like he’ll break the enigmatic anonymity of the attractive cashier boy if he says anything.

“hyung?”

“no, nothing. nevermind,” yoongi changes the subject, “how’s that new track going?” and namjoon enthusiastically explains his progress.

the next day, yoongi finds himself slouched at his desk, pen tossed somewhere to the side. he’s looking down at what he can only call organized chaos atop his desk. this is usually how his song production process starts anyway. he scans some of the lyrics he just scribbled all over and he sees stuff like ‘ enigma and mystique ’ and ‘ eyes that hold stars ’ and ‘ deer in headlights... i’m struck by your beauty mystery loveliness- ’

uh-huh. yup. okay. yoongi stands up and gathers all those loose leaf papers in a pile and goes to deposit them in the wastebin.

he pauses and throws them in a random drawer in his nightstand.

he needs to get out. he grabs his leather jacket draped across the back of his desk chair and power walks his way out of his apartment.

yoongi finds himself wandering the city again and wait. it’s that store again. what the fuck? did he just subconsciously make his way to back to the store and it’s attractive cashier-

shit. yoongi sees said cashier boy through the front windows, presumably stocking a shelf. he gets up and starts walking back to the counter, but as he’s doing that his body faces the front doors, which probably puts yoongi in his plain sight.

yoongi quickly backpedals, hoping he hasn’t been spotted.

he stands in place for a beat.

he refuses to acknowledge how hard his heart is hammering.

after much internal debate, yoongi decides that fuck it. he’s already here and he sees a huge jar of cheese puffs from where he’s standing and he might as well get that. because. he needs. inspiration.

he walks in, trying his best to put confidence in his steps and not looking at the cashier - who is now sitting at the counter with earphones and bobbing his head to a beat and is he humming?

yoongi walks down the chip aisle, deciding that he needs to have different flavors on hand when he gets tired of the cheese puffs.

over the top of the aisle, yoongi can see cashier boy stretching and fuck. his shoulders look good in that leather jacket too.

yoongi reaches the end of the aisle and is about to stroll into the next one, but almost trips on his shoelaces of his black converse. he kneels down and glances at the counter, seeing that the cashier is now standing. they make awkward eye contact and yoongi quickly goes back to tying his own shoelace, not before seeing a flash of black converses disappearing behind the counter.

when yoongi goes to pay for his items, cashier boy has taken off the leather jacket, leaving him in a simple white tee with a simple supreme logo. and now his incredibly toned biceps are out on display. wow. is it getting hot in here? yoongi sees the veins in cashier boy’s arms when they flex to hold the large container of cheese puffs. yoongi gulps.

it’s too hot - yoongi strips off his own leather jacket and slings it over an arm. eyes looking anywhere but the cashier, he taps his foot and waits for cashier boy to state the price and yoongi can pay and then he can leave.

except. cashier boy hasn’t said anything for a little while. yoongi chances a quick glance upwards. cashier boy is staring at - yoongi’s chest? fuck, did he wear his kumamon jammies out or something?

but like, if this boy has something against kumamon, yoongi has a serious bone to pick with him.

yoongi glances down at his own shirt. then back up at cashier boy. then back at his own shirt.

weird. yoongi’s wearing a supreme shirt. cashier boy’s wearing one too. cashier boy squints, like he’s suspicious of yoongi or something.

yoongi clears his throat, “uh - can i pay for my things?”

this seems to shake the cashier out of whatever stupor he’s in, “ah - sorry.”

yoongi pays for his things and goes to grab the bag the cashier is holding out for him to take. yoongi overshoots a little; okay, maybe he’s a little flustered and accidently knocks his hand against the cashier’s.

there’s a little clink as yoongi’s ring bumps against cashier boy’s.

okay. fuck. they’re wearing matching rings too?

they both face each other with similar looks of shock and confusion. before either of them have a chance to say anything, yoongi books it out of there real quick.

something weird is going on and jungkook doesn’t know what to do.

he’s just minding his own business, listening to offonoff’s new album while doing his math homework at the register to keep an eye on the store in case anyone does come in. it’s midnight but still.

then, jungkook sees movement in the corner of his eyes and realizes that someone has come in without him noticing.

it’s the silver-haired man again. and shit, he looks really good. he’s standing in front of the snack shelf, with his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and he’s wearing this large leather jacket.

jungkook does not salivate.

but wait. jungkook looks down at himself. how is he also wearing a leather jacket?

it must be another fluke. jungkook hurriedly stands up and takes his jacket off, pacing around for a bit.

he looks over at the silver-haired man again and sees him tying his right shoelace.

jungkook looks down at his shoes.

his left shoelace is untied.

a mixture of mild horror and panic starts thrumming through his body, but he refuses to tie his shoelaces and resumes his nervous pacing.

he turns around and jumps slightly. the silver haired man is right in front of him, fidgeting with his hair.

jungkook goes to ring up his purchases, which are all comprised of various family size chip bags. he goes to ring up the last item, a jumbo container of cheese puffs, and pauses. the silver-haired man has taken off his leather jacket and. why. is he wearing a supreme shirt. like jungkook.

jungkook stares dumbfoundedly at that stupid supreme logo and the man’s prominent collarbones before he clears his throat and asks for jungkook to ring up the total.

right. jungkook hurriedly bags everything and thrusts them towards the man, hoping he’ll leave quickly.

the man accidentally knocks his hand against jungkook’s and this time jungkook does not hide his shock.

you've got to be fucking kidding. they have matching rings. it's like they're a couple or something.

what. is happening.

the next night after his shift at the local coffee shop, yoongi actively seeks out level convenience store, as well as its resident attractive cashier. he’s wearing this ostentatious, bright yellow, furry thing. it’s so. loud. and lowkey ugly. hence the reason why he’s out at night.

however, yoongi swears his sweater is bright enough that he’s probably glowing in the dark.

but, yoongi also needs to prove a point. whatever cosmic fuckery is going on, whatever deity is fucking with him, yoongi just wants to prove to himself that this is all bullshit. running into a cute stranger repeatedly is enough, and yoongi doesn’t need any other unexplainable shit happening.

jungkook is tapping his foot, a habit of his that surfaces only when he’s nervous or anxious. jungkook is definitely focusing on math homework and definitely not looking out for a certain silver-haired stranger.

he rubs his nose with the sleeve of his sweater and almost sneezes. geez. jungkook had asked taehyung to lend him his craziest article of clothing at the moment, seeing as taehyung’s fashion style is overall - crazy. so, taehyung tossed him the first thing he laid eyes on in his closet, and it was this gucci sweater. gucci my ass, jungkook thinks. this sweater is just a very good excuse to cosplay as big bird.

jungkook just wants to figure out what is going on. like, he meets some cute stranger and-

holy shit. he sees said stranger standing outside on the sidewalk.

okay, somebody up there must hate jungkook because - he looks down at himself just to make sure - both of them are once again, matching.

like, how does the stranger still look striking in such an ugly sweater?

jungkook can only stare as the stranger swiftly turns around and bolts down the street.

yoongi slams the door of his apartment closed, breathing heavily. he looks through the peephole to make sure no one had followed him. he’s not taking any chances.

that’s it. something is up and yoongi’s solution is to - hole himself up in his apartment.

wait, can he do that? oh yeah, it’s friday. and he doesn’t have any shifts until monday. fantastic. he can devote himself wholeheartedly to his unfinished tracks over the weekend.

yoongi wakes up saturday afternoon, but allows himself the luxury of lounging around in bed for a few more hours. this effectively brings the start of his day well into saturday evening. he fishes around for some spare instant ramen packets, and begins working as soon as he gives himself some salty sustenance.

his weekend goes by like this: immersing himself with writing lyrics and producing elementary beats for a few straight hours and then taking short naps in between. he eats if he remembers. or if namjoon reminds him.

all in all, he does a good job of not thinking about the weird stuff that’s been going on, and especially about the soft-looking cashier boy.

except.

yoongi stumbles out of his bedroom, finally succumbing to his stomach’s urges, as well as namjoon’s rapid texts.

he fumbles around for a cup of ramen - his last one, he’ll have to refill - and goes to find a scissor to cut off the plastic wrap.

his fingers slip and he ends up cutting himself.

he sighs as he looks down at his bleeding finger. he dabs at it lightly to try to clear away the blood, but it just keeps oozing out. he grabs a tissue and presses on the fresh wound, waiting for it to clot, but the blood just keeps coming.

what the heck? he didn’t cut himself that hard.

ah, shit. he doesn’t have any bandaids.

he checks his phone. 2:55 am. is there a store open at this hour-

there might be one.

before yoongi thinks about it too hard, he wraps a clean tissue around his finger and books it out of his apartment. he’s not about to hold a tissue around his finger for the rest of the night to keep it from getting infected.

as he fast-walks to level convenience store, yoongi thinks about cashier boy again for the first time in awhile (a couple days.) maybe whatever matchy-matchy curse or spell or shit is over, since yoongi hadn’t seen or even thought about the boy. wow. an achievement.

cashier boy probably isn’t even there, seeing as it’s so late.

whatever, yoongi just needs to grab some bandaids and then he’s out.

he heads into the store, notices that the register is unattended, and goes to grab a box of bandaids. while he’s at it, he stops by the ramen aisle to refill his stock.

as he makes his way to the register, he sees someone now sitting behind the counter. yoongi stops in his tracks. it’s cashier boy. he looks as stunning as ever. and he’s fiddling with one of his fingers, which happens to be bandaged. he looks up and only then does yoongi continue walking towards him.

none of them say anything as cashier boy rings up his items, but he does raise his eyebrows slightly when he notices the blood-soaked tissue around yoongi’s finger.

after he pays, yoongi doesn’t leave right away. instead, he rips open the box of bandaids and slaps one around his finger.

“how did you hurt yourself?”

holy shit, even cashier boy’s voice is attractive - what the fuck - with a soft, lilting tone to it.

“uh, i cut myself trying to get some ramen.” god he sounds stupid.

“wait, really?” cashier boy’s doe eyes widen - yoongi sees his eyelashes, - “me too! i was doing inventory and had to refill some ramen for the shelves and yeah.” he gesticulates with his injured finger.

yoongi is silent for a moment. they even have matching wounds.

“this shit is real, isn't it?”

cashier boy tilts his head. “oh. you mean the weird clothes thing-”

the lights in the store flicker and then suddenly fade out completely.

yoongi panics for a second as his eyes adjust to the darkness, but that initial shock instantly goes away as soon as he sees cashier boy’s big eyes reflecting the street lights outside.

he finishes cashier boy’s sentence. “...yeah. the weird clothes-matching thing.”

“well, my best explanation is that the universe continually derives pleasure from fucking with me.” cashier boy pauses, “n-not that it's always a negative thing! i mean, this time wasn't so bad!” he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, “i-you - sorry! i didn't mean to make that sound like an insult to you.”

yoongi chuckles, “hey, it's fine. the universe likes fucking with me too.”

cashier boy shyly ducks his head.

yoongi looks around the store, now shrouded in complete darkness. “should we maybe find the fuse box or something..?”

cashier boy sits down on his stool. “nah, it’s fine. this happens quite often, actually. i don’t even know why you bother coming here when there are plenty of 7-eleven’s,” he sighs, “this store is pretty shitty and rundown.”

“i don’t know. i kinda like the warm, colorful vibe.” yoongi thinks, also, it’s because you’re here.

“well, the longest the power’s been out was like, thirty minutes.” cashier boy unlocks his phone and begins scrolling through, “um - you’re free to leave..? i have everything under control.”

yoongi makes no move to leave and hops up to sit atop the counter. in doing so, he’s inevitably brought himself closer to cashier boy. when yoongi turns his head, he sees cashier boy up close, ensconced in moonlight, the contours of his face highlighted by shadows.

yoongi stares at cashier boy’s dark eyes, and at his eyelashes as they fan across his cheeks when he blinks slowly.

yoongi’s eyes are immediately drawn to his lips when he worries them between his teeth. if they begin leaning into each other’s orbit, none of them are the wiser.

suddenly, yoongi feels a sharp sting on his forearm. at the same time, cashier boy jerks away, hissing in pain.

something is etching itself into yoongi’s skin and he squeezes his arm to try to take away some of the pain.

his arm is still searing when the lights flicker back on.

“god, what the fuck was that-” yoongi looks down at his right arm, all red and puffy, and sees a tattoo.

it's a lock.

yoongi looks up in shock.

cashier boy has a similar look on his face. and on his left arm, is a tattoo of a key.

there's still specks of blood on cashier boy's fresh tattoo and yoongi grabs a nearby napkin and slowly dabs on it.

cashier boy flinches slightly, but yoongi places a hand on his upper arm to comfort him, to ground him. yoongi traces the boy’s tattoo lightly with his thumb and looks back at his own. a perfect match.

“i’m yoongi. min yoongi.”

cashier boy smiles softly. “jungkook.”

me [12:01 pm}

joon

quick question

so like

did anything weird happen

before ur tattoo appeared

dance monster [12:15 pm]

i mean

not that i can think of ??

hyung just cuz u and jungkook had some storybook soulmate romance doesn't mean smt like that happened to me

me [12:32 pm]

well what happened that day

dance monster [12:44 pm]

nothing really

i just had a study session with jin

me [12:49 pm]

‘study’

what exactly were u two studying

dance monster [12:50 pm]

hyung

need i remind u that jin is my metaphysics and epistemology tutor and wait wat were we studying ?

oh yea !!!

~metaphysics and epistemology~

me [1:00 pm]

you think he's cute, don't you

dance monster [1:05 pm]

im not answering that

me [1:06 pm]

im sensing a blush

dance monster [1:10 pm]

actually

now that i think about it

i came into that session late that day

as i was leaving my apartment i somehow

hit my knee on the doorframe

and fell

and dropped all my stuff

left a nasty bruise

also got a paper cut across my right palm as i was tryna pick up all the books in a hurry

me [1:16 pm]

you would

i fuckin bet smt like that happened to jin

hello

joon?

yoongi is rudely awakened by big bang’s ‘bang bang bang’ - why did he let his boyfriend pick his ringtone?

said boyfriend stirs in his sleep, burying his face deeper into yoongi’s shoulder and wrapping his arms tighter around yoongi’s waist. “mmph - hyung. make it stop. let’s nap more.”

yoongi turns his head and places a kiss atop jungkook’s forehead, “sorry baby. just let me take this real quick.”

he blindly grabs around for his cell phone and sees namjoon’s caller id lighting up.

“what.”

“hyung! what the fuck. what is happening.”

yoongi groans. “yes, what is happening. please enlighten me.”

“me and jin have matching bruises! even cuts and everything! i met up with him today and remember that cut i got on my palm? he had one too, and then we realized we have the same injuries!”

yoongi tries to process this information as fast as he can with a sleep-addled brain. “so, he’s a masochist?”

“no! god, no. he’s the one with the sun tattoo! remember how my sun tattoo appeared? well, he’s the one that had it, and he said that a moon tattoo appeared on him! like mine! hyung, we’re matching!”

“well, congratulations.” yoongi sounds grumpy, but he means it. “though i feel bad for jin. you’re a fucking klutz. don’t kill him before you ask him out officially.” he yawns. “i’m going back to sleep.”

with that, yoongi hangs up and turns back to wrap himself around jungkook.

“hyung, what was that about?” jungkook murmurs with his eyes still closed.

“nothing. just some weird soulmate shit.” he buries his nose in jungkook’s fragrant hair. “let’s go back to sleep.” ~

#bts #bts fic #suga #yoongi #jungkook #soulmate #soulmate!au #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #yoonkook #sugakookie #mine

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welllpthisishappening · 6 years

Note

Hi, Laura. I have a question for you, how did Liam and Elsa started dating in Blue Line?

In an effort to avoid thinking about Ryan McDonagh and JT Miller playing the Rangers for the first time since the trade deadline, I wrote this instead. It’s not real long, but it’s been a week in a way that deserved a few more italics and maybe a few underlines and I’ve been thinking about this ask non-stop for, like, the last twenty-four hours.

Some more under the cut because I am me.

“He absolutely does not know.”

“You don’t know that.”

Liam stared at her, head tilted slightly with something that felt like a mix of fondness and disbelief rolling off him. “I do know that,” he said, letting his forehead rest on hers. “He’s way too preoccupied with whatever stories they’re going to publish in the next two days.”

“He’s got to relax about that,” Elsa muttered, rolling her eyes when Liam scoffed in response. “He’s not even twenty years old and he’s going to give himself an aneurysm.”

“You want to tell him that?”

“I mean…no.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Liam laughed.

Elsa huffed and she couldn’t actually cross her arms, pushed against the door in the hallway of the hotel she, technically, wasn’t supposed to be in.

It was making her anxious.

The whole goddamn weekend was making her anxious – and only seventy-two percent of that anxiety was hockey based. At least ten percent of it was focused on Killian and his ability to be the single most dramatic human being on the planet because he also wanted to be the single best hockey player on the planet and, well, maybe her original percentages were a little off.

She, at least, was not one-hundred percent worried about hockey. She was, at least, five percent worried about what anyone at that national championship hockey game would do if they figured out that she and Liam were dating.

And had been. For the last five years. Well, kind of.

They’d grown up together, of course, living down the hallway from each other and people used to say stupid things about them all the time.

Oh, you must think of each other like live-in cousins. Oh, isn’t it great to have an older brother like that? Oh, you must be incredibly close.

She hated it. She hated the questions and the assumptions and, yeah, Liam lived down the hallway, but it wasn’t like he was actually her brother and it was…kind of stupid.

She liked him.

Elsa blamed the wine coolers. She’d just turned seventeen and Killian had gotten them somewhere and snuck them into the basement and air hockey was a lot more fun when she was pleasantly buzzed and she hadn’t realized she was alone in the basement with Liam until he coughed softly under his breath. And then it just kind of happened.

They just kind of happened.

She absolutely kissed him first.

“You’re thinking so loudly, you’re transferring your stress to me,” Liam said, brushing the words into Elsa’s jaw and that kind of helps. “Killian knows nothing. He knows less than nothing.”

“Anna knows.”

“Yeah, well that’s Anna.”

“You want to tell her that?” Elsa asked. She, somehow, managed to get an arm in between them, tugging on the front of the jersey he had to wear for pre-game interviews and the fabric of the ‘C’ on his shoulder was rough against her fingertips.

Liam shook his head, hair far too long and curls almost dangerously close to his eyebrows. It made her heart speed up. “Nah,” he grinned. “That’s ok. But thanks for the offer.”

“At least your manners are intact.”

“Good upbringing.”

Elsa could feel herself freeze, eyes going wide before she could stop herself and Liam blinked, by her count, fourteen times. She heard his lips part before she saw them, eyes practically boring a hole into the ground, and she’s now, at least, two percent worried she’s going to sprain a muscle in her cheek from twisting her mouth so much.

“The thoughts, Magi,” he whispered, letting his fingers card through the ends of her hair and her heart might have actually exploded at the quiet nickname.

He’d come up with after when she was fifteen and managed to figure out two different hockey schedules and four different school schedules and he had exams and she had projects and everything got done. He told her it was magic and that might have been the exact moment Elsa stopped thinking of Liam as the vaguely attractive guy with a different last name who lived down the hall from her.

He never once called her that around anyone else.

“That’s cheating,” Elsa mumbled. She pressed up on her toes anyway, arms looping around Liam’s neck and his jersey got twisted in between them when he ducked his head.

They were still in the hallway, still playing with fire, which seemed problematic a few hours removed from a national championship hockey game, but she didn’t want to leave and he kept promising Killian didn’t know anything and maybe she didn’t have to worry. Maybe things would just be ok. Maybe no one would freak out. Maybe it wasn’t as weird as she was worried, terrified, it might have been.

“And that’s still not an answer,” Liam pointed out.

“God, I don’t know who’s more stubborn. You or KJ.”

“It’s definitely Killian, but if you could maybe not talk about Killian while I’m trying to make out with you, that would be great.”

Elsa laughed, burying her head into the curve of his shoulder and her lungs felt a bit more like a functioning part of her body when she felt his lips press against the top of her hair. “I’ll take that into account in the future,” she said. “You really don’t think this is weird?”

“What’s weird?”

“This. Us. All of it?”

She felt him tense under her, the fingers that had been tracing out nonsensical patterns on her back stilling immediately. Elsa squeezed her eyes closed, gritting her teeth and counting seconds like that would make any of this better or less weird. She’d made it so weird.

Liam leaned back, staring at her incredulously. And, maybe, with just a bit of anxiety on the edge for good measure. “Do you think it’s weird?” he asked, doing his best to make sure his voice didn’t shake and coming up decidedly short of the mark. “Have you always thought it’s weird?”

“For the last five years?” Elsa countered skeptically. He widened his eyes. She wished she had wine coolers to blame all of this on. “No, no, I don’t, but…we’re here and there are all these cameras and Mom and Dad and, like I said, Anna totally knows and has known forever and wants details—“

“—Details?”

“She’s Anna.” Liam hummed, the ends of his mouth twitching and maybe Elsa was worrying for nothing. It would probably be fine. “But, yeah, details and I’m not really sure we’ve ever been that great at sneaking around and what happens if you win?”

“Now you sound like Killian.”

Elsa scowled, but Liam was definitely smiling at her – enough to make her wonder if confidence was a thing she should be working a bit more on. “I’m serious,” she said. “We’re just supposed to pretend like we’re…what? Totally platonic brother and sister and I’m super psyched that you won a national title?”

“I don’t think you have to use the phrase super psyched, technically.”

“None of these are actual answers, you know.”

“I know Magi,” Liam grinned, brushing his lips over hers again. “But that’s mostly because I don’t have one. And I know that’s going to stress you out. So better to just ignore, right?”

“I’m not sure that’s going to help.”

He chuckled lightly, nosing at her cheek and he really did need a hair cut. Her parents wouldn’t appreciate if he had curls in his eyes when he inevitably posed for pictures post championship. They were absolutely going to win.

And Elsa had no idea when she started thinking of it as some kind of collective pronoun.

“I really do not think of you as my sister,” Liam said. “I have never thought of you as my sister. Best friend, definitely, but never sister.”

“You’re trying to be charming.”

“Is it working?”

“Decidedly.”

He kissed her before she could say anything else – or, maybe, the other way around, but it absolutely, positively did not matter because she needed to get back to a different hotel and avoid her actual sister like several different plagues and she nearly jumped a foot in the air when she hears footsteps rounding the corner.

Killian stopped a few feet away, blinking at both of them with a tie hanging loosely around neck and something that looked a bit like the visual definition of incredulity on his face. “Hey, El,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Elsa stammered. She tried to take a step back, but there was a door in her way and the tips of Liam’s ears might stay red for the rest of their lives. “I was just, ummm….”

“Ummm….”

“Ok, don’t be an ass, KJ.”

He widened his eyes, hand still stuck in his hair and she briefly considered checking him into the closest wall – if only to get that vaguely suspicious look off his face. “I’m not being anything, El,” Killian said. “It’s almost eleven, though, which is almost curfew and you guys are standing out in the hallway like Mrs. V just found out we went on the uptown-3 at rush hour.”

“That definitely falls into the category of being an ass,” Liam muttered. “And Elsa just wanted to double check on the plan for tomorrow post-game. You know Mr. and Mrs. V want to do something if we win.”

“When,” Elsa corrected, but it was pointless and both Jones brothers mumbled no jinx under their breath. She rolled her eyes, retreating back another few steps until she was closer to Killian than Liam and the whole goddamn thing was a disaster. “Well,” she continued. “I’m, uh…going to go now. Because we’ve got a plan and an idea and a plan.”

“You said that already, El,” Killian said.

“That’s true. I did. Well done on the listening portion of the exam, KJ. You absolutely pass.” She pressed her lips together when he kept staring at her, eyeing her like he was trying to read her mind and he was usually better at that. “I probably won’t see you guys before tomorrow though,” Elsa added, not entirely sure why she was keeping the conversation going, but she’d made it weird and then weirder and she could still feel the anxiety churning in the pit of her stomach. She was going to fix this. Kind of. “So. Good luck. And score a ton and we’ll follow the plan after, right?”

Killian gaped at her, mouth hanging open in something that felt a lot like suspicion, but Elsa’s eyes darted to Liam. He smiled. And nodded.

And she was only, like, sixteen percent anxious about anything after that.

“Yeah,” Liam said. “We’ll absolutely follow the plan later.”

The plan, obviously, went to complete shit as soon as the final whistle went off.

She spent most of the third period trying not to cry and trying even harder to ignore Anna’s not-so-quiet quips about how clear the tears in her eyes were, but that might have been the best pass Liam ever made and she’d never seen Killian’s smile that wide or that honest and they won.

They won.

They open up the zamboni doors after – a small army of maroon and gold jerseys passing around one pair of ceremonial scissors to cut up the net and it took, approximately, forty-seven seconds for Liam’s eyes to land on hers. He handed Killian the scissors. And if the game-winning set up in front of the net had been the best pass Liam Jones had ever made, then the few feet between him and Elsa was the best he’d ever skated and she didn’t think before moving, lunging forward and slinging her arms around his neck as soon as his hands landed on her waist.

He still had one glove on when he kissed her. Or she kissed him. She probably kissed him.

That was kind of their thing.

Anna shrieked and Killian might have gasped, but her parents looked frozen and just a bit stunned and maybe they’d been better at sneaking around than Elsa assumed.

“So much for all of that, huh?” Liam asked, voice shaking with his laughter and there were still tears on her cheeks. “Magi, are you crying?”

“No,” Elsa hissed. He lifted his eyebrows when he leaned back to look at her and her feet had left the ice at some point. “It was a really good pass.”

“I was totally trying to impress you, how’d it go?”

“Pretty ok, honestly.”

“All part of the plan.”

She didn’t really stop crying for the rest of the night or a few days later when Liam and Killian sat in front of a backdrop with cartoon gophers on it and announced they were turning pro or, a few years later, when the world seemed to crash down around her and Liam had looked so young when they carted him off the ice. Killian kept pacing in the hallway of the hospital, shoulders sagging under the weight of the guilt he’d carry with him for years, and Elsa couldn’t stop crying, didn’t know what to do next until someone told her she could go in now and she practically ran through the doorway.

He smiled at her from the hospital bed.

“Hey Magi,” Liam mumbled, voice gruff and scratchy and she wasn’t sure what sound she made in response, but it might not have been human. “It’s going to be ok. It’s just…we may need to come up with a new plan now.”

They did.

They figured it out and she cried a few more times and moved across the goddamn country and she was still anxious about hockey for, at least, forty-three percent of the year, but it was a good plan and they were even better at executing it. And Elsa knew there were more tears on her cheeks, standing behind a different zamboni door in an arena she’d always just assumed both Liam and Killian would rule together, but it all worked and he nearly tripped over his own skates when he spotted them – the goddamn Stanley Cup lifted above his head.

“Go skate, little brother,” Liam said and Killian visibly exhaled, that guilt disappearing as quickly as it arrived. Elsa might have sobbed.

Liam slung an arm around her shoulder when they were allowed onto the rink, confident steps as soon as their shoes land on ice. There was music playing and Roland was screaming somewhere and Scarlet refused to relinquish the Cup to anyone, but Elsa barely saw any of them – instead her eyes landed on Emma and her barely-certain movements, skidding towards Killian with a smile on her face and something vaguely familiar lingering in the air around her.

She kissed him. Or he kissed her.

The specifics weren’t important.

“The more things change, huh?” Liam muttered, dragging his fingers over the tiny bundle of blankets masquerading as a baby in the crook of Elsa’s arm.

She nodded, grinning as wide as she could and as certain as she’d ever been and it wasn’t easy to kiss him, but they made that work too and it wasn’t ever really weird. “I love you,” she whispered, barely letting him repeat the words back to her before she heard both Robin and Scarlet shouting and Killian laughing and Liam smiled when he kissed her again.

#onceuponaprincessworld #cs ff #frozen jewel #frozen jewel ff #i don't know how to tag this #it's weird writing in not emma and killian's pov #blue line one shots #HERE HAVE SOME MORE EMOTIONALLY CHARGED NICKNAMES BECAUSE I AM NICKNAME TRASH

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patriotsnet · 3 years

Text

Will Republicans Take Back The House

New Post has been published on https://www.patriotsnet.com/will-republicans-take-back-the-house/

Will Republicans Take Back The House

Republicans Positive To Win Back Both Chambers

Will Republicans take back the House?

Republican Sen. Rick Scott said, “This is going to be like 2010, 2012, 2014 where we pick up seats because of Obama’s agenda.” He also added, “Now what I talk about every day is do we want open borders? No. Do we want to shut down our schools? No. Do we want men playing in women’s sports? No. Do we want to shut down the Keystone Pipeline? No. Do we want voter ID? Yes.”

He also added that the;Democratic lawmakers;and Biden Administration are on the opposite side, giving them the advantage in the upcoming midterm election.;

Big Odds For Republicans To Win Back The House Of Representatives Next Year

The internal consultation of the National Republican Congressional Committee revealed that their party has favorable conditions to retake the majority of seats in the House of Representatives in the mid-term elections to be held next year.;

Contributing to these good predictions is that voters prefer Republicans as their leaders, and the increased unfavorability of House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, according to data provided by the NRCC website on April 26.;

Even the decennial census results are on the side of a Republican triumph because the data presented by the Census Bureau show that they gained seats in the new distribution, although it is not definitive.;

Likewise, throughout the 100 days of the Biden administration at the helm of the White House, Americans have become alerted to the convenience of changing the political course.;

In this regard, NRCC spokesman Mike Berg commented in a statement, The Democrats dangerous socialist agenda is providing the perfect roadmap for Republicans to regain the majority.

Among voters most pressing considerations are the border crisis and the rampant illegal immigration that the Biden and the Democrat open border policies have fostered.;

At least 75% of voters see the border situation as a crisis or significant problem, while 23% say the border is a minor problem or not a problem at all.

Thus, 57% of voters do not believe that the CCP Virus stimulus approved by Biden is helping them and their families.

Pelosi Tells Republicans To ‘take Back’ Party From ‘extreme Right’

Nancy Pelosi has urged her Republican colleagues to “take back” their party from those at on the extreme right.

Accepting an honorary degree from Smith College in Massachusetts, the Speaker of the House said that the “country needs a big, strong Republican party” so that politicians can compete ideas for governance. Ms Pelosi urged members to prevent the party from being “a cult of personality on the extreme, extreme, extreme right”.

“This isn’t about liberal or conservative, they don’t believe in governance” she added, “Take back your party, which has done so much for the country”.

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House And Senate Odds: Final Thoughts

There is less than 1% equity on the notion that Democrats will win the House and lose the Senate, because while New Hampshire could move in a weird, contradictory manner, if Democrats win the House, the nation will be sufficiently blue that they hold all three of Nevada, Arizona, and Georgia, and they will gain Pennsylvania too.

Races are too nationalized and partisanship too entrenched for the Senate GOP to outrun a national environment blue enough to win the House, which means you can get a Democratic Congress for another term at $0.21. Its a better value than the House outright market for almost no extra risk, and thats the best kind of value.

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Poll: 78% Of Capitol Hill Staffers Believe Gop Will Take Back The House In 2022

78% of Capitol Hill staffers believe that House Republicans are on track to reclaim the house majority in 2022, according to a new poll.

Capitol Hill staffers were asked a series of questions, gauging congressional support for President Bidens agenda and individual issues such as gun control in a new Punchbowl News poll.;While responses to individual issue questions fell down partisan lines, 78% of respondents indicated they believe the GOP will control the House of Representatives after the 2022 midterm elections.

Seventy-eight percent of senior Capitol Hill aides believe the Republicans will regain the House in 2022, according to a poll from Punchbowl#RepublicanParty#HouseOfRepresentatives#Nrcc#NancyPelosi#PunchbowlNews

H24 News US

The poll surveyed 158 staffers serving as chiefs of staff, legislative directors, press secretaries and communications directors to members of the House of Representatives and the Senate. The partisan breakdown of the survey was fairly even with 80 respondents identifying as Democratic staffers and 78 respondents identifying as Republican staffers, according to Punchbowl.

Respondents also gave their predictions on which party will control the Senate, with 70% of respondents indicating their belief that Democrats will control the Senate after the 2022 midterm elections.

Punchbowls poll was conducted between May 11 and May 28.

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For further information, please visit AGF.com.

Democrats Odds Of Keeping The House Are Slimming Fast

The Democratic House majority emerged from the 2020 election so bruised and emaciated that experts gave it less than three years to live.

In defiance of polling and pundit expectations, Republicans netted 11 House seats in 2020, leaving Nancy Pelosis caucus perilously thin. Since World War II, the presidents party has lost an average of 27 House seats in midterm elections. If Democrats lose more than four in 2022, they will forfeit congressional control.

If the headwinds facing House Democrats have been clear since November, the preconditions for overcoming those headwinds have also been discernible: The party needed Joe Biden to stay popular, the Democratic base to stay mobilized and, above all, for Congressional Democrats to level the playing field by banning partisan redistricting.

A little over 100 days into Bidens presidency, Democrats are hitting only one of those three marks.

Historically, theres been a strong correlation between the sitting presidents approval rating and his partys midterm performance. Only twice in the last three decades has the presidents party gained seats in a midterm election; in both cases, their approval ratings exceeded 60 percent.

The party that controls the presidency tends to gets less popular as time goes on, and future declines are surprisingly correlated with first quarter polling.Many reasons that this cycle might be different, but so far public polling points to Dems getting 48% on election day.

It didnt.

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National View: Republican Resurgence In 2022 Already On The Horizon

Reading the political tea leaves 18 months in advance is as tricky as making a weather forecast for the same timeframe. But every so often, circumstances combine to increase the odds in the forecasters favor. Looking ahead to next years midterms is one of them. Because if things continue on their current course, Nov. 8, 2022, will be a very good night for Republicans around the country.

For starters, history is on the GOPs side going into the campaign. Theres a long track record of the incumbent presidents party losing seats during a midterm election. In fact, since 1934, only two presidents have enjoyed an increase in their partys numbers in the House and Senate: Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1934 and George W. Bush in 2002.

Excluding those two exceptions, losses are big for the party that occupies 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Especially for first-term presidents and particularly in the House. Consider Presidents Donald Trump , Barack Obama , Bill Clinton , Ronald Reagan , and Gerald Ford . All were shellacked at the ballot box, resulting in significantly fewer members of their party in the House of Representatives.

According to FiveThirtyEight, the GOP also has a turnout advantage in midterms. Under Republican presidents since 1978, the GOP has enjoyed a plus-one shift toward party identification for those who vote in midterm elections. That margin swells to plus-five under Democratic presidents.

A Zombie Republican Party Will Overwhelm Joe Biden In The 2022 Midterms

Representative Kevin McCarthy discusses if Republicans can take back the House in 2020

President Biden promised he will restore the soul of America. Hes already running out of time. The commander-in-chief is 78 and unlikely to see out more than one term in office. By the time the pandemic crisis passes mid-2021, inshallah Biden could find his administration has run out of gas before it ever really got started. A week is a long time in politics. Two years can whizz by.

For now, Biden appears to hold the aces. He has a Democratic majority in the House Of Representatives and his vice president, Kamala Harris, can cast the deciding vote in a split Senate. The economy, stimulated to its guts, is expected to roar as this year goes on. His opposition, the Republican Party, looks prone wrecked by its calamitous marriage to Donald Trump. The Republican base still hates the Republican establishment and vice versa. The infamous storming of the Capitol on 6 January, we are told, has tarnished the American right for a generation or more.

The Republican Party, for all its problems, remains the strong favourite to win the House in the 2022 midterms, possibly by a large margin, and they may even take back the Senate

Trump or no Trump, the Grand Old Party marches on. The mistake pundits make is to confuse Republicanism with a normal democratic movement. It is more like the political equivalent of the undead a zombie army that horrifies every sane voter but somehow always wins because people hate the Democrats more.

Recommended Reading: Are Democrats Red And Republicans Blue

Mcconnell: House Senate Gop Wins In 2022 Would Check Biden

Addison Mitchell McConnellHouse approves John Lewis voting rights measureThe Hills 12:30 Report Presented by AT&T Pelosis negotiates with centrists to keep Bidens agenda afloatMcConnell urges Biden to ignore Aug. 31 Afghanistan deadlineMORE on Thursday pledged that if Republicans win back control of Congress next year they could be a check against the Biden administration, forcing it into the political center.

McConnell, speaking at an event in Kentucky, said that American voters have a big decision to make in 2022, when control of both the House and Senate are up for grabs.

Do they really want a moderate administration or not? If the House and Senate were to return to Republican hands that doesnt mean nothing happens, McConnell said.

What I want you to know is if I become the majority leader again its not for stopping everything. Its for stopping the worst. Its for stopping things that fundamentally push the country into a direction that at least my party feels is not a good idea for the country, he added. And I could make sure Biden makes his promise to be a moderate.

Democrats are trying to keep their majorities in both the House, where they have a nine-seat advantage, and the Senate, which is evenly split but where they have the majority since Vice President Harris is able to break ties.

The Cook Political Report rates both the Pennsylvania and North Carolina seats as toss-ups, and Johnsons seat as lean R.

‘the Beast Is Growing’: Republicans Follow A Winning At All Costs Strategy Into The Midterms

Much remains uncertain about the midterm elections more than a year away including the congressional districts themselves, thanks to the delayed redistricting process. The Senate, meanwhile, looks like more of a toss-up.

House Democrats think voters will reward them for advancing President Joe Biden’s generally popular agenda, which involves showering infrastructure money on virtually every district in the country and sending checks directly to millions of parents. And they think voters will punish Republicans for their rhetoric about the Covid-19 pandemic and the 2020 election.

“Democrats are delivering results, bringing back the economy, getting people back to work, passing the largest middle-class tax cut in history, while Republicans are engaged in frankly violent conspiracy theory rhetoric around lies in service of Donald Trump,” said Tim Persico, executive director of the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee.

But the challenges Democrats face are real and numerous.

They knew they would face a tough 2022 immediately after 2020, when massive, unexpected GOP gains whittled the Democratic majority to just a handful of seats.

“House Republicans are in a great position to retake the majority,” said Rep. Tom Emmer, R-Minn., who chairs the National Republican Congressional Committee, “but we are taking nothing for granted.”

His rural district had been trending Republican for years. Kind won re-election last year by just about 10,000 votes.

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Republicans Are In An Excellent Position To Weasel Their Way Back To House Control

When the Democrats took control of all three branches of the federal government following the 2020 election, they did so with the slimmest margin possible â a 50/50 split in the Senate and an 11-seat advantage in the House of Representatives, which has already slipped to a margin of just eight votes, thanks to special elections and run-offs. The first test of how well that razor-thin Democratic advantage will hold will come in 2022, and it may be decided before a single vote is cast. A new study conducted by Democratic data firm TargetSmart and published by Mother Jones found that Republican-controlled state legislatures around the country could effectively take back control of Congress simply through the shady and dubious practice of gerrymandering.

Here’s the problem that faces Democrats with the 2022 election season approaching: Despite having control of the federal government, the left has lost ground at the state level. Republicans control 61 total chambers of state governments, including holding a trifecta in 23 states. In many of these states, the party with legislative control gets to re-draw the lines for congressional districts, allowing them to create bizarre borders that serve only to set up a favorable outcome. According to TargetSmart, Republicans will have the ability to re-draw 187 congressional districts, while Democrats will only control 75.

I Ultimately Decided Against Running For Congress In A Red District But My Research Found A Way For Democrats To Make Inroads In Such Places

Political pundits seem united in their belief that Democrats will struggle to hold the House of Representatives in 2022.

The historical precedent that the party out of power in the White House always gains in the midterms and the likely impact of partisan and racial gerrymandering has fostered a consensus that Democrats will lose seats.

Theyre wrong. Democrats have the opportunity to widen the playing field in 2022 with the right candidates, a message focused on economic growth anda surprise to somea clear pro-democracy appeal designed to woo the one-quarter to one-third of Trump voters who are Liz Cheney Republicans.

My opinion is based on nearly 40 years in government and politicsbut more importantly, it is based on the last eight months that I spent actively exploring a race for Tennessees 3rd congressional district.

I recently decided for personal and professional reasons that I cannot run in 2022. But through the testing the waters process, I discovered a path to possible victory in my east Tennessee district that should be replicable in many other similar districts around the nation.

The remainder of Hamilton County, suburban and rural areas outside of Chattanooga, accounts for another one-quarter of the district population: It is Republican turf and the home to the districts five-term incumbent, Chuck Fleischmann. And half of the district vote comes from all or parts of 10 other counties, the largest being Anderson County, home to Oak Ridge National Laboratory.

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Renewable Energy And Health Care Among The Sectors That Could Get Shakeup Due To Midterms

The 2022 midterm elections are already affecting Washington, and the results could shake up sectors such as renewable energy, health care and finance.

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+0.22%

As Democrats in Washington work to deliver on infrastructure spending and other priorities, theyre trying to make progress in large part because of a key event thats still more than a year away.

That event is the midterm elections on Nov. 8, 2022, when Republicans will aim to take back control of the House and Senate and become a more powerful check on the priorities of President Joe Biden and his fellow Democrats.

What leaders are thinking about, particularly since we have unified party control, is that these midterm elections are inevitably a referendum on the governing party, said Sarah Binder, a senior fellow in;governance studies;at the Brookings Institution and a professor of;political science;at George Washington University in Washington, D.C.

In that sense, shrinking time coupled with What is it that Democrats want to run on? it adds pressure on Democrats to get their priorities through the door.

Time is growing short, Binder said, because party leaders often avoid making their members vote on tough issues in the same calendar year as an election, since that can hurt incumbents in tight races. Party leaders often think primarily about what they can get done in the first year of a Congress, as opposed to counting on the second year, she said.

Sectors that could win or lose

Year

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