#my husband has never seen it and we're watching it and though I will defend it with everything I've got I am FLINCHING at some of the lines

[doverstar]

The Lion King II: Simba's Pride is so dramatic

[nitrateglow]

Favorite films discovered in 2023

2023 kind of sucked, but it was a fruitful year for me as a movie geek. I finally got around to seeing films that have been on my TBW pile for years now. I also gave myself a challenge that I actually completed: watch at least one film from every year between 1900 and 2023.

Anyway, I'll stop beating around the bush. Here are my top 20 favorite film discoveries in 2023. (The order is very, very loose from 5 on down. I genuinely had a hard time narrowing the list down to 20, let alone ranking everything.)

When a Woman Ascends the Stairs (dir. Mikio Naruse, 1960)

This well-regarded drama follows Keiko, a bar hostess who's just turned 30 years old. She has limited options as an unmarried woman in postwar Japan. Considered "old," she has to marry soon or scrape enough money to buy her own bar. With its jazzy score and first-person narration, When a Woman Ascends the Stairs has a noirish vibe but it certainly isn't noir at all. Though the film is tragic, what moved me so much was Keiko's character. She has a tough lot and her story is ultimately tragic, yet she is determined to keep going, even if life won't give her a break.

The Boy and the Heron (dir. Hayao Miyazaki, 2023)

Miyazaki's current "last film" is certainly his most abstract and puzzling. I imagine it'll be one of his more divisive titles in the years to come, but count me among its fans. While being "in the know" regarding the current state of Studio Ghibli and Miyazaki's 60+ year-long career in animation allows one to better appreciate the many allusions and themes within the film, it stands just fine on its own as a surrealistic adventure about grief and the power of art. Also, damn, I LOVE hand-drawn animation so much.

Black Cat (dir. Kaneto Shindo, 1968)

Kaneto Shindo's Black Cat is yet another confirmation of my feeling that horror pairs best with humor or heartbreak. While there are some morbidly funny moments, Black Cat is largely a devastating supernatural horror story about a young samurai who encounters two mysterious women in the woods, not realizing they are the ghosts of his murdered wife and mother. Even worse, they've sworn to kill any and all samurai they encounter, since their deaths were the result of raping, pillaging samurai-- but they remain human enough to desire an exception. I was creeped out thoroughly by the chilly atmosphere and imagery of this film. I liked it even better than Shindo's Onibaba and that was one of my favorites from 2022!

Malcolm X (dir. Spike Lee, 1992)

I usually dislike big movie biopics for being stuffy and formulaic. Malcolm X avoids both of these issues. Directed to the hilt by Spike Lee, this film is passionate and compelling, about as far from a stuffy Oscarbait biopic as you could imagine. Also, Denzel Washington is AMAZING in the titular role. Like, we're talking one of the best performances I have ever seen because not only is Washington convincing as Malcolm X, he also perfectly portrays his arc from zoot-suited young criminal to uncompromising activist leader. I was absolutely mesmerized the entire time-- it's a long movie that never feels its length and I'll definitely be revisiting it in the future.

The Kiss Before the Mirror (dir. James Whale, 1933)

James Whale’s horror movies are listed among the finest 1930s cinema had to offer, but his other works remain woefully overlooked. The Kiss Before the Mirror is a strange marital drama set in a dreamlike interwar Vienna. A lawyer defending a murderer who shot down his cheating wife comes to discover his own wife in the midst of a casual affair. Will this discovery lead to another killing? Despite the lurid plot elements, Kiss is closer to Kubrick’s introspective Eyes Wide Shut than a typical 1930s melodrama. Both husband and wife are complex characters struggling with destroyed illusions, making the story a hell of a lot more complex than you'd expect.

Five Miles to Midnight (dir. Anatole Litvak, 1962)

I am so glad I ignored the meh reviews on this one because I would have missed out on one of the best thrillers I've seen in years. Sophia Loren is a woman desperate to shake off her narcissistic, abusive husband played by Tony Perkins. When Perkins is wrongly believed dead in a plane crash, he hides out in Loren's apartment so they can collect the life insurance money, split the funds, then part amicably. This being a Hitchcock-style thriller, it doesn't work out that way. What sells the film is the psychological cat-and-mouse game between Loren and Perkins's miserable, mismatched married couple, and a noirish sense of doom lends a great deal of atmosphere.

Shoes (dir. Lois Weber, 1916)

Shoes is the best Lois Weber film I have yet seen and it still packs a wallop a century-plus since its initial release. Mary MacLaren plays a young woman single-handedly supporting her family on a five dollar a week salary. She wears shoes that are falling apart but can never seem to save enough for a new pair-- that is, until an unsavory way of getting the cash presents itself, much to her horror and temptation. This is a heartbreaking little film that showcases a lot of what I love about 1910s American cinema. There's less glamor in the settings and nothing at all genteel or cleaned up about the poverty on display. MacLaren is wonderful in the lead too, her performance a quietly compelling portrait of quiet desperation.

Jeopardy (dir. John Sturges, 1953)

Barbara Stanwyck was in such a wealth of films that I can forgive myself for not realizing this one even existed. After seeing it, it's easily in my top five favorite films of hers. On the surface, the plot sounds like fodder for sleazy sex fantasy: a housewife on vacation is kidnapped by a hot escaped convict. She's racing against time to save her husband from drowning after the tide comes in at the beach where he's trapped; the convict has a very specific price for any aid he's willing to offer. Stanwyck's characterization complicates the situation and the direction amps the tension to a breaking point. Great, great stuff!

Girlfriends (dir. Claudia Weill, 1978)

This film came across my path in a weirdly personal way. One of my sisters got engaged this year. We've been close all of our lives and shared an apartment for years, so this is going to be a big change for both of us. Girlfriends is about a young woman whose best friend is getting married, meaning she'll be on her own for the first time. In addition to making this adjustment, she's a photographer currently hired for weddings and bar mitzvahs, but dreaming of entering the larger world of art galleries. I guess you could say it's a 70s version of a quarter-life crisis film (Noah Baumbach's Frances Ha takes A LOT from it). The performances and direction are exceptional, having that unglamorous, lived-in vibe I love about the films of this period. It also just happened to come into my life at the most resonant time, so there's that.

Ivan the Terrible, Parts One and Two (dir. Sergei Eisenstein, 1945 and 1958)

As a person who hates the idea that realism is the only valid form for cinematic drama, Eisenstein's hyper-stylized Ivan the Terrible movies are a joy. The compositions are like something out of a painting, the acting is operatic, the writing mythic and sweeping. The dance number in Part II is one of my favorite scenes in any movie ever. Best of all, the films rise above their propagandist origins, becoming a fascinating study of institutional power set against individual charisma.

The Red Queen Kills Seven Times (dir. Emilio Miraglia, 1972)

I've been getting more into giallo lately and The Red Queen Kills Seven Times is among the more memorable titles. You have the fashion world setting, a disguised murderer running around in a red cloak, over the top kills, a villainous junkie who looks like Bucky Barnes, a spooky castle with death traps, the works. It's a movie where I don't really care too much about the plot. It's the off-kilter, sinister atmosphere that draws me in, as with most giallo movies.

Little Miss Sunshine (dir. Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris, 2006)

It took Alan Arkin dying for me to finally get around to seeing this much beloved 2000s gem. I expected to only be interested in Arkin as the drug-addled, foul-mouthed grandpa, but the entire movie is so warm-hearted and hilarious that I fell in love with it whole hog. The characters are all quirky without being Quriky (tm), if you know what I mean. And I love the final message about just living your life and not worrying about whether or not you're "successful" in the eyes of society. An old theme to be sure, but done so, so well here. (Also, the mercilessly satirical jab at child beauty pageants is pure gold.)

Pom Poko (dir. Isao Takahata, 1994)

I feel like a lot of western anime fans only see Pom Poko as "lol that movie where the tanuki have comically oversized testicles." And yeah, that is indeed something in this movie but there's so much more. It's one of the boldest films I've ever seen, an "animated documentary" (to use Takahata's words) about a village of tanuki waging war against humankind's encroachment upon the natural world. It's such a genre grab-bag, critic Daniel Thomas' description fits it best: "The story weaves through slapstick comedy, social commentary, satire, surrealism, and tragedy. It changes moods much the way the tanuki change form, bending and molding into a new shape, and relentlessly moving forward." I still think Only Yesterday is Takahata's best film, but Pom Poko is strong competition and yet another film I can see myself rewatching many times to come.

Bullet Train (dir. David Leitch, 2022)

I still kick myself for not seeing this in the theater when it came out. Bullet Train is a wonderful lark of an action film. On first watch, I recall thinking it was like a live-action anime shot in a very Tarantino-esque style. I've seen it a few times now and I enjoy the hell out of it every time. And if you don't like it, well, you just might be a Diesel.

That Cold Day in the Park (dir. Robert Altman, 1969)

Another film with a so-so reputation that I really enjoyed. Sandy Dennis (who's gradually becoming one of my favorites with every performance I see from her) plays a virginal rich woman who takes in a handsome young guy one cold day. Her initial kindness quickly curdles into erotic obsession and her house guest has his own secrets. It's an early Robert Altman film and not his most polished work, but that makes it all the more fascinating to me. It's a creepy psychological thriller with a haunting ending, as well as an interesting time capsule of the late 1960s.

Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (dir. Russ Meyer, 1965)

Where has this movie been all my life?? It's a bizarre campfest about three criminally minded go-go dancers who romp across the California desert, strewing all kinds of havoc in their wake. It's such a strange movie that I don't know how to describe it properly: it's got a New Wave sensibility to it all the while indulging in exploitation B-movie nonsense. Definitely a fun film to watch with a group.

Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (dir. Chantal Akermann, 1975)

I finally bit the bullet to watch this one after it topped the 2022 Sight & Sound list. Do I think it's the greatest film of all time? No, but I don't like singling out any work of art for such a designation. Putting aside all the drama that ensued when this was granted GOAT status, Jeanne Dielman is a striking film. It's definitely not something you just throw on casually-- you need to set aside the time to watch it and be in the right headspace. My initial mild interest morphed into a sense of anxious dread as the film ground along its three hour runtime, its protagonist struggling to retain her total sense of self-possession and control as she's thrown off her groove by unexpected events.

The Wicked Lady (dir. Leslie Arliss, 1945)

This is not high art by any means. It's melodrama with a capital M, laying the cheese on thick. Margaret Lockwood plays a devious, scheming femme fatale in 18th century England who's a gold-digging noblewoman by day and a highwaywoman cavorting with bad boy James Mason by night. This is easily the most entertaining of the Gainsborough melodramas I've yet seen, dripping with soap opera antics, sumptuous costumes, and camp-a-plenty.

War and Peace (dir. Sergei Bondarchuk, 1966-1967)

There is no substitute for reading Tolstoy's massive novel, but this 1966 Soviet version is definitely a fine work in its own right. Filmed in three parts, it's about nine hours long and it does a good job capturing the interior lives of the characters in the source material. Everything about it is just breathtaking: the costumes, the sets, the massive numbers of extras during those battle scenes. It's the kind of intellectually and emotionally stirring epic that makes all those hours fly by.

The Sweet Smell of Success (dir. Alexander Mackendrick, 1957)

I often chafe when people act as though all 1950s American cinema were Leave it to Beaver wholesomeness and buttoned up repression. Some of the nastiest Hollywood movies I've ever seen came out of the 1950s and The Sweet Smell of Success is prime among them. Among the best of the late classic noir period, it follows Burt Lancaster as a popular but monstrous newspaper columnist who uses his power to control the lives of everyone around him, particularly his sister, to whom he has a borderline perverse attachment. The dialogue is as sharp ("You're dead, son. Get yourself buried." "I'd hate to take a bite out of you. You're a cookie full of arsenic.") and the cynicism as thick as the best of Billy Wilder. If you love noir, you can't miss out on this one.

What were your favorite film discoveries of 2023?

[thebookreader12345]

Anniversary

Pairing: Adam Ruzek x reader

Summary: It's Y/n and Adam's first wedding anniversary, and they want nothing more than to spend the night with the team

Requested: Yes, by anonymous

Warnings: slight swearing and hints at sex

Word Count: 1,367 Words

The smell of breakfast was what woke me up. The bedroom door was cracked open, and the delicious scent of blueberry pancakes wafted in from the kitchen. I stretched my arms above my head before climbing out of bed to see what Adam was up to. My husband was standing in front of the stove, humming to himself as he flipped the pancake that was in the pan in front of him. I made my way over to Adam and wrapped my arms around his waist, squeezing him softly.

"Good morning," I greet. "You're up awfully early."

"I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed," Adam countered. "But now you're out of bed, so I guess that idea is out the window."

"I appreciate the thought though, Adam. And you made my favorite," I notice.

"Of course I did," Adam confirmed and turned around to face me, pushing me back against the island that was right behind me. I was now trapped between Adam and the island, but I didn't mind. Adam then leaned down and pressed his lips to mine for a quick kiss. "Happy Anniverary, darling."

"Happy Anniversary," I return and pull him back down for another kiss. This one lasted longer than the last one, neither of us wanting to pull away. Suddenly, Adam slipped his hands under my thighs and lifted me up to situate me on the island. I smiled against my husband's lips, moving my own hands up to cup Adam's face. The feeling of his body pressed against my own and the way his hands grasped at my sides made me never want to pull away. But the scent of something burning hit my nostrils, and I distanced my lips from Adam's. "Adam? Do you smell that?"

"It's just the pancake cooking. Everything's good," Adam assured me as he kissed at my neck. It was then that I saw the smoke beginning to rise up from the pan on the stove, and the burning smell got even stronger.

"Adam, the pancake!" I shriek. Adam frowned, but when he turned around, he saw that the pancake in the pan was indeed burning. Quickly, he turned off the stove, and using a nearby rag, he lifted up the pan and set it in the sink, waving away the smoke.

"Okay, so this pancake is a goner," Adam admitted. "But the good news is I already made like eight, so we're all good."

"Imagine if you would've burned our apartment down on our anniversary," I joke.

"Ha ha. Very funny. That never would've happened," Adam claimed, and wrapped one arm around my waist to bring me off of the island and back to the ground. "So, what do you want to do tonight? Go out to dinner? Walk around downtown? Stay in and watch cheesy rom-coms? The choice is yours."

"What if we go out for lunch to your favorite sandwich place?" I pose. "Then we can spend some time downtown, maybe sit by the lake? And then later we can invite the team over for pizza and beers. I don't think any of them have seen the new apartment yet. That sound okay to you?"

"As long as I can get you in bed with me at the end of the night, I'm fine with that," Adam professed.

"Adam!" I laugh and smack his chest playfully.

"What? It's our anniversary," Adam defended. "If you think I'm not gonna get a little lovin' later...."

"Don't worry. You'll get plenty," I assure him. "Now come on. I'm starving. And the pancakes that you didn't burn smell amazing!"

....................................................

"I've got those," Adam spoke and grabbed the pizza boxes from the backseat of his Jeep before I could.

"Okay, then I'll get the beers," I say and head for the trunk.

"I can get those too," Adam insisted.

"Adam, you're not gonna carry the pizzas and the beers," I lecture him. "I've got it. Seriously."

"You shouldn't be doing any work on your anniversary," Adam said.

"It's your anniversary too," I remind him. "So we're gonna split the work."

"Babe!" Adam whined. "Why can't I just do one thing for you?"

"Babe, why can't I just do one thing for you?" I mock back as the two of us headed towards the apartment entrance.

Later that night, our friends shows up to the apartment one by one. Kim was the first person to arrive, which was no surprise. She was on time to everything. Then Jay and Hailey showed up, the two of them claiming they hadn't had a relaxing night off in a while. And shortly after them, Kevin came, giving me a bear hug and Adam a fist bump. So now us and all of our co-workers from Intelligence were sitting around the living room eating greasy pizza and drinking beer.

"Man, I cannot believe that you guys have been married for a year already," Kim commented.

"I know," Kevin agreed. "It feels like just yesterday Adam was having a nervous breakdown in the locker room over proposing to you."

"Hey man! It's terrifying, okay? Probably the scariest thing I've ever done in my life," Adam justified. "And until you've had to do it, I don't want to hear shit from you."

"You shouldn't have been scared though, Adam. I mean, we had been together for three years at that point, and we already lived together. I was gonna say yes no matter how or when you asked me," I tell him.

"I just remember the two of you walking into work the next morning, and just based off how the two of you were acting, I knew it had happened. I didn't even need to see the ring," Hailey claimed.

"And that was the moment I knew I had lost my best friend forever," Jay joked and took a sip of his beer.

I scoffed playfully. "Oh please, Jay. You could never lose me. I mean, sure, we haven't been partners at work in ages, but we manage to joke around every chance we get. Changing the subject, what do you guys think of the new apartment? I don't think any of you have seen it yet."

"It's amazing," Hailey remarked. "Seriously."

"And for only being here a month, you guys are all moved in. That's impressive, considering how lazy Adam is with that type of stuff," Kim pointed out.

"Hey! I am not lazy! I'm just slow to get things done," Adam corrected.

"Speaking of the new place, all of us decided to bring you guys something," Kevin announced and grabbed a bag from behind the chair he was sitting in.

"What! Guys, you didn't have to get us anything!" I exclaim and take the bag from him.

"We know, but we wanted to. Now open it," Jay instructed.

From where Adam and I were sitting together on the chair, we carefully pulled the tissue paper out of the bag. Pulling out the large item from the bag, I realized it was a frame. And inside of that frame was a picture from our wedding. Adam and I were front and center, and surrounding us were our friends and family. All of the Intelligence Unit was there, including Voight, and so was Adam's dad, Bob, and his sister and nephew. Then there was my mom and dad, plus my two brothers and niece. Intelligence was my second family, so seeing them standing alongside both me and Adam's real family was amazing.

"We know you guys have been wanting to get this picture framed for a while now but just haven't had the time, so we figured we'd get it done for you," Kim declared.

"This is awesome, guys. Thank you!" I chirp. "I can't wait to hang it up!"

"And I think I know the perfect place for it," Adam affirmed and stood up, taking the frame with him. He then walked over to the wall that the tv stand was on and held it against the large open space. "What do we think?"

"Looks perfect," Hailey piped up.

"It really does," I concur and stand up. "Adam and I really appreciate it, guys. You're all amazing. Now, who wants another beer?"

_______________________________

Tag List:

@prettypyschoinpink @securityfriendly-jay @scarletsoldierrr @lorenakaspersen @virtualreader @carnationworld @caitsymichelle13 @ncostin2001 @evangeline91 @just-arather-veryconfused-being @generalfarmmuffinagle @kaitlyn-marie-a @shywritermoon @jbbarnes212 @multifandom-loser @wanniiieeee @sesamepancakes @anotherfan07 @halstead-severide-fan

[sagevalleymusings]

Ted Lasso is an extremely subtle and nuanced show that we don't deserve and I'm going to defend a character I hate to prove it

So the series finale of Ted Lasso aired last night and I went out of my way to watch it even though I don't have a Hulumaxflix plus account, because I have utterly adored this whole season. I have seen a lot of disappointed fans and negative takes, even outside of the "it's woke now" brigade, and I disagree with pretty much all of the analyses I've seen so far. People are disappointed at the Tedbecca tease that never panned out, they're disappointed Jamie is talking to his dad again, they're disappointed all this stuff they wanted to happen didn't happen, tale as old as time. But I think the issue here is that Ted Lasso is written in the style of a daytime tv comedy while actually being an extremely heartfelt and pained letter to an abusive father that one of our writer was never able to send.

Co-creator and star Jason Sudeikis has gone on record saying the show is about bad dads. And we see examples of this all over the place. Some are more subtle than others.

But the problem with subtle shows is that you have a very wide audience to appeal to. I have seen and dare I say it even enjoyed both Primer and Groundhog Day. But trying to apply the time travel logic of the former to the latter just because they're both time travel movies would be folly. And this is how I feel about Ted Lasso. It has a lot of similarities to a style of show which is usually nowhere near this deep and it makes people expect something of it that it isn't providing. 

How do you know I'm not talking out my ass? Jack Danvers.

I hate Jack Danvers. We get a fucking lesbian for a change and she's an abusive cowardly closeted slut shaming piece of shit.

I love Jack Danvers. Because I knew she was 1) Keeley's financer and 2) a lesbian in under ten seconds of meeting this person, having seen only her shoes.

Jack is quiet and possibly even a little uncomfortable chatting with Keeley in the bathroom. But Keeley's so charming and open that you can't help but appreciate the quiet bonding moment it turns into.

But I've definitely been there. Women are so comfortable talking to each other in the bathroom and it makes me so uncomfortable. There have been so many times I have been made to feel unwelcome in this space and you want to have a chat...  Please go away.

Once it's revealed this is in fact Jack, it comes as a minor shock that Jack is a woman actually. Why is her name Jack if she's a woman?

It's because "my father wanted a boy."

Jack is one of Jason's "bad dad" characters. Which means her actions are a reflection of her childhood environment in a very pronounced way. Slowly but surely, we learn that Jack believes love is conditional.

Jack introduces us to the concept of love bombing and I think because the relationship progresses past that point, the audience is encouraged to forget this, but… love bombing isn't just new relationship energy. It's an abuse tactic. And we're told pretty explicitly that it's an abuse tactic because the person telling us about it is Rebecca, regarding her shitty and manipulative ex husband.

That Jack's relationship starts on this beat is noteworthy, because it sets up the dynamic that Jack believes she can only retain Keeley's affection if she buys it. Why does she think that?

Moving forward, we start to lapse into a false sense of security as Jack loudly proclaims their love in front of the whole office and is planning on showing Keeley off, only to have the rug ripped out from us the second something even slightly bad happens. 

But it isn't Jack's decision to make Keeley read out that apology and then pull funding when she refuses. Not if we're to believe Jack's word on it at least. It was "the board" whoever that is.

Jack peaces out to Argentina before the final shoe can drop, and it displays lastly an absolute cowardice on her part that she didn't even give Keeley the satisfaction of a break up. 

All of this combined makes me realize though that the sudden scrambling retreat is literally the other side of love bombing - we didn't drop that plot point just because we stopped talking about it. The motivations for both actions come from the same place. Jack believes love is conditional. She feels that she must earn Keeley's affection, and sees nothing wrong with withdrawing her own if Keeley doesn't do the same. And also, the actions of her partner reflecting negatively on her means that love can be withdrawn *from her* if she doesn't bow to pressure from those whose respect she's trying to maintain. 

The coming out moments in parallel with this lens are stark. Coming out to the office wasn't just about being open -it was about speed running earning Keeley's love and trust with grand acts of affection. And there are no consequences to coming out to people that far beneath you socially. Jack owns the HR firm that KJPR… might not have? Meanwhile her old college friend does matter. And when Keeley was a successful business woman to show off, that would have been fine. But now that she's part of a scandal? They're just friends. It serves her to come out to the firm in the interest of gaining Keeley's love, and it serves her to keep it hidden from her college friend, to avoid messy questions later that might make her look bad.

With her very name, Jack has been taught that there's a version of herself other people want her to be that she's incapable of reaching. And absolutely nothing we see from her suggests she's worked to unpack that trauma.

Jack is a minor character - a brief love interest in Keeley's life. But her decisions are deliberate and weighty. The good and bad moments are both informed by the same parental trauma, and the writers stick to it. They're true to character, even if it's "bad representation," even if it's not what fans want.

So let's talk about Tedbecca. I will reiterate that this show is about "bad dads" and more broadly about the ways in which who our parents are and how they raised us results in intergenerational trauma that's difficult to disrupt.

Ted and Rebecca are foils for each other. They both have absent fathers (eventually even they both have dead fathers) and they both have emotionally controlling mothers (more on that in a moment). They both are starting a new chapter in their lives because of a divorce, and family is an important component of that divorce. 

And they are both responding to their trauma, especially in early episodes, the way they've always been taught to respond to that trauma. Rebecca schemes vengefully while pretending everything is fine on the outside because she's been taught that the people in her back will not support her. Her mother put up with shitty behavior from her father for years. Then when her father left, her mother turned into a flighty unreliable hypochondriac. She doesn't want to allow Rupert the same power over her, so she reacts like a cornered tiger.

But at the end of the day, what she wants is a family, and in a lot of ways Ted can't give her that. Is Ted going to have one child in America and another in Britain and split his time between the two? Does that sound like the kind of thing Ted would be willing to do? Nor do I think it's what Rebecca really wants because her desire for family isn't just about having a child, but having a stable family unit to come back to, one she didn't really have growing up. Maybe you could see them hooking up, but by the time their relationship has progressed that either of them could have, they've both grown past the desire to do so. Tedbecca isn't endgame because Rebecca needs someone calm and warm and relaxed to come home to, in contrast to her childhood being a parent to her mother, or the cat and mouse dance with her ex husband.

But Ted isn't much better. We see that his father's suicide soured their relationship, but holy crap do I want to talk about Ted's mom.

In every single scene that Ted and his mom are interacting in right up to the blowout fight, she is guilting him into behaving a particular way. She says he "was born nice" but in reality it's obvious that he's extremely used to having to guess at what someone wants and bend his life around that. Ted's mom wants to visit him so *waits around his apartment* until he notices and offers her a place to stay. Ted's mom wants to sleep in the bed while insisting otherwise (but immediately starts having specific plans about what that means re: suitcases don't go on the bed). Ted's mom wants to go to the game and Ted doesn't insist she go, so she sends a text saying she wishes she were there. It is a relentless barrage of emotional abuse.

No wonder Ted is so sensitive to the lies she's telling people, also the whole time. How many fights have they had where he's done something because she asked him to, only for her to turn around and say "I never asked for that" and have that technically be true? And in fact we are explicitly told in the blow out that she responded to her *husband's suicide* by pretending everything was normal.

And then, finally, we get the truth. She's not there because she wanted to visit London (a thing she said explicitly which turns out was also a lie). She's there to guilt Ted into coming home by using his guilt over leaving his son. Is Ted… also a bad dad?

Ted's entire generous, forgiving personality was shaped by these two parents. One, who was a good man despite making what I would say is the only unforgivable act of selfishness, and the other, who is a manipulative woman who demands generosity from the people around her despite never overtly saying such.

Ted isn't just forgiving of Beard because of the guilt and anger over his father's death. He's also willing to go the extra mile for people because he thinks it's his job. 

Ted leaves for Richmond because his wife wants space, but in a lot of ways it's also an act of selfishness. After all, his ex wife says that she didn't want them to take a break, she wanted to know that Ted would fight for their relationship. And he doesn't - in fact he does the opposite. We now have context to know that asking for something without really asking for it explicitly is a trigger for Ted. So he sees what looks like the emotional manipulation of his mother coming from his wife, panics, and runs as fast and as far away from the situation as he can.

That Ted could never be in a relationship with his boss. Tedbecca isn't endgame because Ted needs a relationship where he can be selfish. 

And I think, genuinely, that all of this is intentional on the part of the writers. A relationship with Ted and Rebecca could never have been healthy, because they are the same character, but one of them is fight and the other is flight.

This show is so, so smart. And I think it's absolutely tragic how much of that smartness is missed because we aren't used to shows with this level of carefully crafted nuance. My god, the scene where Nate comes out of his room and the first shot is an all white hallway with absolutely no distinguishing features? My god. The flex of having the characters singing, and you can hear them walking off, Dani is literally getting louder as he gets closer to the camera! That's studio audio because their breathing doesn't line up with the dancing, but it sure sounds like it was recorded on a soccer pitch. I looked up the name of Keeley's form because I distinctly remember the last scene *not* saying KJPR and turns out in a blink and you'll miss it moment, she changed the name to KBPR to honor the fact that Barbara stood by her when Jack pulled funding.1

I could go on and on and on. There's so many moments where the writers just jam packed meaning and nuance to bursting in this show. 

In the "morning after" scene in the series finale, Ted is wearing a KC shirt, specifically a KC Current shirt, which is a women's professional soccer team. That says a lot all on its own for that being the shirt

In fact, Ted wears a lot of KC shirts on the show. He wears Richmond shirts… when he's at work. 

There's a lot more I could say, and maybe even will. I want to give the jamie/keeley/roy OT3 another look from the top at some point. But I just wanted to get something topical out quickly, because good shows deserve to be showered in praise, and I really think the negative publicity on Ted Lasso specifically is an absolute crime. We can't expect to see writers take a chance on something this detail oriented and nuanced again any time soon if we just skip all the nuance and get mad they didn't doll smash our favorite characters together.

[julemmaes]

Robyn

Rowaelin Month, Day Ten

A/N: I'd planned on posting them in order, but you get what you get. Idk when the other prompts will come tbf. I hope soon. Anyway, I managed to write over 6k words today and I'm pretty fucking proud.

This is just fluff over fluff, so yep enjoy!!

Word count: 3,047

Rowan was unbelievably late as he sped through the streets of Orynth.

So late that the school had called not only him, but also the front desk of the place where he worked when he hadn't answered the call on his personal phone. Sorscha, his assistant, had entered his office with an embarrassed smile on her lips, as if she didn't want to tell him that he had forgotten for the umpteenth time to pick up his daughter from school.

Lorcan had joined him, for some strange reason, but Rowan had stopped bothering when it came to his best friend. He'd been trying to figure out how he reasoned for years and had come to the conclusion that there was no logical sense in the actions of the man sitting next to him, who was currently singing at the top of his lungs to one of the songs on the Frozen CD - which much to the chagrin of both of them, had gotten stuck in his car radio months before, forcing them into hours of torture.

He would never deny that the songs were all quite catchy, but after the sixteenth time Rowan had had to listen to Let It Go at maximum volume, his positive opinion of the film had begun to waver.

As they pulled into the school parking lot, Rowan noticed with deep regret that the only cars still there were those of the teachers and school staff.

They both got out of the car, Rowan walking quickly towards the entrance while Lorcan dragged behind him.

He greeted the caretakers sitting at the entrance, who returned a big smile. A smile that grew even wider when his large, imposing friend entered a few moments later. He stopped to talk to the old ladies and Rowan walked down the corridor he knew led to Robyn's classroom.

He could hear muffled voices from inside the teachers' room on the left and the one he knew belonged to Miss Galathynius coming from the right. He looked out over the classroom, spotting the two people sitting at a desk.

As soon as his daughter saw him, her eyes widened and a huge smile flashed across her face.

No words. No "hello, daddy!" or "I missed you!" from the little girl.

Her teacher turned as she leapt out of her chair and ran towards him, hugging his legs and looking up at him. Rowan smiled at her in turn, running a hand over her hair that was shot in every direction.

"Hello, little bird," he murmured to her. The child's smile widened even more if that was possible.

The woman a few feet away from them pulled herself upright, crossing her arms over her chest and offering a sincere smile to the child, who hid behind his thighs.

Rowan was about to tell her that Robyn was shy with everyone like this, ready to defend his daughter's behaviour as he was used to doing in front of every adult, but he was beaten to the punch.

"It's good to see you, Mr Whitethorn," she said, extending a hand. Rowan shook it without hesitation. "Actually, I just wanted to write you a letter regarding Robyn," she continued, never taking her eyes off the little girl. "Nothing serious," she hastened to reassure him when Rowan grimaced, "quite the contrary. Robyn is remarkably good. One of the best in the class, though I shouldn't offer that information so bluntly."

Miss Galathynius winked at him, but he couldn't process what he'd just been told.

"Sorry, could you-"

The little hands clamped around his trousers tightened a fraction more and Rowan looked down, trying to figure out what was bothering his daughter, but then something happened that he hadn't even dared to dream about in recent times.

"You're here!"

The little girl broke off and ran away from him in less than the blink of an eye.

Rowan turned just in time to see Lorcan grab Robyn in mid-air, spinning her around as he brought her to his chest and showered her with kisses. The loud, incessant laughter that erupted from her seemed too much coming from that fragile little body, but he never tired of hearing it.

"Why hello baby!" said Lorcan laughing in turn, starting to tickle her until she begun to rebel and he was forced to let her slide to the floor. Robyn was still laughing at the top of her lungs and nearly fell to the ground as she squealed left and right, letting herself be pushed around by the closest thing to an uncle she had ever had.

When Rowan turned back to the woman, she was wide-eyed and her lips slightly parted as she watched the massive man dressed completely in black and the menacing face turn into a completely different person the second he had seen Robyn.

He chuckled, "I know, it's not every day you get to see a little girl be so comfortable with a brute like that."

Lorcan, who was listening to everything, looked him straight in the eye and without stopping smiling and playing with the little girl, mouthed to him to fuck off.

"Well, yeah. You caught me a little off guard." she confessed, still shocked to hear how Robyn was having a full conversation with Lorcan. They couldn't hear anything of what she was actually saying, but even just the fact she was talking to someone seemed to have Aelin unsettled.

She returned her attention to Rowan and let out a breath that sounded more like a giggle, "I've never heard her laugh before."

He nodded, blushing a little at the teacher's surprised but relieved tone.

"I'm sure the dean warned you about the problem she has," he said in a low voice. He grimaced at her poor choice of words, "I mean, not problem, but the difficulty she finds in interacting with people she doesn't know."

Liar, he told himself. Robyn hadn't spoken to anyone but him and Lorcan since the day Lyria had died. It wasn't a difficulty, but a response to the trauma that prevented her from speaking to anyone who wasn't part of her immediate family.

"I know, I know. We've been looking for solutions together." she informed him. "I give her a white board every morning. Come on, I'll show you." she turned to the desk they were sitting at earlier and raised the magnetic board, on which a few words were scribbled on. "I'll write here what she might need. Yes. No. I need to go to the bathroom. I'm thirsty. I'm hungry." she read, listing the various options. Rowan gaped. "We've only just started going over the alphabet for a second time, so she can't really read or write yet, as I imagine you know, but the little drawings next to each sentence help her."

She continued talking, but he couldn't quite follow.

The woman in front of him - aside from being breathtakingly beautiful - had done as much as she could to help her child with communication.

"Mr. Whitethorn-"

"Rowan. Please, call me Rowan." he said, clearing his throat once he realized how hoarse it sounded to his ears. Lorcan walked up to them at that point, still holding Robyn in his arms and positioned himself next to him, letting their shoulders touch in a comforting way.

"Call me Aelin, then," she smiled at them both. Then she made a small grimace, turning to Rowan, "I wanted to ask if it bothered you, that I sought a solution like that. Maybe I put her in distress, embarrassed her. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I wanted to solve this on my own. I really wanted to discuss it with you, with your husband too, to avoid misunderstandings. Maybe we could arrange a meeting."

He was about to tell her that she had given him the exact opposite of annoyance, that he had been more than pleased that she had helped Robyn this way, when her words finally registered.

Lorcan, beside him, had opened his mouth wide and his lips were slowly bending into a mischievous smile.

Rowan furrowed his brow, "I'm sorry, what?"

Aelin's smile seemed to falter. "A meeting? With you? To talk about how to handle the situation," then she shifted her gaze to Lorcan, "You're more than welcome to join as well. I didn't know Robyn had two dads, I apologise for assuming Robyn had a mum and dad. That was very rude of me-"

"I love this," Lorcan whispered, laughing in shock. He turned to Rowan with eyes that sparkled with amusement, "I would definitely be the top."

Rowan looked at him with an expression of complete shock on his face, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Robyn gasped, opening her eyes wide and bringing a hand to her mouth, pointing then to Rowan's.

"Yeah, sorry, love. I shouldn't have said the bad word." he apologised, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead. He turned back to Miss Galathynius, "I'm sorry to have to disappoint you, but we're not married."

"No need to lie, sweetie. I'm sure Aelin," he gave her a knowing look, "doesn't mind at all about our relationship status."

Aelin nodded, "Well, yes. That doesn't change anything. Mr..." she turned to Lorcan, searching for a name.

"Salvaterre."

"Mr. Salvaterre can still attend. The fact that you are not yet married is no reason why you cannot both be present at the meeting. You don't have to worry, we are a very tolerant school and if anyone bothers you, you can come directly to me."

A sound of sheer glee escaped Lorcan.

Aelin continued, "I mean it. I was pleased to see both of you today. I was also pleased to see Robyn smiling so much." she concluded, looking the little one in the face.

Rowan took a deep breath, bracing himself, "No, I meant, we're not a couple. We're not gay. He's her uncle."

The woman's blonde eyebrows shot up and a second later she turned almost as red as the dress Robyn was wearing as Lorcan shook his head muttering something very much like 'you're no fun', which made Robyn giggle.

"Why did you even get off the car?" he asked him exasperated.

Lorcan shrugged, "Because I missed my little bean, you monster." he replied, clutching Robyn to his chest. The little girl clutched Lorcan's shirt in her chubby little hands and Rowan huffed, shaking his head.

Aelin brought her hands to her face, leaning against the desk behind her. She shook her head, her face still hidden, "Oh, god. I'm so sorry."

Lorcan let out a dry laugh, "Don't worry about it. It was fun while it lasted." then he turned to Rowan again, who was still trying to recover from the idea of being involved in a relationship with his friend, "You're really no fun."

"Yeah, no fun dad." repeated Robyn.

Silence fell over the class. Rowan looked at her with wide eyes and blinked once, twice. Robyn was staring at him with a sweet scowl that mimicked so much that of the man who was still holding her, but Rowan couldn't get over the fact that his daughter had spoken while Aelin was still beside them.

He was about to talk, noticing how Robyn had started squirming in Lorcan's arms, when there was a knock at the door.

They both turned, Aelin peering over Rowan's shoulder, and saw the figure of a petite girl with black hair and eyes standing in the doorway, watching them with her head slightly bent to the side. She had a tag on her t-shirt that was too colourful to belong to someone who didn't work in a school with children, so he guessed she was a teacher herself. Besides, Rowan felt like he'd seen her elsewhere. Probably every day when he picked Robyn up from school, he said to himself.

"I know you're not supposed to eavesdrop but I stopped by earlier and heard you were a couple of dads," she said by way of introduction. "I just wanted to reassure you that the school is an extremely safe place. I'm the one who did most of the interviews with the parents," that's where they had met then, "and one of the questions that is asked is just about the tolerance of the people who will be attending the school."

Aelin watched her, remaining silent the whole time and putting on an amused smile, nodded, "That's what I was telling them. How tolerant the school is. They make such a cute couple, don't you think, Elide?"

Rowan turned to her, arching an eyebrow, silently asking her what she was doing. The woman, as if she could truly understand what he was trying to convey to her, nodded her head towards Lorcan, who Rowan only then noticed was standing weirdly, his eyes fixed on the woman in the doorway.

He grinned, deciding to take his revenge right away. "Oh, yes. Thank you so much for the reassurance," Rowan began to play along as well. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lorcan turn towards him, dropping Robyn to the floor, who made a disapproving noise at being dumped so suddenly. "We are happy to know that this school is a safe place for our daughter. And for us."

Elide offered him a blinding smile, "Good. I'm happy to hear that you are pleased so far. And I am happy that Aelin is the one who is taking your daughter's class. She's the best one here."

Rowan didn't know her yet, but he knew the thing Elide had just said could only be true.

"Well," she said again, giving them an apologetic smile, "I really must go now, but if you need anything, you can find all my contact details on the website. Have a nice day!"

Aelin and Rowan said their goodbyes, thanking her. Lorcan took a while to recover, but when he realised he was staring into empty space he ran towards the door, almost stepping on little Robyn, who was moved by Aelin.

"We are very much not gay, miss!" he shouted into the hallway. Aelin, now beside him and with a hand on Robyn's shoulder, cackled. With Lorcan's infinite luck, someone walked by just then and gave him a stern look. "Oh, shut up ma'am. I'm an ally. The best ally."

Rowan shook his head as Lorcan launched himself in pursuit of the poor teacher and burst out laughing when he heard him shout, "I'm not homophobic! I'm willing to suck someone's cock if I have to prove it to you!"

Aelin opened her mouth wide before bursting out laughing in turn.

Robyn, seeing both adults so happy, giggled too and Rowan bent down to pick her up. The little girl laid her full head of white-light hair on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

She was tired and Rowan really needed to get her home to sleep.

He glanced at Aelin and reduced his lips to a thin line, "I'm sorry about the commotion, I'll try not to bring him into the building again. Even if it means tying him to the seat."

The soft laugh she gave made something tighten in his chest. He frowned.

Aelin didn't seem to notice the effect she had on him, "Don't worry, Elide is crazy about fools like him. If he says the right things, we might start seeing each other outside of school too."

Rowan nodded, now too caught up in the thought of having to take Robyn home to focus on anything else.

They agreed on when to hold the parent-teacher meeting and then he grabbed Robyn's backpack, walking towards the exit.

He was thoughtless as he reached into his pocket for his keys and balanced everything else - including the girl - on his other arm, but when Robyn's hand brushed his cheek, he looked down and his eyes met their twins. Green against green.

"What is it?"

The little girl's voice never stopped making him smile. Each time was like the first time she had said dada.

"I really like her."

Rowan frowned, "Who?"

"Miss Aelin." she whispered, almost as if she was afraid they might hear her.

He smiled at her, "Yeah? You like her?"

"She's nice to me."

Rowan had to put her down as he opened the door and let her get into the back seats by herself.

"I'm glad she's treating you well, love," he let her know, buckling her in.

He hoped she'd tell him more about her new teacher, but like any kid her age, the topic of conversation couldn't last for more than four lines apiece, "Where's Uncle Lorcan?"

Rowan snorted, "No idea, little bird."

Robyn nodded, "Elide is pretty too."

And as if those words had summoned him, Lorcan appeared beside the car, making them both scream. He entered the car in a heartbeat and turned to his daughter, who was still settling into the seat. "Do you know Miss Lochan?"

But before she could answer him, Rowan had entered the car in turn and smacked the back of his head, which made the Robyn giggle, "You're not using my daughter as your wingman. Now stop it and buckle up."

Lorcan gave him a gentle push, before doing as he was told and for once he was happy he'd convinced him to do something.

Or at least, Rowan thought he had convinced him.

"What if I left you a note to deliver to Miss Lochan, Rob? Would you be up for it?"

Rowan knew, even without looking at her, that she was nodding emphatically.

Keeping his eyes on the road, he murmured, "Could you stop calling my daughter Rob, please? You'll give her an existential crisis."

Lorcan clicked his tongue against his palate, "Rowan, I'm not giving her a damn thing. We live in this new world, okay? Your daughter could be called Simon and still be a beautiful princess. Grow up and educate yourself before you talk shit."

"Aaaah!" shouted Robyn, "Bad word!"

Rowan sighed and shook his head, but still he was smiling.

This was his life. Had been for the past two years.

And he wouldn't change it for the world.

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[skywailer]

ahHHh could you do d/hr + "i mispelled an email to be your name & now we're penpals !! & actually hate each other irl" aka a 'you've got mail' type situation

this entire thing is just a really cute situation that turned into a 16 page situation, because i have NO CHILL

One-shot under the tab, but I like… I also put it on a03 to spare your eyes.

01:36 What book has you up so late?  Feels like something I should read.

Hermione is still grinning, ten hours after such a mundane message was received, and a little too promptly opened, on her AOL account.  Her cheeks are flourishing with all kinds of pinks and reds, and it’s absolutely embarrassing how she’s there, ten hours after the fact, after not replying - pretending to be asleep, what a ninny -, staring at this message.  In her office.  Her place of business.

“Oi, these documents aren’t going to sign themselves,” someone calls, and Hermione’s blush deepens the longer Harry stares.  How long had she zoned out?  Had she even seen him come into the room?  He looks like he’s been sitting there, collecting dust for eons.

“Sorry, I was thinking about how to reply to this…” She fumbles, and hastily closes out of the chat window.  “Very important email.”

“Oh, of course,” Harry says a little too certainly, with a little too much of a glint in his eyes.  The spark of mischief is intensified through his glasses.  He shuffles the files on his lap and places the cases of most importance on Hermione’s desk.  Pretends to not notice how Hermione’s noticed that he’s noticed something.  

It’s all very childish.

Her continuing blush, racing down the playground of her neck and chest is the most childish of all.

“Percy is really pushing to close the Stockton class action ASAP,” Harry continues a conversation Hermione had, in a way, been keeping up with despite her distractions.  She rolls her eyes and nearly stabs her pen through the stack of other, paying, clientele dear Percy wants them to focus on.

“My one pro bono,” she mutters, “I wonder why.”

Harry grimaces, eyes wide with sarcastic wonder as he leans back in the chair.  The leather complains enough for the both of them.

“It really is a wonder,” he replies, but his thoughts are already somewhere else, somewhere rather dangerous.  He adjusts his glasses, as though to get a better, clearer look at Hermione.  

“The real wonder, though, is what book kept you up so late?  Do you feel it’s something he should read?”

“Do those glasses give you x-ray vision?” Hermione snaps in return to the husky mockery of her private life.  Harry smirks.  This is, after all, his favorite part of the day: torment Hermione hour- the hour that never actually ends.  

As if it wasn’t his and his wife’s idea for Hermione to socialize more, to ‘put herself out there’.  Ginny was the one who’d made her AOL account while she’d been away in the bathroom.  She’s the only one who could think up the horrendous screenname: booksnob4life.

It’s a miracle anyone talked to her on that blasted thing.

“I wish,” Harry sighs.  “You just have a nasty habit of leaving your computer screen on when you go to the bathroom.”

Like wife, like husband.

“You rotten little-!”

“I was just doing my job,” Harry defends himself, arms raised and pleading innocent until proven guilty.  “Turning in the affidavit you needed, and there it all was.”

Hermione’s head is smack against the desk, affidavit stuck to her forehead, before he’s anywhere near done laughing.

“Who is this dashing i-object-to-idiots?”  Harry’s voice is too bubbly and sweet; this moment is obviously just too rich for him.  “He sounds devastatingly charming.”

She groans into the mountains of paperwork.  Suddenly, they look much less painful than before- when compared to this.

“He’s actually quite charming, intellectual and witty, and someone I’ll never meet - if Percy has his way.”

That grants her a snort.  She glares up from her slouched position; her back is already aching, and her hands itching to sort through the mess.  

“Please, this mound will be gone by three,” Harry completely disregards her moans.  Hones in on the nitty gritty detail: “So, you’re saying you’ve never met this guy?”

She frowns and sits up, corrects her posture and turns her attention to work, even if it’s the farthest thing from her partner’s mind.  “Exactly.”

His ridicule and peaked curiosity is reverberating off the walls.  “Have you made any plans to….?”

Hermione’s face is deadpanned, eyes dull with the blunt knowledge that: “We’re both lawyers.  You figure out that algebraic mess.”

She’s already turning to her computer, opening an endless stream of Word and Excel pages.  Anything to avoid that one beeping notification at the corner of her screen.  

“You haven’t even brought it up, have you?”

“No.”  Hermione doesn’t mean to sigh, but she does.

It’s rare: this feeling of disappointment and nervousness.  It only pays a visit when she thinks about this faceless, nameless person who’s she’s confided in for the last six weeks.  Who she wants to come face-to-face with, to see and hear in front of her, to not have to wait for her computer to connect to the internet before she can say hello to him.  

Who she equally is afraid of ever meeting, of having the ideal cruelly extinguished by reality.

She deals in laws of man and nature, and facts.  And that blinking little light on her computer screen is too artificial to trust.

“Well,” Harry replies, clucking his tongue as he stands up to leave; job done quite a while ago, and snark breaching his allowed, daily quotient.  “You should at least give him a book to read while he waits.”

He’s laughing again at the sour patch look on Hermione’s face, as if her love life - or complete lack thereof, is such a freaking riot.

That blinking notification is winking at her now, insistently begging her to “notice me, notice me!”  As if it isn’t constantly distracting her.

Hermione grimaces, thinking: maybe her love life is a freaking riot.  If she can’t even reply to a simple book recommendation out of fear of “the ideal”.

She opens up the AOL interface and stares at that message again, thanking any and all gods that i-object-to-idiots is not online to witness this ridiculously late, and pathetic response.

Pushing down the equally pathetic anxiety over literary scrutiny, Hermione takes a deep breath and types her reply.

22:15 You in court must be a sight.  Pitiful, really, the fool who goes up against you - this coming from personal experience.  In fact, I’m still licking my wounds from the last duel; is it really so wrong to love Jack Kerouac as I do?

22:15 I wish I could see you in action.

22:19 Actually, I wish I could just see you.

22:21 You know what- screw it.  Cup of coffee.  You and me.  Foreseeable objection completely overruled.  I want to see you.

“Objection!”

Hermione’s voice fills the courtroom twice-fold, but its inhabitants - especially Judge McGonagall - are quite accustomed to the volume.  The only one who seems bothered by it is the man standing opposite her; he is a smirk in a brown suede suit, reeking of wealth and privilege, defending the undefendable companies that seek to manipulate and exploit the disadvantaged populace.

In short: he is everything Hermione abhorrently opposes.  Abhorrently.  Did she mention: abhorrently?

“On what grounds, exactly?” Draco Malfoy drolls, his posture never once shifting away from the jury.  He just barely turns his head in her general direction, silver locks carefully smoothed into place so as not to stir when he does.  However, something about his demeanor has shifted.  There’s a tightness to the usually casual smile on his face - he always tries to work the jury with his disgustingly transparent charm - and something crackles to life in his eyes.  

He’s watching her intently, even if he doesn’t mean to.

She challenges his stare with one of her signature courtroom glares; quick, efficient, deadly as daggers.  It’s gone before a single eye in the jury can detect something amiss about the darling, if a bit passionate, lawyer.

Everyone in the room has lost track of how many times they’ve run this bit.

“Besides the fact that you have blatantly disregarded giving us any notice of this new witness?” Hermione shoots across the court, directly between Draco’s narrowed eyes. “You’re clearly now leading said witness.”

The only response this apparently warrants is the laziest of smiles.  Hermione catches a few jury members, men and women alike, melting at the sight.  She holds in her vomit.

“Your honor, forgive me if I was too much of a gentleman,” Draco responds gracefully, ducking his head down in an adamant, completely false, display of embarrassment.  “My witness is tired after a very long flight just to be here, and I’m simply trying to be helpful.”

Helpful.

Hermione’s nails dig into the case file in her hands.  She can feel Harry’s eyes drinking it all in, unsure whether to be amused or utterly frustrated; this kind of back-and-forth banter and jury-fondling has been going on the entire week at trial, and months before then too.  

Hermione’s feelings on the matter are quite settled: she hates this man with every fiber of her being; her very tolerant, open-minded, loving, I-see-through-your-bullshit-you-cunning-bastard being.  Hatred and these very qualities can co-exist.  Hermione’s determined for it to be so.

So yeah, she hates him.

Judge McGonagall doesn’t seem too easily persuaded either, and almost- almost rolls her eyes at him.  Hermione stills the unprofessional smile that this wrongfully encourages.

“Mr. Malfoy, being a gentleman entails knowing when and how to speak.  Talking a little less, and letting your witness speak more, would be much more helpful- don’t you think?” The judge responds calmly, if a bit exhausted by the ongoing banter.  She adjusts her glasses, but remains lax and leaning in her seat.  “Sustained.  Jury is to strike the last question from the record.”

Now that got the smile out of Hermione.  She’s grinning, a child winning the parent’s favor.  Her gloating becomes very visible when Draco’s carefully placed, fresh-pressed for company smile twitches, unnerved.  He seems to feel the happiness vibrating off Hermione in ridiculous waves because his steel eyes snap onto hers.  Positively glowering.  

She gets a sense that the hatred is mutual.

But either way, Hermione persuades her face to conduct itself professionally, and rolls her lips between her teeth to smooth them out.  To compose herself.  But she just hasn’t gotten this much joy from an opponent’s loss in ages.

Ridiculous as it is: she can’t wait to let her date know he has yet another fool to pity.

Perhaps it’s her giddiness to go, her impatience to meet a man she hardly knows, that makes today’s court appearance even snappier than usual.  She allows Draco no leeway with his roundabout questions, and shows no mercy to those on the stand.  She wants to close today’s testimonies as swiftly and efficiently as possible.

Harry has taken notice of the extra gasoline Hermione’s poured on her own fire.

“When was the last time you exhaled?” Harry mutters when she sits down.

“I told you, I don’t want the jury to siddle too long with his ‘experts’.”

Harry nods, his lips pursed in an odd twist of humor and affirmation.  “Right, the quickfire approach.  Has nothing to do with your rendezvous at 12 o'clock.”

Her eyes dart between the notes she’s scribbling down in a race against herself, and the opposing table.  Draco has yet to stand up and approach the prosecution’s first expert, is still calmly and lazily glancing through the file she’d been forced to give his legal team, his client absolutely at ease- slender form lounging as though he’s got nothing in the world to lose, and she nearly snaps her pen in two.

“Sure, fine, it has something to do with that.  But it also wouldn’t be so wild to want to keep today’s session back on track as much as possible.  So we can have recess at the usual time, but it would seem Draco,” the name comes out in a nasty little whisper fuming with frustration, “once again is playing games.”

She’s glaring daggers again, and he must’ve sensed at some point her increased urgency, because today he’s being exceedingly tedious; more so than per usual.

“To think, I once thought the law school rivalry would die a graceful death.”

That comment bestows upon him quite the incredulous look from Hermione.  She’s still got fireballs for eyes, and he nearly shrivels into dust.

“You know very well that’s not what this is, Harry,” she snaps, trying to keep the whisper low but Judge McGonagall is looking between both parties, and her watch.

“Mr. Malfoy, if you would so kindly hurry up,” the judge calls out, but Draco doesn’t even look up from the papers, and Hermione’s still stabbing into Harry’s psyche.

“We’ve been nurturing this case for years now, and then I find out he’s the one who takes up the defendant’s case?  His family name attached once again to Tom Riddle?  Don’t you dare belittle my issues down to a simple case of rivalry.”  

Her head is practically in flames at this point and it’s a blessing no one is seated in the first few rows behind her.  It’s a miracle Draco himself doesn’t hear.  How Harry hasn’t combusted is impossible to understand.

You’d think she’d be in a cheery mood, what with her date and all.  But it seems the first-time jitters are short-circuiting her patience and overall temperament.

“Your Honor, it would seem I need further time with these documents I’ve just been handed-”

That whips Hermione’s head nearly completely off her neck.

“Just handed?  I personally delivered that to your legal team a week ago.”

“Really?” Draco muses, a damn-near playful lightness to his eyes and voice.  “Strange, I only just got it now.”

It’s ten minutes to twelve, and Hermione is livid, and obviously that’s exactly Draco’s aim- he lives to see her explode in court.  He’s about to get a show.  “Your Honor, may I approach-”

“Your Honor,” he slides in, grinning at the judge.  “I feel now would be a good time for a recess.  If at all possible, could it be extended so I can get a proper look before my cross examination?  Clearly, the prosecution has been rushing to get their expert on the stand today, and now with this-”

“You know what,” Hermione takes a turn at being rude.  She mimics Draco’s smile and stands up.  “Your Honor, a recess would be lovely.”

Judge McGonagall looks like she was praying for the exact same thing.  She waves a hand at the both of them before they can say anymore.

“Alright.  Heaven knows I need one.  We will adjourn until two o’clock.  At that time, I expect both legal councils to conduct themselves with civility.  I don’t care for you two to be friends, but I care deeply about this migraine your squabbling has induced.”

With that, she drops the gavel and Hermione subsequently shoves all the paperwork at Harry.  Who grumbles something predictable and unintelligible.  Something Hermione doesn’t bother to snap back at.  It will take her at least six minutes to get to the coffee shop and fix her disastrous hair (it was fine now, but once it touched the outdoors…).  Not a second to waste.

And now she has two hours, instead of the measly one she’d expected.

Uncharacteristically bubbly and distracted, Hermione darts for the exit, only to slam right into the most dastardly obstacle.  Who smells like the men’s section of Macy’s perfume maze.

With a cosmetically injected smile, Hermione backs away from the tailor-made jerk in front of her, and unfortunately away from the small gate that separates her from freedom.  

“After you, Mr. Malfoy.”  She means to sound polite.  She sounds poisonous.

Draco is all thickly laid-on politeness, since the jury isn’t completely done filing out.  He’s a performer ‘til the end.  So, his smile only wavers just a tad, enough to let Hermione know, and only her, that he loathes her guts.

For everyone else, he takes a leisurely step back and waves a hand towards her one escape route.  

“No, I insist.  After you, Ms. Granger.”  He means to sound polite.  He sounds disgustingly sweet.

Not wanting to prolong the agony any longer, or chance an encounter with his chilling client, Hermione makes a break for it.

When she’s through the court doors, it’s like she’s opened a jar of butterflies in her stomach.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Ron,” Hermione flails, eyes glued in horror to her computer screen.  Ron doesn’t look up from the hellish paper sorting she’s chored him with.  “Ron, Ron, it’s blinking.  What does that mean?”

Finally, Ron decides this might just be a good enough distraction from his task and gets up from his place among the rubble.  He walks behind Hermione’s desk, where her hand is waving at him.  When he peers closer at the computer, thinking she’s having a virus attack - again -, Ron nods slowly.

“Right,” he murmurs,”that blinking little person means someone wants to talk to you.”

Hermione gapes.  “What? Who?”

Despite her outraged cry, Ron leans in and guides the mouse to that little person, and clicks.  “I-object-to-idiots, apparently.  Are you telling me you have an AOL account, but you’ve never used it before?”

He’s laughing at her, on the inside.  He knows better than to actually laugh out loud, this close in proximity to her talons.

Hermione scowls, and shoves his hand off the mouse.  “Your sister set it up as a joke.”

To that, Ron just shrugs.  He doesn’t make to return to his volunteer work.  “Doesn’t mean you can’t have fun with it.”

“I don’t want to have fun.  I have work to do.”

She hears Ron snoring at her mid-sentence, and glares at him.  To think, she’d invited him into her safe workplace, to obediently do her busywork for her.  And now he was revolting.  

“Do you really think I have time to bother with someone called ‘i-object-to-idiots’?”

“Hmm,” he mock-wonders and leans back in to get a better look at the horrible username.  She’s busy watching his thoughtful expression that she doesn’t notice when his fingers sneak around that hazardous mouse.  “I don’t know, do you, booksnob4life?”

There’s a click, and a ding! And Hermione’s stomach drops from beneath her.

Before she can raise her arms to swat Ron away, he’s backing out of her range, laughing hysterically while her computer makes some alien clucking sound.  She glances at the screen, petrified, as the notification comes: i-object-to-idiots is writing.

“Oh god, oh no.  He’s writing something.  What do I do?”

Her last encounter with a social life was… too long ago, she can’t accurately place a date on it, and God help her she’s barely ever interacted with the internet besides for research and school, and her ability to talk anything but law has shriveled dramatically these past few years-

“Respond, I’d hope,” Ron chuckles, and he’s not at all helpful-

There’s a gleeful swoosh!

“Oh, god.”

I-object-to-idiots wrote at 19:43 - A real book snob would never put the number ‘4’ in their username.  Actually, I think the ‘4life’ bit is a dead giveaway that you are not who you say you are.

Without any rational thought behind it, Hermione slaps Ron’s hand where it lies on her desk.  

“That’s exactly what I told Ginny!” She exclaims, oblivious to Ron’s painful yelp as he flinches away from her.  He curls his hand against his chest, regretting all of tonight’s decisions- starting with picking up the phone and not instantly hanging up at the sound of Hermione’s voice.

His mouth opens to encourage a reply from Hermione, but her fingers are already attacking the keyboard.  The grin on her face is the most earnest one he’s seen in weeks; her current caseload has kept her on a downward stress spiral.  

It was one of the reasons why Ginny had hatched this devious internet scheme.  Ron just hadn’t thought it would actually work.  

He scoots away and plops back down in the seventh circle of hell- determined to sort through the files while Hermione, finally, sorts through her personal life.  

Occasionally between rapid-fire typing, Hermione lets out a laugh or scoffs at something she’s read.  She remains this way most of the night, completely forgetting she needed to fax so-and-so this-and-that by ten, sharp.  She hasn’t had this much interest in the internet since she found out how to send mass emails.

She barely waves goodbye to Ron, and has to remind herself that she does have a hearing to attend bright and early the next morning- but before she can even type a goodbye-

i-object-to-idiots wrote at 23:01 - I’m extremely proud that I managed to distract you this badly, and for this long.  You have something to do in the morning, I’m guessing?  I should let you go?

you wrote at 23:02 - Am I to assume you didn’t have anything better to do?

I-object-to-idiots wrote at 23:02 - Better?  No.  But there is a closing statement I should be writing…

It’s a shame she can’t hear him, for she imagines he’s groaning.  And she wishes he could hear her laughing.  But it’s just a bunch of clicking.

you wrote at 23:04 - I should let you go, then.

He writes: Please don’t.  I’d rather save myself the finger cramps and just wing it.  I’m a pro at that.

Hermione’s hand hovers over the keyboard, biting down on a smile.  She mistakenly takes a peek at the time stamp next to his message, and sighs as she writes back:  I actually do have something to do in the morning…

He replies, “Oh,” and it’s like he’s sitting in her office, glump and unwilling to leave.  She has no idea what he looks like, but yet she tries to picture this stranger all the same.  There’s the outline of proud shoulders and he’s leaning back, leg hitched over the other.  Hermione’s sure he’d be wearing something impeccable but she can’t quite put her finger on the brand.  “Now why on earth did you have to go and plan that something?  Not knowing you’d encounter an intellectual on the internet tonight?”

“An intellectual?” Hermione barks, her swivel chair twists and drifts back in mock confusion.  “Where?”

Imagination is a dangerous business, especially hers, and it runs wild with assuming this stranger’s reaction.  He places a hand upon his chest, wounded severely.  “Ouch,” he sends across an immeasurable distance of intangible web.

It’s boggling to realize this conversation is being held both here, and somewhere completely unknown and unseen to her.  Moreso to feel like they were in their own space, unknown and unseen to anyone else.

The chair she imagines him to sit in creaks, his body shifting unwillingly, preparing to make his leave- even though he wasn’t ever really here.  “I should go, then.  You’ve abused my ego enough for one night.”

For one night.  Hermione’s pressed against her desk, probably too close to the glaring screen to be healthy at all, and it feels like one false scooch is all it’ll take to drop her off her chair.  In one night, a few hours really, she’s become invested in conversation with a complete and utter stranger.

Despite the little, insistent whisper in her head that this is a terrible idea, and she should really focus on work-

She types: Round two, tomorrow night?

And waits.

23:10 Of course.

The jar of butterflies has become a vortex- a portal, if you will, to a butterfly-infested dimension.

She’s sure there is one butterfly for every message she’s ever sent her mystery man, and at least double that for every message he’s ever sent her.  Weeks of confiding in anonymity to a stranger who couldn’t possible relate to her - yet did - swirl around in her chest.  Suddenly, every conversation is replayed in her head: every Sunday banter about each and every overhyped, politically distressing and underrated novel clashed with late night confessions.  The ones she’d never tell her friends: about how maybe her job has in fact consumed her, and how maybe she hadn’t realize how much of herself she’d have to give- how much she was willing to.  He assured her, continues to in her mind, that yeah, it’s selfish but it’s okay to want to take a break from ‘doing good’ and just ‘do you, relax, have a day to yourself, have a way to define yourself outside of your job.  Have a life.’

She wants to, she does, but the more she waits on life, the more she just wants to run back into her office.

Hermione clutches a searing cup of coffee in her hands, using the nagging nerves in her palm as a distraction from her ticking watch, from the crowded, humming room and the thump-thump-thumping of her heels against the stool she’s sitting on.  The barista keeps glancing at the furniture, certain this extremely caffeinated customer has stabbed two holes into the stool pegs.  Unfortunately, Hermione is not at all caffeinated.  She wishes that was her excuse.  It’d be more of the usual, and less of the absolutely absurd.

But no, the insanity continues.

There’s a quiet, almost indignant touch of expensive shoes to linoleum floor, and Hermione knows better than to look over her shoulder.  She knows who it is before he opens his mouth to say something witty-

“Could you please?” She mutters with a quick flutter of the hand, shooing the pest away.  Draco Malfoy is just getting comfortable, sliding into the one free stool the room has to offer.  It’s supposed to be for someone else, but he obviously doesn’t know this, or care, from his complete lack of mobility.

He’s staring down at the book on the counter with a great deal of shock and curiosity, and Hermione is quick to snatch it away and place it on the other side of her.  He still looks baffled, and is not in anyway moving.  So, she clarifies her reason for not wanting him around this time, and stares him down all the while.  Despite the redness nipping at her ears.

“I’m meeting someone.”

His stunned expression lingers, eyes observing her for a moment too long for her comfort, but she refuses to back down.  

Now Draco’s frowning; the kind of face he’d make if he heard one of his clients had passed away before paying his legal fees.  

He opens his mouth, but hesitates; lips twisting this way and that, as though struggling to form coherent words.  Her request is that stupefying.  “This is the one coffee shop with decent roasts, within walking distance,” he finally says, the words coming out slow and dubious, “and you want me to give it up because you are ‘meeting someone’?”

“Yes.”

“Well this is the only seat available, I’ve been standing all day, and I don’t care,” Draco briskly states, and it feels like he’s actually cemented his ass to the stool; posture perfected from years of practice (he used to slouch like a humpback whale in school), hands firmly planted to the counter, eyes determined to look out the window.  He didn’t even have a coffee in hand, and Hermione is pretty sure he’d make the barista deliver it to him herself.

“Figures,” she mutters bitterly, and takes a sip from her cup- just to keep from spouting years’ worth of bitterness.  

At least his arrival has extinguished all the pesky butterflies in her chest.  

“I never took you for someone who’d go on a blind date.”

Hermione nearly spits onto the counter.  Instead, she manages to somewhat gracefully swallow her coffee.  She keeps her eyes out the window, watching strangers brush shoulders and never speak.  Draco does the same.

“Who says I’m on a blind date?”

She hears him chuckle lightly, and she’s always hated the sound; it’s sincere, and reminds her of a time when- No, no.  It didn’t do to think about then.  It only served to disappoint her when she remembered now.

In the midst of her thoughts, Draco’s become animated and he’s pointing at the biography she snatched away from him.  “You always take your coffee to go, but here you are, sitting close to the door, meeting someone but not scouting for that someone’s arrival.  Interesting.  Except, of course you wouldn’t be, because you don’t know what he or she looks like.  To top it all off, you read that book a few weeks ago.  You can’t possibly be rereading it, so you’re using it as a token for the person to identify you by.  A blind date.”

Skin tingling with a good deal of embarrassment and annoyance, Hermione takes another sip of her coffee to soothe her nerves.  But she can feel Draco watching her expectantly, waiting for validation.  She glances over at him and raises an eyebrow in challenge.  “Are you expecting applause?”

His lips go topsy-turvy, and he’s smiling in a way that’s nowhere near the falsities she’s used to.  This isn’t a show Draco’s putting on for a crowd to appease or convince them.  It’s not the one he practices in the mirror before greeting another smoke-clogged, greed-driven client or entering another ghastly and cold meeting at his father’s firm.  It’s the lopsided smile of a young student she used to know, who was amused by her ability to amuse him.  When they weren’t at each other’s throats.

“A ‘bravo’ will suffice,” he replies, and the mood is uncomfortably different than what she’s used to.  The hostility of the courtroom had become second nature to her, almost a second home.  This camaraderie was completely foreign ground.  At least, now it was.  

Five years ago, it wouldn’t have been so strange to see Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger seated next to each other with a cup of joe.  Practicing a mock trial they’d play out later that evening in class, swapping notes on the case their professor had them studying together, or arguing about the ‘favored’ results on one of their exams.

In law school, they hadn’t hated each other as much as they did now.  It was, as Harry had put it, more of a rivalry than anything.  And sometimes, their combative natures were fun to play off of, to bond over when they were mentally and physically wiped.  But then-

“Why the nerves?”  He asks, and for once it isn’t to tease her before a session or in front of a client.  

Hermione sighs into her cup, watches the aromatic steam dance away from her and kiss the windowpane.  

“I’m afraid he might be too ideal,” she confesses, her brain foggy like the glass in front of her.  She shouldn’t be confiding in her opponent, but the coffee beans smell nostalgic of late night study runs and lazy libraries.

Draco’s whole face seems to be shocked by that, and the muscles pull back in confusion.  “And you’d rather he wasn’t?”  

Hermione groans and puts down the coffee, twists in the stool to turn away from, and then towards Draco.  She’s incapable of making up her mind on him, on this subject, and it’s terribly bothersome.

“Yes, and no,” she offers to Draco’s furthered confusion.  She rolls her eyes, mostly at her own incompetence, and runs a frustrated and firm hand through her curls.  Another horrible decision on her part; she can feel the curls multiply and frizz.  So much for fixing it up.

It says much about her worry over the ‘ideal’.

“I have an image in my head of who he is, and if he isn’t… It’s hard to get past what your mind builds up.  But… if he is, if he’s exactly who I pictured him to be, and he’s as close to perfect for me as they come,” Hermione’s blabbering, and she knows it, but she can’t stop it now.  She sighs.  “That just means I get to ruin it.  As I always, inevitably do.”

“You’re that bad at dating?” He’s scoffing, and it’s meant to be playful, but Hermione is quite serious when she eyes him.

“Yes, actually I am,” she replies, deadpanned, “because I’m dedicated to my job.  And not many relationships can withstand it.”

Draco’s teasing smile falters the longer her eyes remain steady and stoic.  She’s no fun like this.   And he knows she can be fun.

“But he’s-” Draco’s mouth lags behind his words and he shakes his head, frustrated.  “What’s his profession?  Do you know?”

“Of course, I know,” Hermione shoots back defensively, simultaneously begging he doesn’t ask for a name.  “He’s a lawyer.”

“Then he’ll understand.”  He says it like it’s case closed, settled business.  It says much about how little he knows of her personal file.  She’s actually laughing at him, stunning him again for the millionth time that day.

“And so what if he does?  I’ve dated within my profession before, and it doesn’t work out either.  Not the way I want it to.  My private and public life are built in two completely different fashions.  It’s impossible to maintain them both, and maybe I don’t want to…” Hermione trails off, something in Draco’s eyes catching her unhealthy interest; she realizes he’s really paying attention to her, not tuning her out as he’s prone to doing in court (though he swears he’d never).  He’s intent to discuss with her the intricacies of her private life, “and I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Isn’t it nice to talk about something other than work, for once?”  There’s a sad hint in there of ‘like before?’ that Hermione isn’t lost on.  And that’s the dangerous bit, really, because it almost pulls her in again, almost makes her forget:

Draco Malfoy has done this before.

“No, it’s not nice, actually,” and Hermione’s words are bricks building a wall between them.  A wall she should’ve never brought down in the first place.  Not again.  The last time she’d done it, it had cost her dearly in court.  And as he full-well knew: “My work is my life.  Other people’s lives.  It’s the only thing worth talking about, especially around you.”

The look on his face tells Hermione he takes her comment as he should: personally.  Draco’s smile is scorched from his face, and he’s clearing his throat against ash, his gaze severe.  “I take the cases that are put on my desk, same as you.”

“No, you choose them,” Hermione rejects his excuses; this imagined scenario where he has no choice.  “You always have, Draco.  Your father may own the firm, but you own yourself.  At anytime, you could’ve walked away and done some good.  You know I gave you a chance to.  But instead, you’re defending a company- a sick, sick man who intentionally-” Draco opens his mouth, but Hermione’s hand shoots up to stop the nonsense- “intentionally poisons the water and pretends not to notice when it irreversibly damages, ends lives.  You and your father have been defending Tom Riddle for years now, by choice.  You chose this case, as did I.  And if I can’t see that man behind bars for what he did, I sure as hell am going to get him for all he’s worth.”

Hermione thinks she’s done ranting, turns back to the pedestrians beyond the glass, glaring at an innocent passerby, but she’s still got something angry and bubbling inside her where butterflies once were.  

“I once thought you wanted the same.”

Whatever that something is, it’s still bubbling.  But she decides she’s done and focuses on the now lukewarm coffee in her hands.

The coffee is cold when Draco finally speaks up, ten minutes to two o’clock.

“Seems your date stood you up,” he says blandly after clearing his throat of something that’s been lodged in there for two hours now.  She doesn’t even know why he’s bothered to stay in awkward, hostile silence next to her.  She doesn’t know why she’s disappointed to see him go.  

She does know, however, why her stomach has turned to concrete.

“I’m sure something came up,” she replies, and it’s pathetic because it’s mostly something she says to comfort herself and not him- because why would he care?  If anything, he should be gloating that her personal life has, yet again, been a no-show.

Strangely enough, Draco looks as distraught as she feels.

He takes his leave, but she lingers.  After all, it only takes six minutes to walk back to court.

She ends up two minutes late.  She’s never late.  At least, not before him.  Yet Draco is devoid of any snide remarks, and Harry’s more bothered by the look on Tom Riddle’s face, so Hermione doesn’t think too much of it until she’s home.  Until she’s home and seated at her computer, staring at the little blinking notification at the bottom of her screen.

Someone wants to talk to her.

For a moment, she thinks of ignoring him, of sitting on the couch and taking a moment for herself.  But then she realizes she’s only thinking of relaxing because of his short, fleeting influence on her life.

So.  Hermione gives into the blinking light and reads:

16:34 I’m so sorry.  Something came up at work, and I couldn’t make it in time.

16:40 No, that’s a lie.  I shouldn’t have said that.  I should be honest.  So, I’ll try, even if I’ve gotten very good at the lie.  I stood you up.  There are nicer ways to put it, that put me in a better light, but I want the light to be as plain and real as possible.  I stood you up.  I was the worst kind of coward because I’d made it to the door, I’d made it inside, but I couldn’t reveal myself to you.  

16:41 You see, I’m afraid I’ve painted myself in a very particular pallette of colors that creates an ideal image, rather than a real human. And you deserve something, someone real.  So, I still want to meet you, so badly, but not until I’ve proven myself to be flawed and ridiculous and real, and you’ve decided I still deserve your time.  

16:42 Of course, you might be ignoring these messages completely because I, again, stood you up.  I should probably stop typing that, but it’s the truth and you probably already knew that and are ignoring me.  But I’ll keep messaging you, because I’m stubborn and selfish, two traits you should definitely know about me.  So yeah, I’m really hoping you don’t think I’m completely spineless by the end of this, and will give me a chance to prove that I’m more than a waste of words on a screen.

16:42 I’ll stop typing now.

The glow from her screen is soft and warm, and the now cozy, familiar sound of talking keys fills her small apartment.  There’s a click, and a swoosh! and she’s written:

I can’t wait to meet you.