#nine years of French and preparing to be told I’m at that low of a level.

[cosmo-spams]

god I’m shaky today

[youknow-igetit]

A playlist for our favorite mafia sports gays. songs and the meanings below the cut

1. sex - EDEN

‘Cause you said it meant nothing And I should’ve kept my silence But I guess I’m too attached to my own pride to let you know That all these words meant nothing And I’ve always been this heartless And we’re just having sex, no, I would never call it love But love Oh no, I think I’m catching feelings And I don’t know if this is empathy I feel

“This,” Neil flicked his finger to indicate the two of them, “isn’t worthless.” “There is no ‘this’. This is nothing.” “And I am nothing,” Neil prompted. When Andrew gestured confirmation, Neil said, “And as you’ve always said, you want nothing.” Andrew stared stone-faced back at him.

2. Be Kind (with Halsey) - Marshmello, Halsey

I know you need, I know you need The upper hand even when we aren’t fighting ‘Cause in the past, you had to prepare every time, yeah Don’t wanna leave, don’t wanna leave But if you’re gonna fight then do it for me I know you’re built to love, but broken now, so just try I know you’re chokin’ on your fears Already told you, I’m right here I will stay by your side every night I don’t know why you hide from the one And close your eyes to the one Mess up and lie to the one that you love When you know you can cry to the one Always confide in the one You can be kind to the one that you love

“No one’s said a word to them since they said we couldn’t see you.“ Nathaniel’s heart skipped a beat. The heat that gnawed at his chest was an ugly mix of gratitude and shame. He tried to speak but had to clear his throat before trying again. “But why? I’ve done nothing but lie to them. I willingly put them all in danger so I could play a little longer. They got hurt last night because of me. Why would they protect me now?” “You are a Fox,” Andrew said, like it was that simple, and maybe it was. Nathaniel dropped his eyes and worked his jaw, fighting for a center he was quickly losing hold of.

3. I Think I’m OKAY (with YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker) - Machine Gun Kelly

I guess it’s just my life and I can take it if I wanna But I cannot hide in hills of California Because these hills have eyes, and I got paranoia I hurt myself sometimes, is that too scary for you? Watch me, take a good thing and fuck it all up in one night Catch me, I’m the one on the run away from the headlights No sleep, up all week wasting time with people I don’t like I think that something’s fucking wrong with me

“Trust you.” Andrew enunciated each word like he’d never heard them before. He laughed curled his fingers tight around Neil’s chin. “You lie, and lie, and lie, and you think I’ll trust you with his life?” “Then don’t trust ‘Neil’,” Neil said. “Trust me.” “Oh, but who are you? Do you have a name?” “If you need one, call me Abram.” “Should I believe that?” “I’m named after my father,” Neil said. “Abram is my middle name; it’s the name my mother used when she was trying to protect me from his work.” It was the name he went by at his little league practices so the coach would actually let him play. It was strange hearing it aloud when no one had called Neil “Abram” in eight years. “Ask Kevin if you don’t believe me. He would know.” “Maybe I will.” Neil waited, but Andrew didn’t let go. With so many people watching them Neil couldn’t lift his shirt. He did the next best thing and dragged one of Andrew’s hands under the hem. He pressed Andrew’s palm to the ugly scarring across his abdomen. Andrew’s eyes dropped to Neil’s shirt like he could see Neil’s marred skin through the dark cotton. “Do you understand?” Neil asked. “Nothing Riko does will make me leave him. We will both be here when you get back.” Andrew’s fingers twitched against Neil’s skin. “Someone lied to me. These ouches feel a little rough for a child on the run.”

4. Lover of Mine - 5 Seconds of Summer

Lead to where your secrets are Where we’ve been a thousand times Swallow every single lie Take all of me

When I take a look at my life And all of my crimes You’re the only thing that I think I got I right I’ll never give you away

“It’s always been ‘go’,” Neil said. He turned his hand palm-up and traced a key into his skin with his fingertip. He’d toyed with Andrew’s house key so many times he knew every dip and ridge by heart. “It’s always been ‘lie’ and ‘hide’ and ‘disappear’. I’ve never belonged anywhere or had the right to call anything my own. But Coach gave me keys to the court, and you told me to stay. You gave me a key and called it home.” Neil clenched his hand, imagining the bite of metal against his palm, and lifted his gaze to Andrew’s face. “I haven’t had a home since my parents died.”

5. Vowels (and the Importance of Being Me) - HUNNY

I was a queen last night I said “Take to the water” And let you drink my lies Like, “Okay, you’re right” You can’t spell pain or kiss Or run away or little mistake Without me, or A, E, I, O, U

“I’ll always have and be nothing.“ Andrew reached up and forcibly uncurled Neil’s fingers from his mouth. He pushed Neil’s hand out of the way and stared Neil down with nothing between them. Neil didn’t understand the look on his face. There was no censure over Neil’s crooked parents or pity for their deaths, no triumph over having backed Neil into admitting so much, and no obvious skepticism for such an outlandish story. Whatever this look was, it was dark and intense enough to swallow Neil whole.

6. BLUE - Troye Sivan

I can’t say no Though the lights are on There’s nobody home Swore I’d never lose control Then I fell in love with a heart that beats so slow I want you I’ll color me blue Anything it takes to make you stay Only seeing myself When I’m looking up at you

Nathaniel watched until the hotel disappeared out the window, then looked to Andrew and asked in German, “Can I really be Neil again?” “I told Neil to stay,” Andrew said. “Leave Nathaniel buried in Baltimore with his father.” Nathaniel looked out the window again and wondered if that was possible. He knew in a sense he could never really leave Nathaniel behind. Even if Stuart could talk the Moriyamas down, they’d all know Nathan’s child was alive and kicking. Nathaniel would always be a security risk to them. But the thought was thrilling and chilling in turns, and Nathaniel turned his hand over to consider his palm. He traced Andrew’s key into his skin with a bandaged finger. “Neil Abram Josten,” Neil murmured, and it felt like waking up from a bad dream.

7. Some Kind of Disaster - All Time Low

I wore the crown, I sold the lie I lived the life and paid for every crime, yeah It’s all downhill 'til it’s a climb Through blood and tears, but I don’t mind I’ll just keep singing on and on and on And it’s all my fault that I’m still the one you want 'Cause I’m a liar, I’m a cynic I’m a sinner, I’m a saint I’m a loser, I’m a critic I’m the ghost of my mistakes And it’s all my fault that I’m still the one you want So what are you after? Some kind of disaster

Andrew pressed two fingers to the underside of Nathaniel’s chin to turn his head. Nathaniel let himself be guided and said nothing while Andrew looked his fill. When Andrew dropped his hand and clenched it in Nathaniel’s hoodie, Nathaniel risked looking back at him. There was violence in Andrew’s eyes, but at least he hadn’t shoved Nathaniel away yet. That had to count for something. "I’m sorry,” Nathaniel said. Andrew’s fist went back, but he didn’t take the swing. Nathaniel knew it wasn’t because that was the hand cuffed to Wymack; Andrew’s arm actually shook with the effort it took to not knock Nathaniel’s head off his neck. Nathaniel said nothing to tip the balance either way. At length Andrew uncurled his fingers and let his hand hang limp from the cuff. “Say it again and I will kill you,” he said.

8. The Space Between A Rock and a Hard Place - 5 Seconds of Summer

Faded, I’m wrapped in your arms While you’re waiting to tear me apart With a last kiss, you leave me wanting more You, you’re a catch 22 Win or lose, I’m screwed I’m trapped under your spell It saves me, breaks me 'til I fall back to you You’re a catch 22

“You are a Fox. You are always going to be nothing.” Andrew stubbed his cigarette out. “I hate you.” “Nine percent of the time you don’t.” “Nine percent of the time I don’t want to kill you. I always hate you.” “Every time you say that I believe you a little less.” “No one asked you.” With that, Andrew caught Neil’s face in his hands and leaned in. Nicky’s drugged assault aside, Neil hadn’t kissed anyone in four years. The last girl was a scrawny French-Canadian who’d held him with just her fingertips and kissed like she was afraid of smudging her tacky-bright lipstick. Neil couldn’t remember her name or face anymore. He remembered only how unsatisfying the illicit encounter had been and how furious his mother was when she found them. That awkward peck wasn’t worth the punishment that had followed. This was nothing like that. Andrew kissed him like this was a fight with their lives on the line, like his world stopped and started with Neil’s mouth. Neil’s heart stuttered to a stop at the first hard press of lips against his and he reached up without thinking. His hand made it as far as Andrew’s jaw before he remembered Andrew didn’t like to be touched. Neil caught hold of Andrew’s coat sleeve instead and knotted his fingers in the heavy wool. The touch was a trigger. Andrew leaned back just enough to say, “Tell me no.” Neil’s lips were sore; his skin was buzzing. He felt winded, like he’d survived a half-marathon. He felt strong, like he could run another five more. Panic threatened to tear his stomach to shreds. Common sense said to refuse this and retreat before they both did something they’d regret. But Renee said Andrew regretted nothing, and Neil wouldn’t live long enough for it to matter. He hadn’t figured out which way to lean before Andrew pried Neil’s hand off his coat.

9. Medication - YUNGBLUD

You cannot pretend there’s no dirt on your shirt 'Cause that’s not how it works, that’s not how it works You try to perceive that you’re so squeaky clean But that’s not how it works, that’s not that’s not how it works

“I’m not going to apologize for thinking you’re being idiotic.” “Is your spine the spine of the righteous?” Andrew wondered. “Are you trying your best to step on my toes because you’re feeling the tragic weight of the holier than thou?”

10. Take Yourself Home - Troye Sivan

Talk to me There’s nothing that can’t be fixed with some honesty And how it got this dark is just beyond to me If anyone can hear me switch the lights I’m tired of the city Scream if you’re with me If I’m gonna die, let’s die somewhere pretty

“Don’t dismiss me for lying to you then ignore me when I tell the truth.” “This is not truth,” Andrew said. “Truth is irrefutable and untainted by bias. Sunrise, Abram, death: these are truths. You cannot judge a problem with your obsession goggles on and call it truth. You aren’t fooling either of us.”

11. Trouble Is - All Time Low

All that I know is I just can’t say no to you Funny how things never change All that I wanted was just to get over you Trouble is I can’t find a way You’re part of me

Andrew bit the question into the corner of Neil’s jaw. “Yes or no?” “It’s always yes with you,” Neil said. “Except when it’s no,” Andrew said. Neil put a plastic-wrapped finger to Andrew’s chin, guiding his head up for another kiss. “If you have to keep asking because—I’ll answer it as many times as you ask. But this is always going to be yes.” “Don’t ‘always’ me.” “Don’t ask for the truth if you’re just going to dilute it.”

12. Safety Pin - 5 Seconds of Summer

No more waiting, we can save us from falling This time, maybe this time We’ll safety-pin the pieces of our broken hearts back together Patching up all the holes until we both feel much better Deleted things, I really meant So now I’ll say the things I never sent

Neil remembered too well what it was like to say goodbye. He remembered what it was like saying hello again. A hint of Friday’s panic and outrage flickered in his chest, hot enough to burn the air from his lungs. He didn’t know what this thing between them was anymore. He didn’t know what he wanted or needed it to be. He just knew he had to hold on for as long as he could. “You are a mess,” Andrew said against Neil’s lips. “What else is new?”

13. My My My! - Troye Sivan

Spark up, buzz cut I’ve got my tongue between your teeth Go slow, no, no, go fast You like it just as much as me Now, let’s stop running from love Running from love Let’s stop, my baby Let’s stop running from us Running from us Let’s stop, my baby Oh my, my, my! I die every night with you Oh my, my, my! Living for your every move

Time was nothing. Seconds were days, were years, were the breaths that caught between their mouths and the bite of Neil’s fingernails against his palms, the scrape of teeth against his lower lip and the warm slide of a tongue against his. He could feel Andrew’s heartbeat thrumming against his wrists, a staccato rhythm that echoed in Neil’s veins. How a man who viewed the world with such studied disconnect could kiss like this, Neil didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to complain. Neil had forgotten what it was like to be touched without malicious intent. He’d forgotten what body heat felt like. Everything about Andrew was hot, from the hands holding him down to the mouth steadily taking Neil apart. Neil finally understood why his mother thought this was so dangerous. This was distraction and indiscretion, avoidance and denial. It was letting his guard down, letting someone in, and taking comfort in something he shouldn’t have and couldn’t keep. Right now, Neil needed it too much to care.

[newstfionline]

Saturday, February 20, 2021

One of Ten in U.S. May Have to Switch Occupations Post Pandemic (Bloomberg) One out of every ten U.S. workers—about 17 million, all told—will likely be forced to leave their jobs and take up new occupations by 2030 as Covid-19’s after-effects destroy huge swathes of low-paying positions in a labor market that was primed for disruption before the pandemic. “Covid is a big disruptor,” Susan Lund, a Washington-based partner at McKinsey Global Institute, the consultant’s research arm, said in an interview. The 17 million Americans are part of the more than 100 million people worldwide that the institute forecast will need to leave their jobs and enter new lines of work by the end of the decade. That will amount to about one in 16 workers in the eight leading economies covered by the study, which includes China, Japan, Germany and the U.K., as well as the U.S. In a more-than-130-page paper, the institute sees the pandemic accelerating three trends that will continue to upend the labor market in the years ahead: more remote work and working from home; increased e-commerce and a bigger “delivery economy;” and stepped-up business use of artificial intelligence and robots. The forces Covid-19 unleashed mean there could be a lot less demand for front line workers in food service, retail, hospitality, and entertainment.

Politics Is Seeping Into Our Daily Life and Ruining Everything (Reason) Is there anything that politics can’t ruin? The answer, it appears, is a resounding “no” as partisan conflict creeps into all areas of American life. Our political affiliations, researchers say, obstruct friendships, influence our purchases, affect the positions we take on seemingly apolitical matters, and limit our job choices. As a result, many people are poorer, lonelier, and less healthy than they would otherwise be. “Political polarization is having far-reaching impacts on American life, harming consumer welfare and creating challenges for people ranging from elected officials and policymakers to corporate executives and marketers,” according to a new paper in the Journal of Public Policy & Marketing by researchers from Arizona State University, the University of Wyoming, and four other U.S. universities. People’s partisan identities influence the range of people with whom they are willing to have relationships, the brands they purchase, and the jobs they take. The finding that everything is becoming politicized builds on a growing mountain of data. Even before political tensions hit their current fever pitch, a 2018 survey found that “Nearly two-thirds (64 percent) of consumers around the world will buy or boycott a brand solely because of its position on a social or political issue” (the number for the U.S. was 59 percent). In 2020, a separate survey reported that “83% of Millennials find it important for the companies they buy from to align with their values.”

Cracked Pipes, Frozen Wells, Offline Treatment Plants: A Texan Water Crisis (NYT) Power began to flicker back on across much of Texas on Thursday, but millions across the state confronted another dire crisis: a shortage of drinkable water as pipes cracked, wells froze and water treatment plants were knocked offline. The problems were especially acute at hospitals. One, in Austin, was forced to move some of its most critically ill patients to another building when its faucets ran nearly dry. Another in Houston had to haul in water on trucks to flush toilets. But for many of the state’s residents stuck at home, the emergency meant boiling the tap water that trickled through their faucets, scouring stores for bottled water or boiling icicles and dirty snow on their stoves. Major disruptions to the Texas power grid left more than four million households without power this week, but by Thursday evening, only about 347,000 lacked electricity. Much of the statewide concern had turned to water woes. More than 800 public water systems serving 162 of the state’s 254 counties had been disrupted as of Thursday, affecting 13.1 million people, according to a spokeswoman for the Texas Commission on Environmental Quality.

Texas Good Samaritans Are Helping Out Those in Need Amid Deep Freeze (Newsweek) From owners turning their stores into warming centers, to a mystery man handing out $20 bills to shoppers in Houston, when faced with a crisis that has left 24 in the state dead, and millions without water and electricity, Texans have instinctively turned to helping others. One such figure is Raymond Garcia of Houston, Texas, who, upon realizing he had no power at home, decided to use his time helping others. He has been visiting people in his local community, helping with tasks such as fixing burst water pipes. "I'm just trying to help the Houston community," he told ABC13. "If I can help anyone else in my close range I will.” Garcia said he was inspired by the teaching of his mother, who died recently from COVID-19. "My mom always taught me, if you help and you give to people, God will always bless you," he said. "And you know what, I've been blessed." On Thursday, Jason Spenser, the Public Affairs Director for the Harris County Sheriff's Office tweeted about another remarkable character, a man dubbed a food 'angel'. When electricity outages meant the Foodarama near 18th Street and Ella Boulevard could no longer accept credit and debit card payments, the unidentified man began handing out $20 bills to people waiting in the line. Spenser estimated the man, who did not want to be photographed, handed out a total of $500. In Elgin, Texas, Monica Nava, owner of the Chemn Cafe, put in a big order just before the storm hit. Rather than see perishable items go to waste, she boxed them up with shelf-stable good into care packages estimated to have a value of $25 each. She gave the packages out to in-need members of the community and asked for those who could afford it to pay a donation.

Biden repudiates Trump on Iran, ready for talks on nuke deal (AP) The Biden administration said Thursday it’s ready to join talks with Iran and world powers to discuss a return to the 2015 nuclear deal, in a sharp repudiation of former President Donald Trump’s “maximum pressure campaign” that sought to isolate the Islamic Republic. The administration also took two steps at the United Nations aimed at restoring policy to what it was before Trump withdrew from the deal in 2018. The combined actions were immediately criticized by Iran hawks and are likely to draw concern from Israel and Gulf Arab states. The State Department announced the moves following discussions between Secretary of State Antony Blinken and his British, French and German counterparts, and as Biden prepares to participate, albeit virtually, in his first major international events with world leaders.

The Cuba bet (Foreign Policy) Cuba may still become Latin America’s first country to design a successful COVID-19 vaccine, with Phase 3 trials on one of its four vaccine candidates set to begin next month. If the shot performs well, it is expected to be exported to other Latin American nations. Cuba and Iran are partnering on Phase 3 trials of the Soberana 02 vaccine, and Mexico is exploring carrying out a Phase 3 trial as well.

It’s mud, mud everywhere in UK’s 3rd lockdown (AP) It’s apparently not enough for Britons to endure almost 120,000 COVID-19 deaths and face a new variant of the virus that scientists say is more contagious and more deadly. Not enough to struggle through a third lockdown in less than a year, a shutdown now in its ninth week in London with no end in sight. No, all of this has to come smack in the middle of Britain’s mud season, the time formally known as winter. While everyone in the U.K. is already lacking Vitamin D, the sun chooses to take a months-long work stoppage and named winter storms kept sweeping eastward across the Atlantic. Storm Bella marched in right after Christmas, bringing gusts up to 106 mph (92 kph) and rains that dumped 3.2 inches (80.2 mm) on a village in Scotland. A sodden, freezing version of a hurricane. Storm Darcy roared in last week from the opposite side, bringing an icy Arctic blast and the U.K.’s coldest temperature in 25 years. Unlike the southeastern U.S., which floods during the summer-fall hurricane season, Britain floods in the dead of winter, bringing hypothermia alongside germ-laden waters. Rivers across England and Scotland are bursting: 73 flood alerts were in effect on Friday alone. And this year, few gyms or schools are available for emergency housing for fear they will turn into COVID-19 factories. It’s a Dickensian time.

Spain arrests 80 in 3 nights of riots over rapper’s jailing (AP) Protests over the imprisonment of a rapper convicted of insulting the Spanish monarchy and praising terrorist violence were marred by rioting for the third night in a row Thursday. The plight of Pablo Hasél, who began this week to serve a 9-month sentence in a northeastern prison, has triggered a heated debate over the limits of free speech in Spain and a political storm over the use of violence by both the rapper’s supporters and the police. The rapper and his supporters say Hasél’s nine-month sentence for writing a critical song about former King Juan Carlos I, and for dozens of tweets that judges said glorified some of Spain’s defunct terrorist groups, violates free speech rights. Besides that case, the rapper has previously faced other charges or has pending trials for assault, praising armed extremist groups, breaking into private premises and insulting the monarchy.

Heating Up Culture Wars, France to Scour Universities for Ideas That ‘Corrupt Society’ (NYT) Stepping up its attacks on social science theories that it says threaten France, the French government announced this week that it would launch an investigation into academic research that it says feeds “Islamo-leftist” tendencies that “corrupt society.” While President Emmanuel Macron and some of his top ministers have spoken out forcefully against what they see as a destabilizing influence from American campuses in recent months, the announcement marked the first time that the government has moved to take action. It came as France’s lower house of Parliament passed a draft law against Islamism, an ideology it views as encouraging terrorist attacks, and as Mr. Macron tilts further to the right, anticipating nationalist challenges ahead of elections next year. Frédérique Vidal, the minister of higher education, said in Parliament on Tuesday that the state-run National Center for Scientific Research would oversee an investigation into the “totality of research underway in our country,” singling out post-colonialism. In an earlier television interview, Ms. Vidal said the investigation would focus on “Islamo-leftism”—a controversial term embraced by some of Mr. Macron’s leading ministers to accuse left-leaning intellectuals of justifying Islamism and even terrorism.

Myanmar protests stall fuel imports, drive up costs (Reuters) Myanmar’s refined fuel imports have stalled as protests over the Feb. 1 coup have shut the banks and government offices necessary for trade, while depreciation in the nation’s currency has driven up costs, four industry sources said. The economy of the Southeast Asian nation has been pulled up short by the biggest demonstrations since the “Saffron Revolution” of 2007, with protesters taking to the streets to denounce the military takeover and the unseating of a democratically elected government. Myanmar relies heavily on gasoline and diesel imports as its refineries are too small and old to meet its fuel needs. One of the sources said imports may make up as much as 98% of Myanmar’s fuel consumption. The “economy is almost at a standstill. Almost all government ministries are closed,” the source said. “Fuel supply is running low. (The country) might run out of oil in two months.”

Jakarta’s poor fear landslides from overflowing waste mountains (Nikkei Asia) The stench is overpowering, and it only gets worse as you approach the biggest landfill site in Southeast Asia. The green grass on the embankments of the road leading into the Bantar Gebang landfill on the outskirts of Jakarta quickly gives way to trash—stacked in piles as far as the eye can see, reaching the height of a 15-story building in places. Plastic bags, food packages, rubber wheels, cardboard, drink cans, and everything else that Jakartans consume and throw away can be found here—much of which turn to sludge when it rains. The site that constantly threatens landslides is also home to thousands of impoverished families. Around 20,000 people, according to an estimate by locals, make a living from collecting trash in Southeast Asia’s largest dump. More than 100,000 live in the landfill and its surroundings. Authorities are struggling to dispose of the massive amount of waste created by the 35 million people estimated by Statistics Indonesia to live the Jakarta metropolitan area. Landslides often occur at such sites. In February 2005, heavy rains triggered a slide at the Leuwigajah landfill, which serves the cities of Cimahi and Bandung in West Java, killing 157 people and swallowing two villages, Greenpeace Indonesia said. The Bantar Gebang landfill has also taken lives.

Israel expands its nuclear facility (The Guardian) Israel is carrying out a major expansion of its Dimona nuclear facility in the Negev desert, where it has historically made the fissile material for its nuclear arsenal. Construction work is evident in new satellite images published on Thursday by the International Panel on Fissile Material (IPFM), an independent expert group. The area being worked on is a few hundred meters across to the south and west of the domed reactor and reprocessing point at the Shimon Peres Negev Nuclear Research Center, near the desert town of Dimona. Pavel Podvig, a researcher with the program on science and global security at Princeton University, said: “It appears that the construction started quite early in 2019, or late 2018, so it’s been under way for about two years, but that’s all we can say at this point.”

[junionigiri]

Just Another Secretary Story! Chapter 4 - It’s Always Her

Chapter summary: Director Todoroki hires a new secretary.

Rating: T

It’s rare to see Midoriya as ill-tempered as he is now, yet Shouto is proud to say that when it happens it’s almost always because of him.

The green-haired executive moves to slam a handful of filled-out forms over his desk, but changes his mind at the last minute and places it gently in front of him instead. “Here’s what you asked for, Todoroki-kun. Don’t you ever make me do that again. I said so many lies I almost stress-barfed in your office! Twice!”

“Never again,” Shouto lies. “Brilliant execution as always, Midoriya. No-one suspected a thing. I could not ask for a better accomplice.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” he says with a hearty harrumph and a pleased little flush on his freckled cheeks that betrays what he just said. “Anyways I know how important this is to you so I’m glad I could help.”

The result of Midoriya’s hard work is the fake survey form that Shouto designed to help him woo Secretary Uraraka. To avoid Uraraka’s suspicions, he told the marketing chief give out other forms to anyone willing to answer them. By the end of the day he gets five neatly filled-out forms with a wealth of valuable information hidden within. Now...

“Which one is Secretary Uraraka’s?”

Midoriya looks at him incredulously. “Come on, Director. You don’t know how your own secretary’s handwriting looks like?”

“How would I know what it looks like? We don’t write each other letters.”

(But if Uraraka is inclined towards romantic handwritten letters, it won’t be difficult for him to deliver. Shouto is proud to say that his calligraphy skills are superb.)

“Oh man. Okay, I’ll help.” The chief starts sifting through the papers with intense concentration. “Okay, so this one is Ashido-san’s, I’m sure I saw her use a sparkly purple gel pen to sign all her documents and also it’s full of hand-drawn emojis. This one’s Iida-kun’s, since the writing’s so pressured and accurate and his ideal date is reading encyclopedias at the library with a scholarly individual who knows how to use the Dewey Decimal System. This one--”

Shouto cuts him off. “I thought this was a survey for women.”

Midoriya shrugs. “The guys felt left out, so I gave them some too.”

“Hm.”

“Anyhow… this one is Monoma-kun ‘cause it’s written entirely in French. And this one I think is by Kirishima-kun ‘cause he drew himself doing pull-ups at the gym...”

Shouto rubs the space between his eyes as he wonders how in the world this group of people manage to become the most productive set of people in the company.

“... oh! And here’s Uraraka-san’s.”

Midoriya hands him the form in question. The handwriting is small and messy, but legible. The few erasures were crossed out with a single line and countersigned. All in all a civilized entry, but only at about 85%.

Shouto wrinkles his nose in suspicion. “How are you sure that this is hers?”

“Process of elimination,” the freckled chief answers with confidence. “That, and… she wrote her name on it.”

True enough the characters for Uraraka Ochako are scrawled on top of the page. All right then.

Shouto reads through the answers within the span of a minute, absorbing every detail, and rereading them again. With each review, he feels the smile on his face grow larger.

Is this really the ordinary relationship with an ordinary person that Secretary Uraraka wants? While it’s nothing that he expected at all from his capable secretary…

“Todoroki-kun, you’re smiling a little too evilly there,” Midoriya mumbles nervously. “What are you planning?”

Isn’t this going to be too easy?  “Nothing special, Midoriya. Just something ordinary.”

With a new plan forming in his head, he’s sure that Uraraka isn’t going anywhere.

*

 The top of that day’s agenda is the interview for Secretary Uraraka’s replacement.

About a dozen men and women with all sorts of impressive accomplishments patiently wait for their turn outside the Office of the Executive Director. The first candidate sits politely on the plush sofa in front of Ochako and the Director himself.

Utsushimi Camie, 30 years old, a proud graduate of Shiketsu’s communications department. Not surprising. All of them tended to be from Shiketsu or UA or Ketsubutsu or some fancy university overseas. Ochako, who only finished a certificate course in secretarial work, has only dreamed of having that kind of education. It’s still baffling nine years later how an underqualified twenty-year old temp like her ever managed to get hired by Chairman Todoroki’s son.

Now that she’s at the other side of the table, maybe she’ll gain some insight on it. Ochako opens Utsushimi’s file and gives her a bright smile. “Utsushimi-san, thank you for coming. How are you feeling today?”

The first thing anyone will notice about Utsushimi is how gorgeous she is--long light-brown hair, full lips, a good figure, an elegant fashion sense. The confident way she carries herself makes her look like she belongs in this office. Ochako automatically thinks she’s perfect for the job.

And then she speaks. “Yeah, I’m totes… I mean, totally feeling super great today, thanks for asking! I’m so stoked to be here. Cool office, cool space… and you two are looking super hot today too, by the way.”

Ochako’s smile freezes on her face, while Director Todoroki’s face remains stoic. Okay then...

Clearing her throat, Ochako moves on to the first question. “So, Utsushimi-san--”

“You can call me Camie, I totally don’t mind.”

“... Utsushimi… Camie-san.” Keeping a careful side-eye on Director Todoroki, Ochako continues. “It says here that you worked at Orca Law Office before. What were your responsibilities there?”

“The low down in Law Town? Okay, I gotcha.” Confidently, she gives a breakdown of all the things she had to do and all the things she’s capable of doing. Ochako asks her a few more questions about what she knows of the company, current events, and hypothetical situations. Camie is able to answer them properly, although her language is too… casual for the setting.

Okay, so she isn’t bad. Ochako’s sure that the Director would reject her immediately, though. He had rejected applicants in the past just by the way they said their names. But the minutes pass by with Camie talking, and he has not said a single scathing word yet.

Ochako looks at him, and suddenly it’s apparent why he’s so silent--his odd eyes are staring at a spot in the ninth dimension. Looks like he hasn’t been listening at the very start. Ochako is rightfully irritated. Damn him if he thinks that he’ll make her do all the work here!

“Director, do you have anything you want to ask Utsushimi-san?”

Todoroki’s eyeballs moves to her in utter disinterest. “Must I?”

The smile on Ochako’s mouth strains. “Of course. She might be your future secretary, after all.”

He turns to Camie, who is looking too relaxed for the menacing gaze being directed at her. The Director taps his fingers on his armrest for a few tense moments, stretching the suffocating silence in between.

Just as Ochako considers breaking the silence with another question, Director Todoroki finally speaks up. “I have an important question for you, Utsushimi-san.”

A feeling of foreboding instantly fills Ochako’s chest. Utsushimi seems oblivious to the chill in the air as she asks, “Ya, fire away.”

He gives a meaningful side-glance to his present secretary as he asks, “If I hire you, how many years will it take before you quit?”

Ochako’s face stiffens.

Camie hums thoughtfully. “If I get this job, I’m defo not gonna think about quitting, y’know? Like, I came here to work, so, yeah. That’s just weird.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Now he shows interest, and Ochako does not appreciate it at all. “But let’s say that you’re going to quit. That you have to quit because of something as trivial and vague as personal reasons. How many years will be acceptable before you get to that point? Say… three years? Five? Nine?”

Oh that’s just foul. Ochako barely keeps her jaw dropping at that blatant jab.

To the strange question, Camie merely chuckles. “A hundred? I’m kidding, I seriously dunno. I can tell you though that I’m too legit to quit, ya feel me? And if I have to quit, it’ll be legit. Vague is totally not my style.”

Ochako sees Todoroki’s mouth move again, but this time she beats him to it. “But Camie-san, the demands of this job are massive and unforgiving. What’ll you do if you and Director Todoroki’s definition of ‘legit’ don’t overlap?”

Camie shrugs. “Then I guess I won’t quit?”

“Great answer.” Todoroki smirks at Ochako. “Do you think these standards are worth attaining given the benefits you’ll be receiving? Health, security, experience--”

“Ya. They’re pretty lit~”

“So Camie-san, are you saying that you’ll be prepared to sacrifice everything for this job just for the benefits? It’s not just going to work early and going home late and not having days off. It’s literal blood, sweat, tears, heartache--”

“If I have to, sure. N-B-D.”

“But surely all the hours and blood and sweat and tears and heartache are necessary sacrifices for the good of the company. Didn’t you come here expecting to give your all for Endeavor Inc?”

“Sacrifices are okay, but Camie-san, sure you ain’t—I mean, you aren’t expecting to lose your sense of self just for the good of the company, are you?”

“Uh…”

Before either of them realize it, Director and Secretary have abandoned the interview completely in favor of glaring at each other from opposite ends of the couch. By the end of it Director Todoroki’s eyes are flaring, while Ochako’s knuckles are sore from gripping Camie’s file too hard.

“Utsushimi,” Todoroki calls, but he isn’t looking at her at all; he doesn’t even seem to be aware that she’s there anymore. No, all that cold, raw emotion behind is eyes is for Ochako and Ochako alone. “Do you think that nine years of working with me is... will be a waste of your life?”

A chill runs through her as if she’s struck by ice. There isn’t much that Ochako can do to stop her hands from shaking and her lower lip from quivering except to stare at him in shock.

Camie stares at them one after the other with an interested smile on her face. “Um. If you hire me, I’ll do my best,” is what she decides on saying after an awkward silence.

His glaring heterochromatic eyes not leaving Ochako’s, Director Todoroki raises his right hand and slams it on the table. “Great. You’re hired.”

“What?!” Ochako cries before she can stop herself.

“Whoa, for real?”

“Indeed. Welcome to the team.” Director Todoroki stands up from the couch, too self-satisfied for Ochako to feel comfortable. “Well then, Secretary Uraraka, I’ll leave the transfer of duties to you. I’m confident that you won’t leave until Secretary Utsushimi is able to do your job adequately.”

Trying to keep herself from clenching her jaw, Ochako smiles stiffly. “Of course, Director. You can count on me.”

She wonders if Camie’s actively choosing to ignore the drama or if she’s just that dense, but she is entirely unaffected by the showdown that took place. “You guys, you totes had me going there, I thought I was cancelled the moment I walked in! C’mere, c’mere, employment selfie yeahhhhhh!!!”

Before either of them can react, Camie already has her phone out and has expertly squooshed them together on the couch. Todoroki falls back on the cushions, Ochako half-stumbles over him, and Camie sits next to her brandishing a finger heart. “Let’s do this fam! Say Colorado~”

Say what you will about Utsushimi Camie, but her employment selfie with the famous icyhot Director and his stressed secretary earns her eight hundred likes and a hundred more followers within the next hour. 

 *

 Disastrous interview aside, Ochako thinks she can get along well with the new secretary. She may look too laid-back and casual on the surface, but it’s surprisingly easy to get a good conversation going with her. When she starts telling her about all the intimidating things she has to learn, the other girl accepts them with an easygoing smile.

“Like, so I get that Directoroki’s extra when it comes to work so I gotta be extra too… but dang, I gotta take care of the cat too?” 

“Try not to call him that,” Ochako says successfully without laughing her ass off. “Victoria’s got her own file right here--” she pats one of the thickest clearbooks in the pile of things Camie has to memorize by the end of the week, “--but it’ll be a while before you get cat duties, so don’t worry about her for now. For the first week, you’ll focus on the work in the office.”

“Gotcha, senpai. ”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Ochako stammers, even though she feels her ears clapping happily at the feeling. “I mean--I’m a year younger than you, plus I’m quitting real soon, so I won’t be your senpai for long. Just Ochako is fine!”

“Hm… gotcha, Ocha-babes,” Camie says with a wink.

Ocha-babes?

“‘Cause you have such a baby face. I mean, you’re a real cutie pie. A Sanrio character. I bet your boyfriend pinches your cheeks all day. Oh my god.”

Ochako blushes all the way to the roots of her hair. “Thanks I think? But I don’t have a boyfriend...”

“Nah?” Camie asks with a pucker of her lips. “A girlfriend then? A nonbinary pal?”

“Nope! I’m single… since birth, ” she says, slurring over the last part.

“Oh, worm.” For the first time since she got here, Camie looks terribly puzzled. “Like, tell me if I’m wrong, ‘kay? I thought people can get it on here as long as it doesn’t get in the way of work?”

“Yeah, relationships aren’t a problem. Even married people can work in the same office,” Ochako confirms.

“Oh sis that’s great news. I thought it was gonna be like Orca’s again. People got fired all the time just ‘cause they made eye contact in the office. Big yikes, right?” The taller secretary looks visibly relieved at this. “Tho I’m real surprised when you said you didn’t have anyone? ‘Cause I totally thought you were having a lover’s quarrel with Directoroki back there.”

Ochako chokes on air. “Wh--me and Directoroki--I mean, Director Todoroki?! No, we’re nothing like that!”

Camie raises her eyebrows. “So, like. The nine years wasting your life thing? He wasn’t salty AF at you for dumping him or whatever?”

“No?!” Wait, she did dump him just a couple days ago, but-- “I mean, no, that doesn’t count! We aren’t… we never-- ”

“Chiiiill.” Camie seems too amused watching the different flustered expressions she’s making. “Sorry, okay? I thought I saw some serious chemistry, but I guess I was wrong.” Going back to the next file, she says, “How ‘bout this one? No kettles allowed near the Director. Seriously?”

Ochako nods. “That’s right. I know it’s weird, but you can’t forget it, okay? It’s really important...”

The other girl makes a face. “Uh-huh. Is it, like, a rich person thing? Is he too bourgeois for kettles or somethin’?”

She shakes her head. “... no. It’s because he doesn’t feel comfortable around them…”

She learned this the hard way during their first year of working together. She wanted to show him how earnest she was by making him tea without being asked. The kettle hadn’t even been on, it wasn’t going to hurt anyone, but he started shielding his face like it was going to burn him. He curled into himself and wouldn’t speak for what felt like hours, even after she threw the kettle out and apologized profusely and tried to comfort him.

When he finally found his voice and managed to curb the shaking, he asked her quietly to never let him near another kettle again. It was the first time he had asked her of something that wasn’t a command, but a plea--the first time he seemed so…

Human…

Even though she can’t keep her eyes off the scar, she never knew the story behind it. She never asked and he never said anything. She convinced herself that she can exist beside him without digging up that part of his past--she was afraid that she’d hurt him again if she did.

Forcing herself back to the present, she gives Camie a pleading smile. “I’m the same with fire, you know? If I see even a little flame from a lighter, I’d start shaking and crying like a baby even though I should know better... the Director doesn’t put me anywhere near them because he knows how I’m not comfortable around fire, so I try my best to keep him away from kettles. We should just respect that, okay?”

Camie looks at her carefully. “... aight. Any and all kettles shall be yeeted off the face of this earth. Gotcha.”

Ochako giggles. “The yeeting isn’t necessary, but thanks for understanding!”

Thankfully Camie doesn’t ask further about her or the Director. She wonders if she’s too protective of the Director, but she truly can’t stand to see him like that again. 

*

Later on she decides to introduce Camie to the rest of the office. They react about the same as she expected--Monoma sizes her up, Mina dances with her, Kirishima shakes her arm so hard it almost pops off its socket, and Iida gives her a stern lecture about formal workplace Japanese that lasts all of fifteen minutes.

“--and furthermore, unless you are speaking about lanterns, LEDs, hazardous fires, the sun, or other luminous things, kindly refrain from using the term lit to describe anything--”

What she doesn’t expect though, is Camie nudging Ochako in the middle of Iida’s impassioned, action-packed speech to whisper, “Yo, this one’s mine, ‘kay?” with a wink.

Ochako gives her a “go ahead then” nod.

By the time Iida is done, the work-day is pretty much done too. After shaking himself out of Iida-induced slumber, Kirishima gathers everyone ‘round. “Hey, I got an idea! We should throw Utsushimi the manliest welcome party ever!”

Everyone but Iida cheers. “A party?! Preposterous! It’s a weekday!” he protests. “We should concentrate on preserving our energies for attending to the Director’s needs tomorrow!”

“Iida, don’t be such an Iida ! You already bored her to death with your lecture, now we gotta prove to Camie-chan that we aren’t workbots like you!” Mina whines.

“Agreed.” Monoma directs an ominous smile at Camie. “It’ll be good for Utsushimi-san to have one last peaceful meal as a free person, right?”

“Ya, totes,” Camie answers, unfazed. It’s pretty satisfying how Monoma’s face sours at that, and how it sours more when Camie ignores his antics in favor of Iida. Turning to the glasses man with a flair that makes her hair swirl, she smiles and says, “Fam, we’re all going to be working together like real fam, right? Bonding is part of work too~”

Iida sputters like a malfunctioning engine. “Perhaps that is so, however, I do not see the need for high-cholesterol food and alcohol to--”

“ Mou! Ochako-chan, just tell us we’re allowed to party already!” Mina says, going into a full blown tantrum. “I want barbecue, barbecue!!! Oh, but don’t worry, the place I’m thinking of has electric grills, so no worries about fire or anything...”

She loves this office. She’s really going to miss them when she leaves. “Sure, why not? I’m starving!”

Again, everyone but Iida cheers. The glasses man just sputters more. “B-but the Director…!!”

“It’s fine, he let us go early so we can focus on Camie. Besides, if he needs you, Iida-kun, he’ll just pick you up at the party!”

Iida scowls through the jeers of the others in the office. “That is not funny, Uraraka-kun, nor is it accurate. You’re his priority, not me.”

“Yeah. He’d sooner join us at this plebe’s party than to let Uraraka out of his sight for one night,” Monoma comments idly as they trail out of the office one by one.

*

 On top of being the resident rat bastard (self-proclaimed), Monoma just might be the office prophet as well.

So there they were in the hole-in-the-wall barbecue place. The grill’s electric as Mina promised so they’re able to cook the beef belly slices without Ochako getting a panic attack. Monoma’s goading Camie into a fight, Mina’s goading Monoma, Camie’s flirting with Iida, Iida’s trying to decode her words as if they were the Hammurabi code, and Kirishima’s dumping overcooked meat onto everyone’s plates. There’s food and beer and everyone’s getting redder and redder in the face. It’s fun.

It happens at around the fifth batch of meat that Kirishima burns to a crisp. “I daresay, Kirishima! This beef is not beef anymore, but a piece of coal!” Iida complains.

“Bro, crispy meat’s manly! Come on, eat up!”

“Blegh. I prefer my meat to not be as dark and shrunken as Director Todoroki’s soul, thanks,” Monoma hiccups. “I can’t see anything ‘cause of all the smoke. Someone confiscate the tongs from Kirishima before I shove them right up--”

A cold, bitter wind from the dead of winter floods the air around them and stops all conversation in their tracks. Kirishima drops the meat tongs with a loud noise.

It’s impossible that the entire restaurant would fall so deathly silent, yet Ochako can hear nothing but the familiar footfalls of genuine Italian leather over the grimy concrete floor. Closer, and closer, and closer. Around the table, everyone but the confused Camie exchanges mildly horrified looks and then stare right at Ochako.

Don’t tell me…

“Secretary Uraraka.”

Out of the smoke of burnt spicy beef comes the silhouette of none other than Todoroki Shouto.

“Director?” Ochako is the first to stand to bow, followed by the rest of the table who is only half a millisecond slower to shift from completely drunk to painfully sober. “What are you doing here?”

The stoic executive has an ungodly strong presence that makes everyone in a hundred meter radius stop and stare. But the overall effect is different in this grimy barbecue place versus the lofty offices of Endeavor Towers--he sticks out less as a divine presence and more like a sore thumb. He’s entirely aware of this too, judging by the way his nose wrinkles in distaste.

“This is an activity of the Office of the Executive Director.” He points to himself. “I’m the Executive Director. I should be here.”

Ochako can almost hear the same panicked internal thoughts of every member of the team: shiiiiiiit. Who snitched?!

It’s probably too late to salvage this very awkward situation, but to Iida’s credit he is the first to gallantly try. He jumps off his spot and bows at perfect ninety-degree angles. “O-o-of course, the Director should be at the very forefront of this activity! How shameful we are to forget! Why, I am astonished! Ashamed! Utterly mortified that he is not involved at the very beginning!”

“As you should.” Todoroki breezes past him, uncaring of the way Iida flinches like he just got stabbed by an icicle through the gut and the way everyone else is suddenly paper white and shaking in their shoes. “Uraraka, I’ll forgive this oversight today. Just today. This will not stand in the future.”

“Of course not sir,” Ochako replies, scrambling for her polite and efficient and not-drunk secretary voice deep within her brain, “But you made it! In this, um, event without anyone telling you how to get here! So thank you for coming to Secretary Utsushimi’s welcome party!”

“You’re welcome.” And then with his version of a winning smile (which is just both corners of his mouth moving 2 picometers upward), he tells his hapless office, “Let’s continue then.” 

 *

 Since taking up his position as the Executive Director of Endeavor Inc three years ago and gradually picking out members of his team, he has never joined them for social gatherings like this. It’s not that he’s opposed to eating at ordinary (cheap) restaurants and eating ordinary (cheap) meat and drinking ordinary (cheap, and likely terrible) liquor like they do, just that he’s never considered it. If they had drinks at the upscale restaurants he liked maybe he’d join them, but then again socializing for work is exhausting enough as it is and he’d rather drink the aged whisky he kept at home.

That was then. Now he has something to prove: that he can be the ordinary man that Uraraka wants to marry. He’s going to ingest cheap meat and cheap liquor and he’s going to enjoy it so hard that Uraraka can’t say no to him.

He’s seated on an uncomfortable bench between Uraraka and Monoma, with Utsushimi on the other end; across from him are Iida, Ashido, and Kirishima. He would have seated himself at the head of the table as Iida has offered, but he didn’t like how Monoma could easily touch or grope or breathe in the general direction of his secretary. Not that he knew Monoma to do those unseemly things, but he had heard what cheap alcohol could do to any salaryman and he’s not risking his personal assistant going through any sort of harassment that will get her productivity down.

He doesn’t have any cause to worry right now though, because somehow they’re all enjoying the party in utter silence. They’ve abandoned their beers in favor of tea and ice-cold water. Ashido is the first to move since he sat down, and it is to sip at her drink with a shaking hand.

So this is how ordinary people have fun. Shouto isn’t that impressed, but far be it for him to judge anyone on how they spend their free time after work.

“S-so, Director. Would you like anything to drink?” Iida cautiously asks, face paler than usual. “Or perhaps, some beef?”

He carefully considers the dark matter on his plate. His nutritionist will take a month to correct the imbalance in his system if he ate this. “... a drink first,” he decides. Signalling one of the part-timers passing by, he says, “I’ll have a Boulevardier if it’s available.”

The part-timer stares at him blankly. “A what?”

So it’s not. He should have expected that from a place like this. “Never mind. I’ll have an amaretto sour instead.”

“ Oji-san, all we got here is beer or Pepsi, ‘kay. If ya want something fancy an’ sour I’ll boil the nicest pickles in the kitchen for ya.”

Oji-san? Since when did he become this kid’s uncle? Did any of his siblings sire a secret love child without him knowing?

Before he can ask, Secretary Uraraka covers for him. “He’ll have the tea too, thanks!”

He doesn’t know what he did to earn that flat-out glare he gets from the kitchen staff, but he isn’t going to let that deter him from his plan. “So. This is… enjoyable. You all seem to know how to have a good time.”

The strained silence over the table breaks into simultaneous laughter from all sides. “Y-yeah, we sure know how to party! Wh… Whoo-hoo!” Ashido cheers, her entire body trembling in what must be pure excitement.

“Yeah! This is fun and not awkward at all!” Monoma adds with a manic laugh bordering on insane. “So, so, so, soooo fun. My heart’s racing from 100% fun and 0% crippling fear!”

“Good.” If he can put a percentage to things, it must be accurate. Everyone else seems to agree so it looks like the evening (slash fool-proof plan) is going well. “Out of curiosity, how long does a standard party like this take?”

It is already eleven PM and late for a weeknight. It’s not a problem for him to stay out for longer--he has stayed up past midnight many times with Uraraka for work, after all, but he figured he should ask for posterity’s sake.

Uraraka clears her throat beside him. “Funny you should ask, Director! We’re actually almost done. This is our last round of drinks!”

Across from him, Ashido, Iida, and Monoma suddenly share wide-eyed looks that suspiciously look enlightened. “Th… that’s right! Because we’re responsible working adults and we must head home early on a weeknight! Now that we have thoroughly celebrated the employment of Utsushimi-kun we can happily head home to rest!”

They can go home now? It was that easy? Shouto keeps his smirk to himself. See how easy it is to do ordinary things, Uraraka? He truly isn’t a man to be underestimated.

Kirishima, however, looks puzzled over this. “Eh? But I went through all that trouble reserving the karaoke place, you guys! Did you all forget abou--ow, ow, ow, ow, Ashido!”

Oh, so they’re not yet done? How could they forget what’s on their agenda? Is that why Ashido is so angry at Kirishima? They must have been looking forward to this. Luckily for them, Shouto isn’t going to let such an ordinary mistake get in the way of their good time. “Karaoke after drinks sounds enjoyable. Let’s head out.”

And so Shouto loads them all in his car, with Uraraka on the passenger seat and the rest of them piled up at the back. The drive to the thoroughly unimpressive place Kirishima has picked out takes about ten gruelling crowded minutes. By the time they make it there, the rest of his team seem relieved to be able to finally breathe, but then make it to a just-as-suffocating small box with nauseating disco lights, an old machine, and an awful audio set-up.

And tambourines. God. He’s trying hard for Uraraka, but even she doesn’t seem to be enjoying herself in a sticky place like this. Shouto has to draw the line somewhere.

“Everyone get back in the car,” he commands darkly, and they’re all running out of the room after a beat.

It takes exactly one text message to the right person for his office to go to a better place they deserve. Shouto takes them to a small music theater in Kiyashi where the last run of Les Miserables was performed privately by his acquaintances from London’s West End. It’s unused at this time of night, so it was easy getting them to set-up for a karaoke party for seven people.

“Directoroki, you rock!” Utsushimi cheers as she rapidly takes photos of all angles of the stage.

He should probably mind the way she just stumbled over his name, but he doesn’t, because for once Uraraka seems impressed. “Let the party commence.”

His office crew’s aura is vastly different than in the barbecue place. They start drinking as soon as the cocktails are served and immediately start fighting over the microphone. Ashido wins first and slurs over a Nicki Minaj song. Kirishima tries to get Iida to sing “Be A Man” with him but ends up aggressively singing all the parts by himself. Etcetera, etcetera. With each song they sing, they progressively get drunker, bolder, and out of tune.

Surprisingly, Shouto doesn’t mind. Maybe because he’s finally drinking something that he’s sure doesn’t taste like piss. Or maybe because Uraraka’s sitting right next to him, clapping along happily as Utsushimi and Monoma sing a Carly Rae Jepsen song while threatening to judo-throw each other for the mic.

A warm feeling spreads over his chest when he looks at her. He knows it’s not just the highball he nurses over the span of an hour. He knows it’s not just the satisfaction of his plan going well. He knows it’s not indigestion from the burnt meat he didn’t eat back in the restaurant.

Uraraka’s smiling brown eyes turn to his. Suddenly his chest feels something akin to heartburn.

She says something that’s drowned out by Monoma and Utsushimi competitively screaming “I really really really really really really like you!!!” Shouto has to lean in closer to hear her. “What was that, Secretary Uraraka?”

She brings her mouth closer to his ear. Her warm breath smells like the strawberry syrup from whatever sweet drink is in her hand. It’s unnervingly pleasant. Shouto has to concentrate to understand what she’s saying. “I said, thanks Director! I really--”

--Really really really really really like you!.. And I want you! Do you want me?--

“--how about you?”

Shouto meets her expectant gaze, for once not knowing what to say. “... yes,” he answers, after a beat.

She smiles. Her cheeks are glowing light and pink, like sakura petals in the spring. “That’s awesome!” She says, for once letting go of the usual formal Japanese she uses with him. “You should join the team for drinks even after I quit, okay?”

“... ah.”

Suddenly irritated, he takes a good healthy swig of his drink and swallows with a grimace. Well… this is fine. This is only phase one of his plan. Knowing how decisive Uraraka is, she isn’t going to change her mind about him that easily. It’s actually better this way. That’s the secretary he hired, after all. That’s the person he wants to keep at his side.

Kirishima’s spiky head pushes between their conversation. “Heyyyy!! Uraraka! Are you thanking Directoroki over here?!! No fair, I wanna thank him too!”

“Excuse me?” Shouto says stiffly. The redhead ignores him though and traps him in a bone-crushing hug.

“I appreciate you! You… are the bestest, manliest boss ever, Directoroki!” Kirishima hiccups rather dramatically and rubs his cheek against Shouto’s. “And you deserve the world! And you should… you should--”

Shouto gives Uraraka a horrified look, which she throws right back at him. She visibly gains some sobriety as she attempts to pry off Kirishima’s muscular arm off of him with little success. “Kirishima-kun, you should drink some water and--”

“Heyyyyy Kiri move over! I wanna thank the Director too! Hic~” Suddenly, Shouto’s other side is being hugged by another unwelcome warm body reeking of alcohol. He freezes like a block of cement as Ashido straight-up cuddles him. “Like, you’re an awesome… awesome, handsome man, like oh my god I can’t believe how handsome you are up close, what the hell! Have you ever seen a man so beautiful you want to cry? Wait, what am I saying?…”

As Ashido starts weeping and getting lost in his face, Shouto decides he has had enough. He’s ready to shove the two assistants aside when another one decides he wants attention too.

Monoma has abandoned the stage and decides to join them. “How dare you smother the Director without me!” Fueled by alcohol, he reaches new heights of extraneousness and places himself across the increasingly uncomfortable Shouto’s lap. “Director, pick me! I’m your favorite, aren’t I?”

“Secretary Uraraka--” Shouto barks like an SOS.

Monoma pouts with a noise. “Her again? It’s always her! Are you in-love with her or something?”

It’s Uraraka’s turn to make an exasperated noise. “Honestly, you three! You are gonna get fired by tomorrow if you keep harassing the Director!”

It’s amazing how she’s still able to read Shouto’s mind so perfectly even in an absurd situation like this. But for all her warnings, all he gets for it is more unwanted bodily contact. “Harassment?! Not on my watch!”

Iida’s bellow is steadfast, but his gait is definitely not. It’s almost impressive how he keeps his body straight while also walking in an unsteady zigzag towards whatever it is that’s going on around Shouto and ends up dropping at his feet. Haplessly groping the director’s pants leg, he demands, “Cease this needless groping of the Director at once!”

“I’m getting major FOMO, y’all! Move over!” To top off this mess, Utsushimi sits near Shouto’s other foot next to Iida’s fallen body and takes her hundredth selfie with everyone. “Best party ever faaaam!!! Peace!”

That’s it, everyone is fired. Shouto is about ready to throw all of them to the floor and all their employment forms in the shredder, until a strange sound floats to his ear amidst all the drunken noises.

“Pffffttt--”

Uraraka is covering her mouth and holding onto her stomach in desperation. At first he’s worried that she’s in pain from a ruptured appendix, but further inspection reveals stuttered breathing, reddening cheeks, a smile so big that her trademark round cheeks are struggling to support it. It’s obvious that she worked so hard not to make the strange sound, but one snort and all anyone can do is watch the dam break.

Secretary Uraraka is laughing at him earnestly for the first time in nine years.

Now this shouldn’t be strange as Shouto is not a humorous man and has never given her any reason to laugh before. But now that he thinks about it, isn’t it strange to spend nine years with someone and never see them laugh or smile like this? Why hasn’t he noticed until now?

If--no, when he marries her (because he definitely will, there’s no way his plan is going to fail), is she going to allow herself to laugh like this?

“I’m s-sorry, Director,” she wheezes after another minute of desperate laughter. He’s never seen someone laugh so much that they’re in tears. He didn’t know it was a thing that happened. “I’m--we’re all going to write letters of apology tomorrow, I promise! Please don’t fire anyone!”

He takes a steadying breath. “All right. I’ll be expecting them at seven in the morning. Sharp.”

His team finally lets him go with a stunned air about them, staring at his face in interest.

“Uh… the Director’s smiling. I must be dreaming,” Ashido mumbles in a daze.

“Or wasted. I’m never drinking again.” Monoma says, holding back a gag.

The rest of the office agrees and follows the sober Shouto to his car. 

 *

 With Uraraka’s guidance, they’re able to drop off all the members of his office at their designated homes without much problems. Because her home is the farthest one, Shouto takes his time getting to the correct exits (he still had to make a couple of u-turns here and there) and driving his car slowly through the narrow streets to avoid any wayward pots. He is proud to say that he is able to make it without any further incidents. Uraraka gets down from his car safely.

He escorts her as far as the unimpressive entrance to her apartment. “So… this is me, Director,” she says quietly, feet shuffling against the welcome mat. “Um. Thanks for dropping me off, but you didn’t need to walk me all the way here.”

“It’s nothing.”

She has a difficult time keeping eye contact with him tonight, which is rare. Maybe it’s from her impulsive actions earlier, or maybe because she’s noticed the way he’s plotting the exact color and diameters of her wide brown eyes, her cheeks. The more he stares, the pinker her cheeks get. It’s an interesting scientific phenomenon.

Objectively speaking, Uraraka has an... acceptable face. People with acceptable faces tend to be subjected to prolonged looks. From experience he knows how uncomfortable this can get and hates that he’s subjecting her to the same treatment, but he can’t stop staring. She’s just so… round. And soft-looking. He’s tempted to touch her cheeks even if there’s no real purpose behind them than to see if they’re as soft as they appear.

He doesn’t usually get senseless impulses like this. Maybe he isn’t that sober after all.

Uraraka clears her throat and finally looks up at him. “Out of curiosity, Director. You never joined us for drinks before, but tonight you really… um…”

He hums. “Everyone needs an ordinary night out to unwind, once in a while.”

Upon the word ordinary, her face falters, and then contorts into laughter again--truly an interesting sound. “There’s nothing ordinary about the night you gave us, Director Todoroki! But it’s good. It’s fun. You really surprised us, in a good way.”

What, so his attempts at ordinary failed after all? He’s a little nonplussed about this, but the giggle from her tells him that it isn’t all for nothing.

“But please, no more surprises in the future, okay? I’m not sure if my heart can take it.”

“I make no such promises,” he says flatly, “but if your heart is not okay, please get a comprehensive cardiovascular workup done as soon as possible.”

Uraraka’s eyes crease in a way he’s never seen before. “Goodnight, Director Todoroki.”

He steps away from her with a feeling suspiciously similar to reluctance. She doesn’t go in immediately and instead sees him off at the entrance. Just before he gets back to the driver’s seat, he calls out, “Uraraka,”

“Yes, Director?” she calls out in mild surprise.

“I warned you not to underestimate me.” He gives her a little upturn of the lips and climbs aboard. “Goodnight.”

The last thing he sees of her is her stunned figure through the rearview mirror. Satisfied, he speeds off into the night without a second glance. 

[yeppeojiwrites]

beauty and a beat 7: after the storm//multigroup crossover

summary : you and byounggon have an interesting conversation in your kitchen while you make pancakes for him and the rest of his groupmates. 

parings : reader x byounggon (feat. cix)

word count : 2,802

warning : an allusion to self injury and a smooch

a/n : here’s a chapter that clearly shows me being on my byounggon bullshit

--

reminder:

plain text is english

bold text is korean

italicized bold text is korean with honorifics

--

A couple hours after falling asleep on your couch, you stood in your kitchen dancing to music that played softly from your laptop while cooking pancakes for yourself and your five guests.

You hummed along to Kali Uchi’s “Tyrant” and flipped the two pancakes over and sighed in relief when there was no splatter from the pancakes as they landed on the skillet.

“Well, mira, mira, míralo.” Kali sang.

“Míralo, míralo~” you responded.

“Papi está rico, papi está guapo.” Kali prompted again.

“Papi está guapo~” you responded for second time, doing what most choreographers would describe as a body roll that should be seen by the walls of your shower.

“The world's been asking us to lose control. All we ever do is French like Brigitte Bardot.” you sang with Kali as you closed your eyes and turned away from the stove.

“Brigitte Bardot!” you cheered as you opened your eyes.

You almost screamed when you saw Byounggon sitting on your kitchen counter looking back at you with an amused expression.

“What did all of that mean?” he asked in a raspy morning voice.

“Uh...stuff?” you responded. He hopped down from the counter to stand in front of you and slid his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants.

“I came in here to let you know that I used some of your mouthwash.” he informed you. “I hope that’s okay.”

“I don’t mind.” you said as you turned around to move the pancakes that were in the skillet onto the plate that held a growing pile of pancakes.

“It burned a little bit.” he said as he watched you pour two more spots of batter onto the skillet.

“You don’t normally use Listerine, huh?” you smiled.

“Not the blue one.” he laughed. He leaned closer to you and rested his head on your shoulder.

“Can I flip over one of the pancakes?” he asked.

“If you mess it up, you’re eating it.” you answer.

“That’s fair.” he agreed.

“Do you mind moving back a little bit so that my sweatshirt doesn’t catch on fire?” you ask him.

“Why not just roll up your sleeves?” Byounggon asked while giving you space to move back.

“I’d rather not say.” you said as you turned around and walked over to your counter and lifted yourself on top of it.

Byounggon moved in front of you and tried to search your eyes. He grabbed your hands.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” he pleaded.

“Yeah, why would you-” you started before being hit with a wave of realization. “Oh.” you said while your eyes widened.

“Oh?” he repeated in a confused tone.

“It isn’t what you think it is.” you assured him. “Let’s flip the pancakes and then I’ll show you.”

“Okay?” he said in a confused tone.

“I’ll flip mine first and I’ll help you flip yours.” you informed him. He nodded and watched you flip your pancake.

“That can’t be too hard, right?” he asked.

“It looks easy because I’m a professional.” you joked. “I’ll stand behind you and help.” 

You moved behind him and placed your hands on his shoulders for stabilization as you stood on the tips of your toes to look over his shoulder to watch him flip the pancake.

You felt him stiffen and you laughed. Finally, a taste of his own medicine, you thought.

“Are you flustered, Byounggon?” you teased. He ignored you but his reddening ears gave him away.

He successfully flipped his pancake with only a little bit of splatter.

“That’s really good!” you cheered. “We can flip it in twenty seconds.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you afterwards?” he asked. You nodded and patted his cheek before moving the pancakes onto the pancake plate. You turned off the stove and walked back to where you sat on the kitchen counter.

“Before I came to South Korea, I talked to Chan about what I’m hiding.” you started while tugging at the sleeves of your sweatshirt. You avoided eye contact with Byounggon. “He told me that younger Korean people are more accepting of them compared to the older generation but that I should still be wary because they still hold a negative connotation in some areas.” He walked over to stand in front of you.

He placed his hand under your chin and lifted your head up so that you could look him in the eye.

“Byounggon...if you don’t want to be friends with me after I show you this, I understand.” you told him with a tight-lipped smile.

You lifted your left sleeve and Byounggon looked down at it before looking at you with a displeased expression.

“So you made me think that something was wrong because you have a tattoo?” he rubbed at his forehead.

“Yeah?” you answered.

“You’re so...I don’t know...” Byounggon sighed. “Frustrating? Cute? You had me worried over a tattoo!” he paced the kitchen.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to be my friend anymore.” you mumbled.

“You worry too much.” he said before shaking his head.

“I guess I do.” you agreed. You tried to hop down from the counter but Byounggon stopped you.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“Do you have any other tattoos?” he asked while tracing the stalks of lavender tattooed on your arm.

“I have two more.” you answered.

“Can I see them?”

You nodded and lightly brushed his arm off of your arm.

“Move back a little bit so I can show you.” you said before, playfully pushing his chest so that he moved back a couple of inches. You lifted your left leg to cross it over your right and lifted your pant leg so that it reached the middle of your shin.

The words ‘mind / matter’ (mind over matter) were tattooed in a small cursive font onto the skin right above the protruding bone on your right ankle.

“What does it mean?” the brunette asked as he ran his fingertips over the raised lettering.

“You have to use your mind to overcome real life problems.” you explained.

“That’s really powerful.”

“I thought so too.” you agreed.

“Where’s the other one?” he asked. You laughed slightly as you uncrossed your legs.

“That one...I don’t know if I can show you.” you sighed.

“Why not?” he pressed.

“It’s in a weird area.” you told him. He furrowed his eyebrows a little bit before nodding in understanding. You chewed the inside of your cheek while trying to figure our your next move.

“I have a proposition for you.” you started. Byounggon looked at you expectantly. “I’ll let you touch it.”

“You’ll let me touch it but I can’t see it?” he snorted.

“It’s too close to my chest for me to let you see it.” you responded. “So do you want to or not?”

“I want to.” the corners of his lips raised slightly.

You pulled him by his shoulders to stand between your open legs. You briefly slid your hand under your shirt to confirm the location of your tattoo.

“Lee Byounggon, if you hand slides up even a millimeter too far, I will smack you.” you warned him.

“What if I told you that I would be into that?” he whispered as he placed a hand on your hip.

“I’d strangle you instead.” you whispered back. He audibly exhaled through his nostrils and smiled just enough that his dimple showed.

He placed his free hand on your other hip. You could feel him wavering.

“Nervous?” you teased.

He ran his tongue over his lips before making eye contact with you.

“No.” he responded before sliding his right hand up the left side of your body.

You shivered slightly before clearing your throat and breaking eye contact.

“Nervous?” he teased you. You grabbed his hand and slid it up your left side so that it rested over your tattoo.

“No.”

He furrowed his eyebrows in concentration as he ran his fingertips over your tattoo.

“What is this?” he asked.

“It’s the first line of the chorus of ‘Eclipse,’ one of the first songs I made that was used by an artist.” you replied. He hummed in understanding as he traced the outline of the tattoo.

He moved his hands so that they rested on your waist under your shirt.

“Can I be honest?” he peered at you through the hair that hung over his eyes.

You moved his hair from out of his eyes.

“I don’t know how you’re able to see with-”

“I really like you.” he cut you off. “I really, really like you.”

“Byounggon.” you frowned. Your hands fell to rest on his shoulders. “You know we can’t.”

“We could but you don’t want to.” he replied.

“I’m not going to allow you to ruin your career just because you want to date me, Lee Byounggon. Your group’s future is too bright to be ruined by a foreigner.” you said.

“Don’t reduce yourself like that.” he frowned.

“That’s all I’ll be reduced to anyways. I might as well prepare you for it.” you retorted.

“Can you at least think about it?” he pleaded. The two of you sat in silence while staring at each other

“A year and a half.” you said suddenly.

“What does that mean?” he asked as he rubbed circles on your waist with his thumbs.

“Nothing official for the next year and a half.”

“Why not sooner?” he asked.

“The time frame will give you guys the opportunity to debut and have a few comebacks and it will give us a chance to see if we should actually label our relationship.”

“A year and three months.” he countered.

“A year and a half.” you responded.

“Six months.” he attempted to low-ball you.

“A year and a half.” you reiterated.

“Nine months.” he leaned in.

“A year and a half.” you leaned in as well.

“Ten months.” he leaned in closer.

“A year and nine months.” you countered while leaning in.

“Seven months.” his nose brushed against yours at this point.

“Two years.” your foreheads touched. “The lower you, go the higher I go.” you whispered.

He moved his hands down to your hips and pulled your body closer to his. Your legs automatically locked around his torso because of your reflexes.

His gaze dropped to your lips before meeting yours again.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered.

You pulled away from him and avoided eye contact. “I’ve never kissed a boy before.” you mumbled.

“You’re so cute.” he laughed as he moved his hands to the skin on the outsides of your thigh.

“So I could potentially be your first kiss?” he asked.

“One of them.” you answered. He paused and you could feel him look at you with a confused expression.

“Don’t read between the lines. That’s a story for another time.” you explained.

“Can you at least look at me?” he asked. You reluctantly looked at the boy that stood in front of you.

“I promise I’ll be the best first kiss you’ve ever had.” he tried to appeal to you. “Will you let me?”

You nodded shyly. He pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“Is that it?” you joked.

“No, that was just to help you get used to my lips.” he smiled.

“You’re annoying.” you mumble.

“Not annoying enough for you to not want to kiss me.” he responded. He guided your arms to rest around his neck. He placed his hand on your waist and his other hand on your cheek.

You lifted your hand to move his hair out of his eyes for the second time. He smiled at you and you let your hand drop to touch his dimple.

“Don’t be nervous, okay?” he assured you. You nodded and he leaned in. He made pointed eye contact with you when your lips were just a breath apart to ask for your final approval. You nodded slightly and he pressed his lips against yours. You froze for a second before relaxing and closing your eyes.

After a second or two of kissing him, you moved your hand behind his neck to pull him closer to you. He laughed and you pinched his neck to shut him up. He pulled away from you a short time later and you chased his lips for a split second before catching yourself.

“I’m going to assume you liked it.” he said while tracing your nose from bridge to tip.

“I thought there was supposed to be more lip motion.” you said innocently.

“I thought you only wanted me to kiss you.” he retorted.

“Isn’t that a kiss though?” you asked.

“No, that’s making out.” he informed you. You nodded in understanding.

“Did you want to make out with me?” he smirked.

“I, uh...fuck it, yeah I did.” you said confidently.

“Do you want to now?” he asked.

“I don’t know how.” you answered.

“It seems that I’ll be your teacher for today.” he placed his hands on either side of your face and you placed yours on his neck.

“Just follow me. Tap my arm twice when you want to stop.”

“If you don’t kiss me right now I will literally fight you.” you glared at him.

“So needy.” he smiled before kissing you again.

He guided the two of you into a minute long make-out session, stopping only because you lightly bit his lip.

“We should stop here.” he said with red ears. “You’re getting too good.” 

“I have to finish making pancakes anyways.” you agreed. He moved back so that you could get down from the counter.

“Oh and Byounggon?” you asked.

“What?” he asked. You walked over to him and used his shoulders to steady yourself as you stood on the tips of your toes so that you would be able to whisper in his ear.

“A year and a half.” you reminded him before kissing his cheek.

--

You stood next to your front door and watched as the members of Cix left your apartment one by one.

“Thank you so much for letting us stay here for the night.” Yonghee smiled.

“Don’t worry about it.” you assured him. “Oh and remember our conversation...if you ever have any American cereal that you want to try, let me know so I can ask my mom to send it over here.”

He held out a fist for you to bump. “For sure.” he agreed before leaving.

“Thank you so much for making us breakfast.” Hyunsuk gave you a grateful smile. “I thought we would die of starvation if we stayed somewhere else for the night.”

“I always feed my friends.” you responded. “Have a good day, alright?”

He nodded before giving you a slight hug and leaving.

“What was it like having your Wanna One bias and one of your Treasure Box picks stay in your house?” Jinyoung teased you as Seunghun stood nearby.

“It was pretty quiet because you two were asleep for most of the time that you were here.” you retorted.

“Fair point.” Seunghun agreed.

“Will you come back and visit us?” Jinyoung asked.

“If your leader is fine with it, I will.” you answered.

Seunghun looked back at Byounggon who was tying his shoes.

“We’ll definitely see you again.” Seunghun laughed and pushed Jinyoung out of the door. “Let’s go Jinyoung.”

Byounggon strolled in front of you.

“Yonghee already said this but thank you for letting us stay here.” he said. “I really owe you one.”

“I already told you not to worry about it.” you groaned.

“I’ll feel bad if I don’t pay you back.” he said as he pulled you closer to him by your waist.

“Don’t do that, they’re probably out there listening.” you mumbled.

“Are you shy?” he leaned forward.

“Maybe.” you whispered.

“You were so confident a few hours ago, what happened?” he teased.

“You know what happened a few hours ago.” you avoided eye contact.

“Ooh~” you heard from the hallway before hearing “Shh! I’m trying to hear!”

You leaned your forehead against his shoulder shyly.

“This was a bad idea.” your voice was slightly muffled. He laughed and wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug.

“I’ll see you later, right?” he asked. You nodded. He pulled away from you and held onto your shoulders.

“I’ll text you when we get to the company building.” he said before pressing a kiss to your forehead. The boys in the hallway squealed at the action.

“You should probably go now.” you tried to push him out of the door.

“Fine, I’ll go.” he agreed and walked out into the hallway. The four other boys watched the two of you curiously.

“I’ll miss you~” he teased.

“I bet you will.” you laughed nervously before closing the door.

You heard some snorts followed by a few smacks from behind the door.

--

a/n:

okay i FINALLY got these two chapters posted,,,the next chapter is set a little bit farther in the future but still prior to when you’re probably reading it so uhh,, look forward to it!!

[danfanciesphil]

Phan Teacher AU (Part 3)

(Part One)

(Part Two)

It’s Friday evening, finally, and Dan is in his kitchen making pasta, reflecting on the ups and downs of his first week in his new job. He stirs the penne in the saucepan, staring down into the bubbles.

The pasta does not, unsurprisingly, provide him with any insightful comments. 

Being a TA is not as bad as he thought it would be, he eventually concludes, considering everything that’s happened to him at the school so far. The children don’t tease him like he feared they would; mostly they barely even register his existence. The faculty, whilst occasionally irritating or dull, are just normal people for the most part. It’s obvious that none of them are living their dreams, but aside from making them a little snarky, that doesn’t seem to matter to them. 

None of this applies to Phil, of course. 

Dan stops stirring pasta, the tips of his fingers tingling as a wave of admiration sweeps through his body. Phil Lester is an unexpected, but very welcome, perk of this job. 

Dan had never even considered the idea that he might develop a crush when he accepted this position. Teaching has never appealed to him, so he has never found teachers attractive in the past. But, as he mentioned to Phil on his first day, Phil is not like any other teacher that Dan has ever met. 

He switches the hob off, and finds a colander in one of the cupboards. It’s not his, obviously. Dan would never be organised enough to buy a household item as obscure as a colander, but his housemates won’t mind. Probably. 

He drains his pasta, and scoops it into a bowl, then mixes it with some pesto. He adds some chopped cherry tomatoes and a sprinkle of cheese, then takes the bowl through to his bedroom. 

He’s glad he has the house to himself tonight. His roommates are out on a date together, being an excruciatingly cute couple, as always. 

He blames the exhaustion of first week in a full time job when he climbs onto his bed to eat, opening up his laptop. Facebook is open where he left it this morning, and out of nowhere, Dan gets an idea. 

He pauses mid-chew, wondering if it would be crossing a line. 

Then, before he can think his way out of it, he clicks the search bar and types ‘Phil Lester’. 

A hundred Phil’s pop up at once. Dan scrolls through them, peering at the tiny display pictures, searching for dazzling blue eyes and a mop of jet black hair. 

He’s about to give up, but then he sees it. As soon as he notices Phil’s photo, he wonders how he could have missed it amongst the sea of other Phil Lester imposters. 

He clicks the image, heart speeding up a little. Phil’s profile fills the screen, and Dan’s eyes widen, skimming over the scant information like he’s trying to soak it all up at once. 

Phil Lester  [Image]

Intro:

💼 History Teacher at Rawtenstall Secondary School 🎓 Studied History and Philosophy at University of York 🎓 Studied French History at Université Paris-Sorbonne  🏠 Lives in Rossendale, Lancashire, United Kingdom 🏠 Lived in Paris, France 🏠 Lived in York, UK 🏠 Lived in Manchester, UK 📍 From Rossendale  ❤️ Single

His eyes are drawn to the ‘relationship status’ part of his bio before he can stop them. Embarrassingly, he smiles into his pasta, as though it changed anything at all. 

His photo is the most distracting part of the whole page. Dan stares at it as he chews, taking advantage of the opportunity to study Phil’s immaculate face. There’s something different about the photo-Phil, Dan thinks, trying to work it out. Belatedly, he realises that he’s never seen Phil dressed in anything other than a shirt.

The Phil in this picture is wearing a t-shirt in vibrant blue, covered in rows of white stars. There’s a red hemline around the neck and short sleeves too. It looks a bit like he’s low-key cosplaying as Captain America on his off-day, but somehow it suits him. 

The picture-Phil is staring into the camera with that familiar intensity Dan recognises from the times he meets Phil’s gaze in real life. He’s smiling slightly, but it’s nothing compared to the way his beaming fills the classroom. 

He clicks the photo, unable to resist seeing Phil’s face larger on his screen. He really is rather unnervingly attractive, Dan thinks, staring unashamedly at the pixels doing their best to replicate the swirling galaxies of Phil’s blue eyes. 

He shovels more pasta into his mouth, sighing to himself. Just then, his phone buzzes. Reluctantly, Dan drags his eyes away from the screen, fishing it out of his pocket. 

18:54 Unknown Number Hey Dan! This is Phil (Mr Lester)

Dan chokes on a tomato. 

He reaches over to put his bowl of pasta on the bedside table, coughing, and turns back to his phone. Phil’s face continues staring out of his screen, those all-knowing, laser-eyes burrowing into his skull. Dan flushes, feeling caught out, and slams the lid of his laptop closed. 

His phone buzzes again. 

18:55 Unknown Number (the dorky guy who makes you  wear capes and help children to  build precarious structures out  of tables and chairs)

Despite feeling as flustered by this unexpected text as a yanderé schoolgirl encountering her senpai, Dan snorts at the joke. 

Fingers trembling a little, Dan adds Phil’s name to his contacts, and spends around three minutes typing and retyping a response.

18:58 Dan Howell did i forget giving you my number in a cringey attempt at gaining friends in my new job or something 😅

18:58 Phil Lester 🌠 hah! no i actually got it from the  school office 😳 

Dan frowns in confusion. 

18:59 Dan Howell Is that even allowed?

19:00 Phil Lester 🌠 Not sure. But I’m very charming, so it wasn’t an issue 😉

19:01 Phil Lester 🌠 I told them I wanted to ask you something important, related to class

Dan’s heart immediately sinks. That makes sense, he supposes, reaching for his pasta again. Phil’s just messaging him to discuss something work-related. Nothing to get excited about, after all. 

He types out a quick response, then places his phone aside, filling the disappointment-void opening inside of him with mouthfuls of pasta. 

19:02 Dan Howell Oh cool. Do you need me to do something for Monday’s class?

19:03 Phil Lester 🌠 I just need to ask you somethng in preparation

19:03 Dan Howell Ask away Mr Lester

19:04 Phil Lester 🌠 Do you think the Year Nine’s will laugh at me if I wear this in class (Attached: 1 image)

Dan stares at the message, uncomprehending. He scrolls down, laughing in surprise as he sees the photo Phil has included. 

It’s a picture of him, close up, with his chin raised, exposing his neck. Around his shirt collar is a bowtie, white with black polka dots. 

19:06 Dan Howell Without a shadow of a doubt, yes, they will laugh at you. Sorry bud. 

19:07 Phil Lester 🌠 Perfect! Thanks. 

Dan waits expectantly, glancing at his phone every few seconds as he finishes up his pasta. After he’s scraped the bowl clean, he picks the phone up again, wondering vaguely if he’s hallucinating this entire conversation. 

19:13 Dan Howell Is that it???

19:14 Phil Lester 🌠 Your TA duties are complete. Pls feel free to go forth and enjoy your weekend, Mr Howell

Dan blinks at the text, very confused. He’s about to shove the phone in his pocket, when another text comes through.

19:15 Phil Lester 🌠 And enjoy a cool photo of ur new favourite teacher, now saved to your camera roll free of charge

19:16 Dan Howell How do u know I won’t delete it

19:17 Phil Lester 🌠 Uh, you’d better not. I don’t hand these selfies out to just anyone Daniel

A little thrill shimmers through Dan’s veins at the sight of Phil using his full name. 

19:18 Dan Howell dw I’ve got it as my wallpaper already. I might even print it out, frame it for my wall

19:20 Phil Lester 🌠 Beats stalking through my Facebook albums I bet 😉

Dan’s heart actually stops for a moment, he’s sure. No, he thinks, feeling cold sweat pearling on his brow. There’s no way Phil could know something like that, surely.

He decides to try laughing it off, still terrified. 

19:21 Dan Howell Pfft as if m8

19:22 Phil Lester 🌠 tbf if you had stalked me I’d be super miffed you didn’t friend request me

Dan’s muscles melt of tension, the relief flooding out of his pores. Phil had just been stabbing in the dark with a weirdly accurate aim. 

19:23 Dan Howell aw u wanna be my fb friend? Cute.

Dan opens his laptop again, clicking determinedly off Phil’s profile, feeling his cheeks heat like he’s being watched. He’s just about to click off of Facebook altogether, when he gets a notification. 

Phil Lester has sent you a friend request!

Dan blinks at the message, gawping. 

His phone buzzes. 

19:26 Phil Lester 🌠 yes please

*

Dan spends the weekend wishing for it to end, which is an entirely new experience for him. 

His housemates invite him out for drinks on Saturday night at their local pub. Dan doesn’t bother attempting to refuse; Teddy and Tyler are not the sort of people who can be successfully argued with. 

They fail to mention, however, that they have invited a bunch of other people to join them for drinks, including Stephanie, Dan’s ex-girlfriend. As a result, the evening turns into Dan downing more pints than he is able to handle in order to deal with the glares from the girl he dumped a few months ago. 

At the end of the night, Tyler and Teddy have Dan’s arms over their shoulders, and are merrily singing The Phantom of the Opera as they drag him home. They take off Dan’s shoes and trousers for him and lay him in bed, laughing away at Dan being a lightweight, and then promptly climb in either side of him. 

Dan groans, feeling nauseous and irritable. He loves his housemates in many ways, but they are really annoying. 

“Unngh, get out,” he says, half into his pillow. Instead of obeying, Tyler and Teddy wrap Dan in their arms, squeezing him tightly. 

“Aw, Dan’s a grump because he had to face Scary Stephanie,” Tyler teases. 

“She was more terrifying than usual tonight,” Teddy muses. “Have you spoken to her since... y’know?”

Dan doesn’t reply; he’s too focused on trying to pretend he is currently alone in this bed. He has his eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to block out all evidence to the contrary. 

“Since he callously ripped out poor Stephy’s heart?” Tyler supplies, giggling. “I’d say he’s prrrobably been avoiding her since then, right Danny?” 

In the hopes it might get him some peace and quiet, Dan nods. 

“I still don’t get it,” Teddy says with a shrug that jostles the bed. “She’s pretty, and she isn’t a complete bore. Why chuck her?”

“Ted, you know why,” Tyler says, his voice mocking. “Dan’s a big fat gay now.”

Dan groans in frustration, elbowing Tyler in the side. “‘M not!” 

“Okay, that is bi-erasure, Ty.” Teddy admonishes, though there’s a smile in his voice. 

“Bi, gay, whatever.” Tyler says. “The point is, Dan’s ready to embrace his twink side at long last.”

Dan sighs, rolling his eyes despite them being shut. “Hate you both.”

“Um, no...” Tyler corrects, sounding affronted. “You love us to bits. Especially ‘cause we’re gonna take you to the hottest gay clubs in town and find you a big, beefy bear to help you transition to the dark side.” 

Tyler tickles Dan in the side, making him shriek. Teddy joins in then, laughing uproariously at Dan’s reaction. 

“No, stop, I’ll throw up on you both!” Dan cries, feebly attempting to fight back. 

“Say you love us, Dan!” Tyler cries over Dan’s agonised laughter. “Say it!”

“I’ll say it if you fuck off!” 

“Deal!” Teddy shouts. 

Despite this, in the morning, as predicted, Dan wakes up with his two terrible excuses for housemates still snoring in his bed. 

*

As soon as Dan’s alarm sounds on Monday morning, Dan hops out of bed, eager for the day to begin. 

He showers and brushes his teeth in lightning time, then spends twenty minutes sorting out his hair and changing his outfit. He tries not to think about why he’s so obsessed with his appearance today. 

After his fifth change of shirt, Dan checks the time and realises he’s about to miss his bus. Swearing loudly, he bolts out of the door, just about managing to grab his bag and coat on the way. Tyler snorts with laughter at him as he goes, blowing a kiss, and Dan just legs it to the bus stop. 

He makes it, just, but only because the bus is a minute late. Luck must be on his side today, he thinks as he struggles to get his breath back on the jolting bus, sweaty and already exhausted, his stomach rumbling. 

Forty minutes later, he’s wading through the swarms of schoolkids up the front steps, heart beginning to pound as he thinks about what lies ahead. 

He doesn’t need to check his timetable to know which class he has first today.

He gets to Classroom Nine ten minutes early, unable to dissuade himself from seizing the opportunity to spend a little bit extra time talking to Phil. 

This plan backfires a little when he opens the classroom door to find it empty and dark. 

He debates what to do, dithering on the spot, and then decides to just come back in a little while. He turns to leave, and bumps straight into Phil’s chest, spilling the mugs of coffee he’s holding in either hand. 

“Ow!” Phil shrieks, and Dan plunges feet-first into the hole opening beneath him in the earth. 

“Shit, shit, sorry!” Dan cries, taking the mugs from Phil’s hands as he flaps his hands in distress. 

“Ah!” Phil hisses, shaking his sleeves as they drip with hot coffee. “No, it’s cool don’t worry- crap, that was hot.” 

“I’ll get some napkins or something- ” Dan says, at a loss for what else to do. 

Phil chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s fine, Dan, I’ll live.” He straightens up, smiling at Dan in reassurance. “So, I brought you a coffee!” 

Dan stares at him in dismay. “I am so sorry.” 

Phil laughs. “I know. It’s fine. I just hope there’s some left in the mug.” 

Dan turns his attention to the cups in his hands. “Yeah, there is. Um, thank you.”

“No problem.” Phil says with a smile, then takes one of the mugs from him. 

He steps carefully around Dan and through the open door of the classroom, sipping as he goes. 

Dan takes a moment to internally scream at himself for being such a prat, and then follows him inside. Phil flicks on the lights, then goes to put his coffee down on his desk. 

“So, you’re keen.” Phil says to Dan, grinning as he rolls up his coffee-soaked sleeves. 

Dan notices for the first time that Phil is wearing that stupid black and white spotty bow tie he’d sent Dan a photo of on Friday. 

Distracted by the sight of it, Dan takes a moment to process what Phil said. His eyes widen. “Um, sorry?”

“You’re here early.” Phil points out, one eyebrow raised. “Not often that you see TA’s getting to class before the first bell.”

“Oh!” Dan says, relieved. “Yeah, well... I just thought...” He scrambles for a reason that might not sound weird, coming up blank.

Phil chuckles. “It’s okay! I’m glad. Setting up for first period alone is always boring.”

“I’ll do my best to entertain you.” 

Phil giggles, then goes to one of the cupboards at the back of the room. He pulls out some unreasonably large rolls of craft paper, along with several bundles of bamboo sticks. 

Dan sets his mug down immediately, going to help him haul everything out. 

“Oh, thanks,” Phil says, surprised, as Dan takes some of the things from him. “Just put them on one of the tables.”

“What are we doing with these, then?” 

Phil laughs, glancing at him. “Wait and see.”

Dan rolls his eyes, smirking. “Such an enigma.”

“It’s all part of the experience.” Phil says. “I’ve got to be mysterious and keep the kids questioning everything. Their curiosity makes them more receptive, I find.”

Dan nods thoughtfully, considering this philosophy. “But I’m not a student.”

“True.” Phil allows. He places the rolls of craft paper down on a table, turning towards him. “Maybe I'm just trying to impress you.” 

Dan laughs awkwardly, not knowing what to say. He fiddles with the sticks of bamboo, swallowing. 

“How was your weekend?” He asks, deciding a subject change is probably for the best. 

“Good!” Phil says brightly. “It was my brother’s birthday. I baked him a hummingbird cake.” 

“A hummingbird cake?” 

Phil chuckles. “Yeah! It’s pineapple and banana flavour with cream cheese frosting. Also I made it into the shape of a hummingbird, because why not?”

“Right.” Dan says, at a loss for what to say. “Why not?” 

“Wanna see?” 

Dan smiles, nodding, and Phil walks over to him, digging his phone out of his pocket. Dan stares at the device in Phil’s hands as he scrolls through his photos. 

This is the object he’d used to message Dan on Friday. Dan’s number is now saved into it. He is, in some small way, more intimately connected to Phil through this rectangular slice of technology. 

“Sorry, I took lots of photos of my brother.” Phil says, laughing, swiping through several pictures of a grumpy looking man in a glittery party hat. “He hates having his picture taken. Oh, here it is.” 

Phil moves closer, his shoulder pressing into Dan’s. He’s deliciously warm compared to the chilly, early morning air in this room, and he smells strongly of the coffee Dan covered him in a few minutes ago. 

He tilts the phone for Dan to see. The cake is astonishing to behold. It’s been moulded into a 3D hummingbird, complete with a chocolate pocky stick for a beak, and covered entirely in a pastel rainbow of frosting. 

“Okay, wow,” Dan says, not bothering to hide how impressed he is. “I was expecting a half-hearted attempt to shape a flat cake into the Twitter symbol... but that’s incredible.”

Phil giggles, looking bashful. “Thanks! It was tasty too, which is a bonus.”

“What do I have to do to get you to bake for me?” 

Phil turns his head to face Dan, still just a little too close. “Hm, I can think of some things.”

Dan can feel it as Phil leans a little more into him, his shoulder pressing slightly harder. He holds his breath, feeling like a rabbit caught in the path of a devious fox. 

And then the bell rings, of course. 

Phil leans away again, still smiling, just as the first students begin to bowl through the door. Jonah happens to be one of them, and he lets out a low whistle as he walks through strolls into the room.

“Oi, sir, you givin’ Mr Howell your number?” 

Phil laughs, pocketing the phone in his hand and moving swiftly away. “Nice to see you too, Jonah. How was your weekend?”

Dan tries to hide his furious blush by going to retrieve his coffee from the desk where he left it. 

The rest of the students file in, and Phil welcomes them all in his usual chipper way. For the first fifteen minutes, Phil does a brief recap of the last lesson about the Algerian War, then introduces the topic they’ll be looking at today, following on from it. 

Today they’re going to start studying the failed revolution of May 1968 in France. 

To emulate the frustration of the liberals taking part in the revolution, they’re going to make pickets and signs with anti-capitalist slogans out of craft paper and bamboo. 

Phil gives them an entertaining rundown of all the issues the left-wing majority of French society had in 1968, and then he tells everyone to get into this mindset, and begin crafting. 

It’s a bit of a madhouse from that point on. The students, despite being in Year Nine, seem to love being let loose with the art supplies. They’re excessive with their use of paint and glitter, creating huge, garish signs with aggressive messages. 

A few of Dan’s favourites read: 

‘We stand, we march, we dab’

‘Marx’s favourite bitchez’

‘Communism ftw’

‘Destroy France’s capitalist infrastructure u cowards’

Phil is loving the enthusiasm so much that he even lets a few curse words slide, though he does insist that Jonah change his sign to ‘We are unTRUCKable’, for the sake of his reputation as a teacher. 

Once the signs are more or less completed, Phil claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Right! Ready to get out there and protest?” 

The class look confused, a hush falling over them as they look at one another blankly. 

“Protest what, sir?” Jonah asks.

Phil tuts. “Haven’t you been paying attention? If we don’t protest, then nothing will change! Workers and students will forever be bottom of the ladder! We have to push the change! We must make Marx proud!” 

Dan stares at Phil like he’s gone insane, as do most of the students. 

“But...” A shy, timid girl Dan thinks is called Anita, pipes up. “This is all in the past, right? They already protested this in France in 1968.” 

Phil beams at her, winking. “True. But tell me, gang, has the fall of capitalism come to pass?”

The students shake their heads, looking unsure. 

“Exactly, Anita!” Phil cries. “So, did the effort these French liberals put in have any effect?”

“No,” Anita answers, her eyes round as she gazes at Phil. “They failed.”

“So we should continue what they started.” Phil says, picking up a nearby bamboo stick and raising it high. “Who’s with me? For the revolutionaries of ‘68!”

The class cheer suddenly, finally catching the glint in Phil’s eye. They grab their pickets, and follow Phil as he strides to the door of the classroom. Not knowing how else to respond, Dan hurries after them, a little panicked as the crowd of fourteen-year-olds pour out into the hall. 

If only his deadly strict advisor from teacher-training could see him now. The Health and Safety of most of Phil’s activities would absolutely not pass regulations. 

“What do we want?” Phil cries, oblivious to his own rule-breaking as he marches the gaggle of teenagers down the corridor. 

“Revolution!” Jonah shouts, laughing. 

“When do we want it?” 

“Uh, 1968?” Someone calls out, and Phil chuckles.

“Ideally, yeah, but forty-nine years later works too.” 

Marvelling at the boldness of this man, as usual, Dan jogs to the front of the pack of students, marching along beside Phil. 

The rest of the class begin a chant of their own, their signs waving above them in the air as they walk determinedly through the school. 

Several classroom doors open, and students and teachers alike poke their heads out into the corridor, laughing and pointing as they pass by. 

“You’re nuts,” Dan says to Phil, feeling breathless with the adrenaline of this mad activity. “Won’t the other teachers hate you for this? You’re probably disrupting a few classes.”

Phil laughs, shrugging. “Maybe.”

He grins at Dan as he veers unexpectedly to a nearby door leading to the playground. He holds it open for the students as they march through; several of them high five he and Dan as they go. 

Dan smirks at Phil. “I think you might be some other people’s favourite teacher too.” 

*

Dan tries not to be too gloomy as he helps gather up all the students’ pickets at the end of class. There are now just under three and a half days separating him from his next chance to assist Phil in the classroom. 

Sure, he might be able to snag some of Phil’s attention during lunch and break times between now and Thursday, but it’s not the same as having a full hour with him. 

“Guys, before you leave!” Phil shouts as the students pack away their things. “I thought that, as we’re studying the ‘68 revolution, it’d be cool for you to see a French film from around that time! Cinema is really important in French history, as a lot of the prominent left-wing figures were filmmakers, and they produced some really cool stuff about this period.” 

Dan looks up in interest, wondering where Phil is going with this. 

“So basically, as there isn’t enough time to show a whole film during class, I thought it’d be fun to have a little film night this week!” Phil tells everyone, beaming. The class squeal in excitement. “I thought Wednesday evening would work. I’ll bring a film in, and if you’re free that evening, stay behind after school and we can all watch it together!” 

The class all begin chattering at once, the excitement evident in their voices, even if it’s difficult to distinguish exactly what they’re saying. 

“Sounds like you’re all keen!” Phil laughs. “So if you can make it, I’ll start the film at about four on Wednesday.” 

“Have you invited Mr Howell, sir?” Jonah calls out, turning to wink at Dan. 

Dan glares at him, trying to suppress his own urge to blush. 

Phil chuckles, turning to Dan. “Is Mr Howell interested in coming along?”

Dan reaches up to rub the back of his neck, feeling awkward. At least twenty-six pairs of eyes glue themselves to him, eagerly awaiting his response. 

“Um... sure.” Dan says at last, shrugging like it isn’t the most exciting thing he’s been invited to in months. “I’ll try and make it.” 

The class laugh, and Jonah chucks a ball of leftover craft paper at him. “Oh, got something better to do, sir?” 

Dan chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Fine, fine. I’ll be there.”

“Awesome.” Phil says; Dan catches his eye, and has to keep himself from grinning. 

*

“Hey, we’re going to the pub tomorrow.” Tyler tells Dan on Tuesday, falling face first onto Dan’s bed. 

“I’m never going to the pub with you and Teddy again after last time.” Dan tells him, kicking Tyler with his foot in a vague attempt to push him off the bed. 

He’s been scrolling through Tumblr for an hour or so now, but just because he’s been holed up in his room since he got in from work, does not mean that Tyler gets to just wander in and annoy him. 

“Aw, come on, that’s mean.” Tyler says, pouting at Dan. “Stephanie won’t even be there this time, I swear.” 

Dan swallows, shaking his head as he turns back to his screen. “Nope, sorry.”

“Dan, you know we’re not gonna let you mope about the house while we go out.” Tyler says, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Well, you don’t need to worry.” Dan says, feeling awkward. “I won’t be here.”

Tyler is quiet for a moment, then perks up, catlike, catching the scent of some gossip. “Oh?”

Dan just presses his lips together, saying nothing. He reblogs a photo of a cute panda, trying to stay calm. 

“Teddy!” Tyler yells, making Dan jump. “Dan’s keeping secrets!”

Dan looks up at him with scorn. “Tyler, don’t be-”

Teddy bursts into the room, wearing an apron with a naked man’s torso on the front, a spatula in one hand. 

“Secrets?” Teddy asks, wide eyes darting between Tyler and Dan. “What secrets?”

“Dan has secret plans tomorrow night.” Tyler informs him, grinning. 

“Plans?” Teddy repeats, acting shocked. “But Ty, Dan doesn’t have any friends apart from us!”

“Wrong.” Dan says gruffly. “You two are not my friends, I hate you both.”

“Is it a date?” Tyler asks, sucking in a gasp. 

Teddy leaps onto the bed beside Tyler, squealing. “Oh my God, is it a date, Dan?!” 

Dan rolls his eyes. “For Christ’s sake, no. It’s not a date.” 

He could never, in a million years, be that lucky. 

Just then, his phone pings. Ignoring the probing eyes of his two housemates, Dan plucks the thing out of his pocket to look. 

18:34 Phil Lester 🌠 excited for some french cinema tomorrow night? je suis trés  joyeux que tu viennes! :)

Dan’s heart flutters, registering who the text is from, and then his phone is being plucked out of his hand. 

“No!” Dan cries, lunging for Tyler. “Wait, don’t-”

“Okay, who is Phil?” Tyler asks, holding the phone out of Dan’s reach; Teddy grabs hold of Dan by the waist, restraining him. 

“Ooh, Phil!” Teddy repeats, giggling. “I knew you were looking for a man.”

“I honestly loathe you both.” Dan grits out, struggling uselessly against Teddy’s grip. 

“French cinema?” Tyler asks, tilting his head to one side. “Is that code for something?” 

“Give me back the phone, Tyler.” Dan says, going limp in Teddy’s arms, defeated. 

“We’re just taking an interest in your personal life, Dan,” Teddy says soothingly, patting Dan on the head. 

“Phil’s just... he’s a guy I work with.” Dan says, feeling the redness spread over his cheeks and neck, betraying him. 

“Hmm,” Tyler says, throwing Dan’s phone aside at last. “A guy who is ‘very happy you’re coming’ tomorrow.” Dan blushes harder, not having worked out what the French bit had meant just yet. “Is ‘Phil’... how do you say, un beefcake?”

“Is he a teacher?” Teddy asks excitedly, releasing Dan in order to cover his own mouth with both hands. 

“He’s a teacher, yes.” Dan confirms, snatching up his phone and pocketing it. 

“God, that’s hot.” Tyler sighs, looking wistful. “And he speaks French. Think of the roleplay opportunities.”

“Aw, we can try some schoolteacher roleplay, babe,” Teddy assures Tyler, patting him on the shoulder. 

“Fine, but I get to wear the cute schoolgirl outfit.” 

Teddy rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

“I’m pretty sure I can smell burning,” Dan says, sniffing the air in distaste. 

“Shit!” Teddy exclaims, grabbing his spatula and jumping off the bed. 

As he bolts out of the door, the fire alarm begins to shriek, making Tyler scream with laughter. 

“Everything’s fine!” Teddy calls from the kitchen. 

Despite the irritation sitting under his skin, eventually Dan finds himself joining in the laughter too. 

*

Dan is half an hour early to the film screening. 

He would have come straight from his last class, which ended at 3pm, but he decided to make a quick trip to the grocery store round the corner from school. 

He returns with two enormous bags, shuffling through Phil’s classroom door with some difficulty. Phil looks at the bags in surprise, coming over to help Dan haul them in. 

“What’s this?” Phil asks, clearly intrigued. As he takes one of the bags from Dan’s hand, he looks him in the eye. “Hi, by the way. Haven’t seen you all day!” 

Dan chuckles, setting his own carrier bag on Phil’s desk. “Hi. I brought popcorn!” 

“Oh, God,” Phil moans unexpectedly. “As if you could get any more amazing.”

Dan chuckles awkwardly, a warm glow spreading through his gut. “Uh, you like popcorn?”

“It’s literally my favourite food of all time,” Phil tells him seriously. “How did you know?” 

“Damn, I need to be more subtle with my stalking.” Dan says, making Phil laugh so much that he drops one of the bags. “Anyway, it’s not all for you.” 

“In that case, the kids better hurry up before I inhale it all.”

Dan laughs, watching fondly as Phil flits around the classroom, closing blinds and straightening chairs. The projector is on, currently throwing an image of Phil’s desktop background onto the smartboard. Behind his jumble of icons, there’s a picture of what seems to be a large, photoshopped capybara taking up an entire paddling pool. 

Dan decides not to question it. 

“So what film have you picked for us all?”

Phil beams at him. “It’s called Les Quatre-Cents Coups. Have you heard of it?”

Dan shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching in an almost smile. It’s obvious to see how passionate Phil is about this subject; he talks animatedly, looking eager and focused.

It’s adorable.

“Wow!” Phil exclaims. “I’m kind of jealous. I wish I could go back to a time before I’d seen it.”

“What’s it about?” Dan asks, mostly in an effort to keep Phil talking.

“Oh... well, it’s about a little boy mainly. An underprivileged boy living in Paris. But it’s about much more than that really. It’s about the oppressive structures of French economy in the fifties, classism, the bourgeoise... and it’s about growing up, y’know? How even if we all experience it differently, there’s a certain relatability about puberty too.” Phil pauses, reddening a little. He chuckles. “I mean, that’s what I take from it, anyway. I studied the history of French Cinema for a while, so I’m a bit of a geek about it. But you can form your own opinions, obviously.”

“Me?” Dan says, laughing. “I dunno. I don’t know the first thing about film. Apart from that I like going to the cinema.”

“Well that’s a good place to start.” Phil tells him happily. “There’s all sorts of theories about spectatorhood, and why audiences enjoy the activity of going to the cinema, watching films as a collective experience...”

Phil trails off again, shaking his head.

“Okay, you have to stop me if I start rambling, Dan. I get carried away.”

“I think it’s cute.” Dan says before he thinks about it.

Phil’s eyebrow lifts in surprise, but he seems to take the comment in his stride. Dan, on the other hand, blushes furiously, cursing himself for being so transparent.

“I think you’re just too nice to tell me to shut up,” Phil jokes, but he lets his eyes linger on Dan’s, warm and fond.

Luckily, before Dan can shove his foot any further into his mouth, a couple of girls from the class wander in, looking trepidatious.

“Hi, uh... can we come in yet, sir?”

“Of course, Joanna!” Phil says, jumping down from his position on the desk. “Hi Bethany! Would you guys mind helping me and Mr Howell to set up?”

They jump to the tasks Phil gives them happily, chattering to him about the petty dramas of their day, complaining about their homework and the fallouts they’re having with friends.

Dan watches with amusement, marvelling - as always - at the ease with which Phil converses with his students, giving each one his undivided attention while they’re speaking, never replying in a condescending tone.

He’s such a rare gem of a teacher, Dan thinks. Phil sends Joanna to the staffroom to collect bowls, and they put one on each table, filled with popcorn.

Soon enough, the other kids begin to arrive, all wearing the thrilled grins Dan remembers from when he used to stay behind after school. There’s something about being in the building outside of the mandatory hours that just seems a bit naughty. It doesn’t matter that they’re here for what is essentially an extended history lesson - the students are excited to be involved in this extra-curricular activity.

Dan hasn’t asked them, but he’d bet a lot of that excitement comes from having Phil here, providing his ever-shining rays of brilliant, sunny exuberance.

The kids take their seats, restless at first, but settling in once Phil dims the lights and presses play. Dan finds a seat on one of the empty tables at the back, and is all prepared to expand his cultural knowledge with some French Cinema. Then, once he’s sure the film is running, Phil walks to the back of the class and slides into the seat right beside him.

Immediately, Dan releases any hope he was holding onto of immersing himself in the film.

“Ready?” Phil asks in a low, quiet voice that pierces straight through Dan’s gut. 

He’s leaning in close, eyes sparkling as the light of the opening credits reflect in them.

All Dan can do is nod silently, and try not to let the squeak out of his throat.

Phil’s one of those people who doesn’t shut up during a film. Dan hates those sorts of people usually, but he can’t seem to find Phil’s inability to keep his comments to himself anything but ridiculously cute.

His musings vary from the way in which the cinematography emphasises certain aspects of the narrative, to the strange dress sense Parisians had in the days of the 'nouvelle vague’, as he calls it.

He talks so much that he is shushed by the students more than once, but he just giggles and apologises in a stage whisper, to which the students roll their eyes.

“See that?” Phil says at one point, basically pressing himself against Dan’s side in order to point at the screen. “The photo of the man Antoine is putting on his shrine? That’s Balzac. He’s one of the founders of realism in literature.”

Dan smiles. “How meta.”

The responding look Phil gives to Dan is something so warm and proud that Dan wants to melt it down and spread it on a thick slab of toast.

“Exactly.”

Their hands meet in the popcorn. It’s like something out a cringey teen TV show. Phil just laughs and winks at him, but Dan about faints from how fast the blood rushes to his cheeks.

Phil seems to have no issues about personal space, and allows their legs to rest comfortably against each other beneath the table. He’ll grab Dan’s shoulder during his favourite scenes, eyes shining, breath held as he watches the screen.

Honestly, by the time the final shot (apparently an incredibly famous moment in film history) appears, Dan is not totally sure whether he’d be able to say what the film had been about. He’d spent quite a lot of it staring at Phil, and the rest of it thinking about how it felt - elating, blissful, drug-like - to sit beside him in the darkness, in a room where everyone else was steadfastly facing the other way.

Phil turns to him as the image fades to black, a knowing glint in his eye.

“Did you like it?”

Dan stammers out something that isn’t really words, and nods emphatically to make up for it. Phil grins at him, tongue slightly visible through his rows of teeth, and then he stands up, much to Dan’s dismay.

“So that was Les Quatre-Cents Coups!” Phil says to the class, climbing up to sit on the desk at which he and Dan had been sat. Dan cranes his neck upwards, leaning back in his chair to watch as Phil crosses his legs underneath him on the table. “Could someone get the lights, please? Thanks Bethany.”

The lights flash on, garish and bright, and the class groan, rubbing their eyes.

“What did we all think of it, then?” Phil asks, beaming.

“Awesome!” Someone shouts.

“I thought I hated black and white films, but that was cool.” 

“I loved it! Paris is so beautiful.” 

“That kid was well sick at acting, sir.” 

Phil nods encouragingly as students call out their opinions. 

Jonah snorts loudly. “I couldn’t concentrate on half of it. Kept gettin’ distracted by Mr Lester and Mr Howell flirting in the back!”

Phil laughs, shooting Jonah a disapproving look. His smile stays in place though. 

“I’m sure Mr Howell has far better options, Jonah.” Phil teases, and Dan just tries to pretend he’s somewhere else. 

He might kill Jonah at some point, he considers. 

Then, someone sticks up their hand. Phil points at the kid, smiling. 

“Yes, Matt?”

“What’s the title mean in English, sir?”

“Well, the English version of the film is called The Four-Hundred Blows.” Phil answers. “Which is actually an inaccurate translation, as it doesn’t mean anything. The original title comes from a phrase that people use a lot in France - ‘faire les quatre cents coups’ - which kind of means ‘to raise hell’. It suits Antoine, don’t you think?”

“Suits me, sir!” Jonah calls out, making everyone chuckle. “I’mma start sayin’ that. What was it again? Fair lezzer cooper?”

Phil laughs, hands holding his ankles as he leans backwards. It’s such a sweet action, so innocent and playful, that Dan can’t help smiling.

“Faire les quatre cents coups,” Phil corrects gently, enunciating each word. “I think it suits you as well, Jonah.”

Joanna is sat at the table in front of theirs, her chin in one hand as she gazes up at Phil, marvelling.

“Do you speak French, sir?” Joanna asks, obviously smitten. Dan can relate.

Phil beams at her. “Yeah, I do! I spent a year studying in Paris.”

Dan’s eyebrows lift in surprise. He’d suspected that Phil knew a few phrases, but the fact he speaks fluent French is a surprise. Why is that such an attractive quality?

He imagines Phil speaking to him in that low, quiet voice he reserves for when he wants to tell Dan something the class or another teacher shouldn’t overhear, but in French. A warm trickle runs teasingly up his thighs, like light, tracing fingers. A full body tremor comes over him. 

Phil throws a glance towards him, presumably having seen that peculiar reaction. Dan doesn’t miss the way his mouth twitches in a smile.

“That’s so dreamy,” Joanna sighs, retrieving Phil’s attention. She sits bolt upright, blushing. “I mean! It’s a dreamy language.” The rest of the class chuckle, and she reddens further. “I wish I could speak it is all!”

“Well, you’re in luck!” Phil announces suddenly. “Because as you may or may not be aware, our Year Nine History trip is coming up in two weeks time!”

The class immediately descend into loud, excited chatter; students grab at each other, squealing.

“Hey, come on, guys! Calm down, we’re here after hours, remember?” Phil calls out, but he’s grinning, evidently pleased by their enthusiasm. The class simmer down gradually, their buzz of excitement still palpable in the air. “So, yeah! We’re off to Paris for a weekend! If you can make it, it’s only fifteen pounds per student, and if you can’t stretch that, come and have a word with me, I’m sure we can work something out.”

Dan’s eyes soften as he listens to this last part. This man really is one of a kind.

Again, the class begin talking animatedly about the trip, discussing outfit choices, places they want to visit, room sharing, and other trivialities.

“Are we going up the Eiffel Tower, sir?” Someone asks.

“I’m scared of heights!”

“Where are we staying?”

“Are we sharing rooms?”

“Are we going by coach, or ferry?”

“Ooh, maybe we’re flying!”

“Can I bring my dog?”

“Hey!” Phil interrupts, hands held up in surrender. He’s laughing at them all. “All questions will be answered in class on Monday. I’ll also be sending out permission slips tonight via email, so get your folks or guardians to print them off and sign them, then bring them to me when they’re ready.”

“Sir, I just have one more question!” Jonah cries out, sticking up his hand and waving it. “Just one, sir, please?”

Phil sighs, clearly debating it. Eventually though, he rolls his eyes and nods, smiling. “Go on then. Just one.”

Jonah grins, eyes flicking to meet Dan’s. “Is Mr Howell coming with us?”

Phil lets out a low chuckle, his vivid blue eyes sliding to Dan’s, questioning. 

“I don’t know,” Phil says in a voice that surely isn’t appropriate for the situation at hand. Dan swallows, feeling singled out by the gaze. “Is he?”

(Part Four!)

[orbemnews]

When Justice Breyer rules (on retirement), White House might know first Breyer, 82, has declined to speak publicly on any retirement intentions. But if he decides to step down this spring or next, history suggests he will slip early word to President Joe Biden and the public will not know until weeks later. That was the protocol for Breyer’s predecessor, Justice Harry Blackmun, in 1994, when he privately told President Bill Clinton months before his retirement announcement on April 6. More recently, Justice John Paul Stevens in 2010 quietly passed his intention to retire to President Barack Obama. Obama’s administration then reached out behind the scenes to possible candidates. White House counsel Bob Bauer called now-Justice Elena Kagan on March 5, 2010, according to details she later provided to the Senate Judiciary Committee. Only when Stevens formally announced on April 9 did the public learn he was leaving. The pattern is not confined to Democratic presidents. In March 1981, two months after Republican Ronald Reagan became president, Justice Potter Stewart invited then-Attorney General William French Smith to his Washington home and told him in confidence that he would be stepping down that June. The conversation triggered a stealthy search for the first female justice, as Reagan had promised as a candidate. Reagan settled in July 1981 on Sandra Day O’Connor, then an Arizona state court judge. Breyer did not respond to questions about his retirement plans or any White House contact. He has appeared healthy and energized in his many extracurricular Zoom appearances with academic and legal groups. He speaks from the Cambridge, Massachusetts, home he shares with his wife, a daughter and three grandchildren, rather than from his usual chambers lined with a private collection of antique books. Breyer enjoys many off-bench pursuits, including architectural study, and some people close to him believe his understanding of nomination politics, along with those varied interests, would prompt him to retire this year or next. A White House spokesman declined to comment Wednesday on whether any Supreme Court justices have signaled their intentions to retire. Opportunity to make a mark A Supreme Court vacancy presents any president with a tantalizing choice and an enormous chance to make a mark on American law. But the selection and confirmation of a justice can also be time-consuming, politically fraught and a distraction from other executive branch business. Ideally, a new White House would prepare for the opportunity but not be overwhelmed by it, as Cabinet officers are confirmed, legislative priorities launched and nominations for lifetime lower-court seats begin. Once a high court vacancy becomes public, the pressure from would-be nominees and their supporters intensifies. Biden vowed during the 2020 campaign to name the first African American woman to the bench, so supporters of individual Black jurists have already been making their cases in public and private. The New York Times reported that Rep. James Clyburn recently urged Vice President Kamala Harris to consider South Carolina-based US District Judge Michelle Childs for the high court. Clyburn, a long-serving African American Democrat from South Carolina, endorsed Biden at a crucial stage of the presidential campaign and is widely credited with helping him win the Democratic nomination. Other African American judges who enjoy significant support in legal circles and among liberal advocates include US District Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson, based in Washington and a former law clerk to Breyer, and California Supreme Court Justice Leondra Kruger, a former law clerk to Stevens and lawyer in the US solicitor general’s office, where she argued regularly before the nine justices. When Biden first made the pledge during a February 2020 debate in Charleston, South Carolina, he said, “I’m looking forward to making sure there’s a Black woman on the Supreme Court, to make sure we in fact get every representation.” RELATED: John Roberts has another chance to diminish the Voting Rights Act Veterans of SCOTUS nomination process This President is a veteran of selection politicking, as is his chief of staff, Ron Klain. Biden, a senator for more than three decades, chaired the Senate Judiciary Committee, including during the Supreme Court confirmation hearings for Robert Bork in 1987 and Clarence Thomas in 1991. (The Senate voted down Bork and confirmed Thomas.) Klain served as the Judiciary Committee chief counsel from 1989 to 1992. Breyer has his own earlier connection to the Judiciary Committee. He was committee counsel in the mid-1970s and its chief counsel in 1979-1980. Even after becoming an appellate judge and then a Supreme Court justice, Breyer remained captivated by Senate politics and would be aware of the benefits to Biden of a Democratic-controlled Senate. Republicans, who earlier held a narrow majority, confirmed President Donald Trump’s three nominees after abolishing the rule requiring 60 votes to break a filibuster. For the Supreme Court, now controlled by a 6-3 conservative-liberal majority, a Breyer retirement and succession by another liberal would not alter the ideological split. Yet a Biden choice would offer new diversity and youth. In his 27 years on the high court, Breyer has been a low-profile but crucial player. He is a solid liberal but believes in bridging differences when possible and has tried to find compromise between the right-wing majority and remaining liberals. When conservative Chief Justice John Roberts has shifted to the center, as when he voted in 2012 to uphold the Affordable Care Act, it has often involved some negotiations with Breyer and fellow liberal Justice Elena Kagan. In upcoming months, the justices will certainly confront new legal challenges to Biden’s policy agenda, along with cases heading their way that test abortion rights, racial remedies, religious liberty and gun regulation. Making the list While early word of a retirement forces an administration to focus on candidates, a White House team typically has some list of possible names ready if an opening suddenly occurs. That was the situation for then-President Donald Trump when Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg died suddenly last September. Trump had already interviewed his eventual nominee, Judge Amy Coney Barrett. Similarly, when Justice Antonin Scalia died in 2016, Obama chose Judge Merrick Garland, who had previously been on his Supreme Court short list. The Senate Republicans refused to hold a hearing or vote on Garland’s nomination for nine months, leaving an immediate vacancy for Trump. Biden has selected Garland to be his new attorney general. During President George W. Bush’s first term, his legal team interviewed appellate judges for possible elevation, but it was only in his second term that an opportunity for appointment arose. (Justice O’Connor announced her intention to retire on July 1, 2005, and Chief Justice William Rehnquist died two months later, on September 3.) Former Attorney General Alberto Gonzales referred in a memoir to Bush’s “habit of going with his gut” and wrote that “it was all the more important that I meet with the serious contenders and get to know them on a personal level. Well before any Supreme Court vacancies occurred during the Bush administration, I met privately with Samuel Alito and Emilio Garza in my West Wing office. I met with Michael Luttig at his home in northern Virginia. I spent an hour with John Roberts in April 2005 in my office at the Department of Justice.” Bush initially nominated Roberts for the O’Connor slot but then moved him to the chief justice post when Rehnquist died. Bush then selected Alito for the O’Connor opening. Such serendipity can upend plans. But one consistency in recent decades has been spring timing. Justices announce their retirement intentions to coincide with the last weeks of the annual Supreme Court term. That way, a presidential choice for successor can be subject to the Senate confirmation process in the summer and ready for the new session, which begins on the first Monday in October. When Clinton first took office in 1993, Justice Byron White revealed his decision to retire on March 19. He said he would leave in late June when the court began its summer recess but that he wanted to give Clinton sufficient time to choose a successor. (Clinton selected Ginsburg.) Justice White decided against giving word secretly. Rather, he asked a former law clerk then serving as an associate White House counsel to convey his retirement letter to Clinton. The Supreme Court then made White’s letter public. That former White-clerk-turned-Clinton-counsel? Current chief of staff Klain. In White’s brief letter, the justice wrote that after 31 years on the high court, he thought “someone else should be permitted to have a like experience.” CNN’s Jeff Zeleny contributed to this report. Source link Orbem News #Breyer #House #Justice #Politics #retirement #rules #theWhiteHousemightknowfirst-CNNPolitics #WhenJusticeStephenBreyerrules(onretirement) #White

[dipulb3]

When Justice Breyer rules (on retirement), White House might know first

New Post has been published on https://appradab.com/when-justice-breyer-rules-on-retirement-white-house-might-know-first/

When Justice Breyer rules (on retirement), White House might know first

Breyer, 82, has declined to speak publicly on any retirement intentions. But if he decides to step down this spring or next, history suggests he will slip early word to President Joe Biden and the public will not know until weeks later.

That was the protocol for Breyer’s predecessor, Justice Harry Blackmun, in 1994, when he privately told President Bill Clinton months before his retirement announcement on April 6. More recently, Justice John Paul Stevens in 2010 quietly passed his intention to retire to President Barack Obama.

Obama’s administration then reached out behind the scenes to possible candidates. White House counsel Bob Bauer called now-Justice Elena Kagan on March 5, 2010, according to details she later provided to the Senate Judiciary Committee. Only when Stevens formally announced on April 9 did the public learn he was leaving.

The pattern is not confined to Democratic presidents. In March 1981, two months after Republican Ronald Reagan became president, Justice Potter Stewart invited then-Attorney General William French Smith to his Washington home and told him in confidence that he would be stepping down that June. The conversation triggered a stealthy search for the first female justice, as Reagan had promised as a candidate. Reagan settled in July 1981 on Sandra Day O’Connor, then an Arizona state court judge.

Breyer did not respond to questions about his retirement plans or any White House contact.

He has appeared healthy and energized in his many extracurricular Zoom appearances with academic and legal groups. He speaks from the Cambridge, Massachusetts, home he shares with his wife, a daughter and three grandchildren, rather than from his usual chambers lined with a private collection of antique books. Breyer enjoys many off-bench pursuits, including architectural study, and some people close to him believe his understanding of nomination politics, along with those varied interests, would prompt him to retire this year or next.

A White House spokesman declined to comment Wednesday on whether any Supreme Court justices have signaled their intentions to retire.

Opportunity to make a mark

A Supreme Court vacancy presents any president with a tantalizing choice and an enormous chance to make a mark on American law. But the selection and confirmation of a justice can also be time-consuming, politically fraught and a distraction from other executive branch business.

Ideally, a new White House would prepare for the opportunity but not be overwhelmed by it, as Cabinet officers are confirmed, legislative priorities launched and nominations for lifetime lower-court seats begin.

Once a high court vacancy becomes public, the pressure from would-be nominees and their supporters intensifies. Biden vowed during the 2020 campaign to name the first African American woman to the bench, so supporters of individual Black jurists have already been making their cases in public and private.

The New York Times reported that Rep. James Clyburn recently urged Vice President Kamala Harris to consider South Carolina-based US District Judge Michelle Childs for the high court. Clyburn, a long-serving African American Democrat from South Carolina, endorsed Biden at a crucial stage of the presidential campaign and is widely credited with helping him win the Democratic nomination.

Other African American judges who enjoy significant support in legal circles and among liberal advocates include US District Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson, based in Washington and a former law clerk to Breyer, and California Supreme Court Justice Leondra Kruger, a former law clerk to Stevens and lawyer in the US solicitor general’s office, where she argued regularly before the nine justices.

When Biden first made the pledge during a February 2020 debate in Charleston, South Carolina, he said, “I’m looking forward to making sure there’s a Black woman on the Supreme Court, to make sure we in fact get every representation.”

RELATED: John Roberts has another chance to diminish the Voting Rights Act

Veterans of SCOTUS nomination process

This President is a veteran of selection politicking, as is his chief of staff, Ron Klain.

Biden, a senator for more than three decades, chaired the Senate Judiciary Committee, including during the Supreme Court confirmation hearings for Robert Bork in 1987 and Clarence Thomas in 1991. (The Senate voted down Bork and confirmed Thomas.) Klain served as the Judiciary Committee chief counsel from 1989 to 1992.

Breyer has his own earlier connection to the Judiciary Committee. He was committee counsel in the mid-1970s and its chief counsel in 1979-1980. Even after becoming an appellate judge and then a Supreme Court justice, Breyer remained captivated by Senate politics and would be aware of the benefits to Biden of a Democratic-controlled Senate. Republicans, who earlier held a narrow majority, confirmed President Donald Trump’s three nominees after abolishing the rule requiring 60 votes to break a filibuster.

For the Supreme Court, now controlled by a 6-3 conservative-liberal majority, a Breyer retirement and succession by another liberal would not alter the ideological split. Yet a Biden choice would offer new diversity and youth.

In his 27 years on the high court, Breyer has been a low-profile but crucial player. He is a solid liberal but believes in bridging differences when possible and has tried to find compromise between the right-wing majority and remaining liberals. When conservative Chief Justice John Roberts has shifted to the center, as when he voted in 2012 to uphold the Affordable Care Act, it has often involved some negotiations with Breyer and fellow liberal Justice Elena Kagan.

In upcoming months, the justices will certainly confront new legal challenges to Biden’s policy agenda, along with cases heading their way that test abortion rights, racial remedies, religious liberty and gun regulation.

Making the list

While early word of a retirement forces an administration to focus on candidates, a White House team typically has some list of possible names ready if an opening suddenly occurs.

That was the situation for then-President Donald Trump when Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg died suddenly last September. Trump had already interviewed his eventual nominee, Judge Amy Coney Barrett.

Similarly, when Justice Antonin Scalia died in 2016, Obama chose Judge Merrick Garland, who had previously been on his Supreme Court short list. The Senate Republicans refused to hold a hearing or vote on Garland’s nomination for nine months, leaving an immediate vacancy for Trump. Biden has selected Garland to be his new attorney general.

During President George W. Bush’s first term, his legal team interviewed appellate judges for possible elevation, but it was only in his second term that an opportunity for appointment arose. (Justice O’Connor announced her intention to retire on July 1, 2005, and Chief Justice William Rehnquist died two months later, on September 3.)

Former Attorney General Alberto Gonzales referred in a memoir to Bush’s “habit of going with his gut” and wrote that “it was all the more important that I meet with the serious contenders and get to know them on a personal level. Well before any Supreme Court vacancies occurred during the Bush administration, I met privately with Samuel Alito and Emilio Garza in my West Wing office. I met with Michael Luttig at his home in northern Virginia. I spent an hour with John Roberts in April 2005 in my office at the Department of Justice.”

Bush initially nominated Roberts for the O’Connor slot but then moved him to the chief justice post when Rehnquist died. Bush then selected Alito for the O’Connor opening.

Such serendipity can upend plans. But one consistency in recent decades has been spring timing. Justices announce their retirement intentions to coincide with the last weeks of the annual Supreme Court term. That way, a presidential choice for successor can be subject to the Senate confirmation process in the summer and ready for the new session, which begins on the first Monday in October.

When Clinton first took office in 1993, Justice Byron White revealed his decision to retire on March 19. He said he would leave in late June when the court began its summer recess but that he wanted to give Clinton sufficient time to choose a successor. (Clinton selected Ginsburg.)

Justice White decided against giving word secretly. Rather, he asked a former law clerk then serving as an associate White House counsel to convey his retirement letter to Clinton. The Supreme Court then made White’s letter public.

That former White-clerk-turned-Clinton-counsel? Current chief of staff Klain.

In White’s brief letter, the justice wrote that after 31 years on the high court, he thought “someone else should be permitted to have a like experience.”

Appradab’s Jeff Zeleny contributed to this report.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Imagine if Jamie travelled through the stones, but instead of finding Claire in Boston he found himself having arrived years too early, when the War was still happening and Claire had yet to meet him... What would he do?

Notes from Mod Bonnie 

Trying something a bit new as a palate-cleanser, lads and lasses! 

Please do note that I am blissfully, unapologetically putting next-to-no effort into making this historically accurate. Soooo, if you’re in a military history/fact-checking/date-referencing mood… best take those efforts elsewhere ;D 

Hope you enjoy! 

The Last All-Clear 

September 17, 1942: A Rusty Nail 

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

17 September

Daytime rotation today.

No new battle casualties & all quiet in the distance, thank God. 

Did tend M. Danton (scored on the arm w/ rusted nail; antibiotics & sterile bandage to finish; strict instructions to report in 3 days for follow-up). 

A strange sort, and no two ways about it. 

“Claire—darling—dearest—You know how much I ADORE you, don’t you?”

I was already smirking—fondly, but smirking nonetheless—by the time I turned from restocking the supply cabinets for tomorrow. “How much do you adore me, Nance?”

“So much that I’ll do absolutely any of your chores—ALL your chores!!—for a week if you’ll go tend Danton??”

“Danton? The frenchman?” A glance revealed a familiar set of hunched shoulders (spilled over with filthy black hair) just visible through the cracked partition of the infirmary tent. “What’s happened to him?”

“Nothing serious. Says he got scraped by a nail or screw or something this morning and needs to be cleaned up a bit, but oh, please, Claire??” Nancy whined, grabbing both my hands in hers. “I know you were supposed to go off-duty at eight and it’s nine-thirty already but puh-LEASE will you take ten minutes before you go and be the one to tend him?? Please-please-pl—” 

“Good Lord, no need to go into a tizzy about it,” I laughed, a bit taken aback by how truly distraught she seemed. “Surely the man doesn’t bite!” Though in truth, I didn’t know that for certain.

I’d never spoken to him, nor even so much as looked him in the eye, but Danton—was his first name even known?— was a legend in camp. He’d joined the company a month or two ago, they said, one of the men-of-all-work that alternately served as laborer, orderly, handyman, gravedigger, or any other role requiring a strong back. Though I’d always gotten the sense he was past his prime, from the state of his clothing and posture and hygiene, a strong back Danton did have, and whatever his age might be, he was indispensable.  The camp always had to be ready to go into action, or even pick up and move entirely at a moment’s notice. In this chaotic wartime reality, with life and death so often on the line, a spare set of hands was always needful. 

There were a dozen such men in camp, all of them civilian frenchmen, but Danton was the only one people seemed to talk about; which was quite the irony, given that he was a man of notoriously few words. He kept always to himself, speaking only when directly addressed, gruffly and shortly when he was, crossing the verge of sheer bad-temperedness more often than not. Rooms tended to shift to low whispers when Danton entered, if not empty entirely.

It didn’t seem to bother him. The entirety of my experience with the man consisted of glimpses from across the camp or mess-hall. Yet, even that barest of acquaintance was enough to have convinced me that the unsmiling, grubby Danton—with his hunched shoulders, with that profoundly-unkempt black hair and drooping cap that together hid his eyes—wished to be left alone. 

My skin had prickled, though, whenever I had studied him, crawling with something I couldn’t quite put into words or even—

“He gives me the absolute heebie-jeebies!!” Nancy summarized neatly in a whisper. “I can’t do it, I just can’t! Anything you ask, Claire, and it’s done, but PLEASE be a brick and get me out of this??”

I would have agreed in any case—if for nothing more than to satisfy my own slightly-morbid curiosity— but I had absolutely no qualms over letting Nancy take my bedpan duties for a week out of the bargain.

….and surely the man DIDN’T bite?

“Monsieur Danton?”

He JUMPED as though shot, and I startled so violently (absurdly searching for elongated canines in the momentary panic) that I swore and dropped my tray, the bowl, cloth, and other impedimenta clattering and scattering all over the floor with great metallic crashes.

I was utterly mortified, positively dove to my hands and knees to gather the scattered supplies and hide my face, and then the sensation doubled to realize that the frenchman was on the ground beside me. I had only enough time to notice the juxtaposition of the fine leather glove on his left hand with the wretched filth of his clothing before he was placing the last item on the tray. “Thank you,” I mumbled awkwardly, glancing up to smile in thanks, and caught a momentary glimpse of vivid blue eyes before he recoiled, leaping to his feet and busying himself with getting the tray on the table. 

Shy, whatever else he might be. 

“Well, we’re off to a bumpy start, sol—Sir,” I managed with a weak laugh as I got to my feet, throwing myself fully into that ‘jovial commanding-officer’ character that had weathered many an awkward encounter in my career to-date. My usual script felt a little bereft without the useful address of ’soldier.’ “I’m Nurse Randall,” I said more briskly, clearing my throat with a smile.  “I’m told you need medical attention for your arm?”

He rolled up his sleeve without so much as a word. Very well, down to busin—

“Good LORD!” I gasped, stepping forward and reaching for the arm, then pushing him down into the chair. Not merely a scrape: it was a slash, a wicked, deep one, about two inches long, just below the right elbow. “This needs stitches! What the bloody hell happened?” 

No answer. 

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I said more kindly in French, “Monsieur, will you tell me what happened to your arm?”

No nod. No grunt. The brute didn’t bother even to raise his chin from his chest. 

No language barrier, then: just an arse.  

I reached for the antiseptic, my nostrils flaring. “Will you look at the state of this?” The blood had long since clotted, but the wound clearly hadn’t been washed, let alone sterilized. “Why in God’s name didn’t you come and get help for it right away?”

Silence.

“Excuse me, I am TALKING to you,” I snapped, choosing to stick with French for castigation as I prepared the suturing supplies. “Why didn’t you bother coming for help unt—?”

“Do what’s-must to prevent the festering and I’ll be going, yes?” he snapped back with such venom that I would have gasped if I weren’t so grounded in pique. 

So: he was both capable of speech and every bit as ill-tempered for it.  Lord, give me the strength not to SLAP this man. I bit my tongue and cleansed the wound in icy silence.

“Far from home?” I blurted testily, when the tension became too insufferable even for me. 

His head snapped up.

“Your accent,” I clarified as I reached for a clean cloth, genuinely curious despite my ire, “—your syntax. It’s not a standard dialect…nor like the other frenchmen in camp, I think?” 

“No.”

I had about an ounce of pleasantness left in me and I scraped it up to force a smile. “Grow up in the country, eh?”

“Yes.”

“…Care to share where?” 

“No.”

“Well, you’re just a blooming basket of violet-scented rainbows, aren’t you?” I snapped in English. “Hold bloody still, this will hurt and you’ll deserve every blasted bit of it.” I gritted my teeth and swore under my breath as I began stitching, in absolutely no mood for grumpy man-children. “Jesus H. Roosevelt CHRIST.”

By complete chance, standing bent over his arm as I began to stitch, I happened to be looking down at his mouth as I said it. To my absolute gobsmacked surprise, I saw a smile twitching at the corners, small and restrained, as though he were trying very much not to show it, but clear as day: a tiny smile verging on a grin. 

Well…! Not a *complete* automaton, then. 

I was taken still further aback when the mouth opened and said quietly in French without looking up, “Forgive me, please, Madame. I do not mean you ill.” The tone told me he was being genuine.  “It is only that I do not very much like—speaking.”

“It’s good to work at things you don’t like doing,” I said, fixing what I could see of his face with a sardonic glare between stitches, but trying not to smile. “Builds character.”  

Another infinitesimal twitch of the lips before he dropped his head, strings of wavy black hair hiding his features entirely. “It is—a small bit more easy to manage, in French.”  

“We’ll stick with the Français then,” I said, letting a smile show in my voice.

I finished the stitching and sterilization in a more comfortable silence. He took the hypodermic needle without so much as a wince, though I could see him watching it intently, sternly almost, as though not entirely sure what to make of it. From the country, indeed. 

“You’re so much younger than I would have supposed.” 

“…I beg your pardon, Madame?” 

I could hardly fault him for being taken aback, as I had blurted it with absolutely no thought for context, let alone grace. I recovered as best I could, all things considered, focusing over-intently on wrapping the bandage around his forearm. “From a distance, I had assumed you to be far older.”

Honestly, for a man with such a beard and posture, that default manner that could charitably be described as cantankerous, it was alarming to find that not only was he not middle-aged, but he couldn’t possibly be older than— 

“Thirty? At most?”

“Thereabouts.” After a pause, he added with a shrug. “I am far older in spirit, Madame.”  

I made him promise to come see me in a few days so I could see how the healing was progressing and give him more antibiotic if need be. He nodded, then stood and shrugged back into his coat (Lord, was he huge), and was just beginning to move toward the doorway, when—

“Are you well-treated here, M. Danton?”  Why could I not keep my bloody mouth shut tonight??

“Why is it that you ask such a question of me, Madame?” Though I still could barely see his face through the hair, I could hear the wariness in his voice. 

“You just seem…” I struggled to find the word in French, to express my concern without giving offense. “…..hunted.” 

Yes, a beast at bay. That’s what I had discerned and yet been unable to name in those vague, distant glances across camp: the utter wrongness in the sight of a man so tall and strong keeping his head low, avoiding eye contact, as though cowering before an invisible blow. Then there was this slash to the arm…

He caught me looking at the bandage, so I summoned my courage enough to ask directly, “Is someone bothering you? Hurting you?” 

“No.” He relaxed, and I saw his throat muscles working.  “No, it truly was a rusted nail; an accident, entirely my own.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment of the first statement. “And my manners and ways are mine as well, Madame. Of my own choosing, I mean to say. Better, it is, that I keep to myself.”

There was nothing morose in the way he said it, nothing maudlin or self-pitying.

 ….but it still was so very sad. 

“Nonetheless,” he added quite suddenly, one hand on the tent flap, “I thank you for having asked.” He gave a graceful bow and said in heavily-accented English before vanishing off into the night: “You ‘ave a kind ‘eart, Nurse Randall.”

Strange, yes. But not as bad as all that. 

-CEBR

5 1 9

Ye touched me, today, mo nighean donn. 

Spoke to me. Looked at me. Stopped my beating heart. 

You were supposed to go off-duty at eight. I let that damned wound go untended all the day because I was waiting for when I kent you’d be away and abed. I couldn’t take the chance of it being you. God above knows I meant for us never once to come face-to-face in this camp.

More than a year since I ran up the hill after ye and the world went black; more than a year of trying to find my way in your world; of trying to find you; these last months of staying hidden in plain sight that ye never should see my face…. All undone by a rusted nail and your damned heedless self working at all hours instead of taking to your damned bed. And yet…. ye always did see fit to undermine my plans, my wife. Mo ghraidh. 

….Lord, and you’re so young, Sorcha; so heartbreakingly young, and it makes me want to weep. And yet I weep still more to have witnessed with my own eyes and ears that you’re exactly the same. Even now, at three-and-twenty, you’ve the same fire that I myself have known in you, that same brilliance and compassion and—

Jesus. 

Oh, God, Claire. 

From a distance, keeping to my duties, I have been able to separate myself from it all; keep myself and my thoughts in check by mere will, knowing that it is my place only to watch over you, never in any circumstance to know you or seek you out.  But so close to ye today, mo chridhe, SO CLOSE with you touching me, that deepest part of yourself reaching out to heal and care for me, even in disguise, even though ye dinna yet know me— It took all my strength not to take ye in my arms and crush you to my heart.

I long for you, mo nighean donn. I long for my wife; to hold ye again; to speak all my heart to ye. My truest friend. 

And yet, beyond longing, there is that uttermost of terrors that fills me day and night. 

I wait for this war to end—this war of unspeakable horrors, the like of which I could never have fathomed—and still I dread the sounding of that last all-clear. At least here, now (and for three years more, at the least) I have a place in your world. I can watch over ye, see your face each and every day, if only for a moment from afar, and be able to close my eyes at night only because I ken that you are safe. 

But when the fighting has ceased, when ye leave France, I shall have to bid you yet another farewell….silently, this time, unseen….and hope that in April of 1948—

…Pray with all my soul that you and the bairn make it to April of 1948. 

That you won’t be— That you haven’t already been—? or that you aren’t now—?

Lost among the years. As I have been.  

[sonofhistory]

mediocre jobs are ok and did robert gould shaw get good grades or no?

Robert Gould Shaw’s education:

When Robert Gould Shaw was a boy, he studied and attended school in West Roxbury where he was influenced by the humanitarianism of Brook Farm intellects. He no longer attended school there by the time he turned nine as he family moved and settled in the north end town of West new Brighton. During this age, it became time for Robert to advance to more challenging studies, his uncle Coolidge Shaw talked his parents, Francis and Sarah into sending the boy to the preparatory school of St. John’ College in Forham, New York. Coolidge felt that a Catholic schooling would be good for his nephew. 

However, Robert’s first letter home in June of 1850 reflects a very different take on what he was experiencing. “I wish you hadn’t sent me here … for I hate it like everything.” In September, Robert continued in his rage “I hate Fordham” and added a note about his professor: “My old teacher scolded me today because I didn’t do something he didn’t tell me to do, I hate him.” He confided that his homesickness embarrassed him when he cried in front of his classmates. There is no evidence he was punished by “Father Regnier” or known as the one “who ships the boys” but he did run away twice and told his parents in October, “I’d rather do anything than stay here.” 

Nevertheless, he remained at Fordham for the entire semester studying French, Spanish, Latin and Greek while also continuing his lessons on the violin. While Robert attended to his schooling, his parents planned an extended tour of Europe for the entire family. In January, 1851, Robert thankfully said goodbye to Fordham forever and sailed from the New York harbor. 

For the next five years, Robert studied, and developed a “wanderlust” he never lost, and lived through the years of thirteen and eighteen while there. Beginning in October of that year, he was sent to the boarding school of Monster and Madame Roulet in Neuchatel, Switzerland. Still, while he enjoyed his time here, he usually homesick tendencies caught up to him and he began to miss his parents. He was pleased that “M and Mme. Roulet are very kind … “ but wrote “I hate to be here. I keep thinking what you are all doing.” During his time there he built a close relationship with Mr. Roulet whom he regarded as a friend. 

Roulet administered a rigorous curriculum. Weekly, Robert studied geometry, algebra, and geology as well as six languages–he concentrated on French and German. He took parts in student theater productions and kept up his usually lessons on the violin and piano. In good weather, he would be taking with his teacher on tours in France and Switzerland. Roulet nurtured his students though he fostered a nasty temper occasionally. Shaw told his mother, “Roulet hardly ever gets mad about the lessons, but only when we break some of the rules, or are impolite. But when he does get angry he’s just like the wolf.” Robert never saw him punish anyone and rather, “he only scolds.” Robert resented having to explain where and when and why every time he wanted to go for a walk or take a horseback ride or visit town. After a year of explanations, Robert remarked, “I shall be very glad to have more freedom when I leave here.”

During his next two years in the city, Robert struggled. He had grown up around ardent abolitionist but now he began to evaluate whether he could live up to the level of his parent’ dedication to the social reform. Robert read while in the school Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Robert questioned his parents on comparative studies and statistics concerning number of blacks and whites in the South. Shaw responded after finding out of the “Fugitive Slave Law” that he hoped Russian would read Uncle Tom’s Cabin and that is will “help them set their slaves free.” He inquired into whether the royalists of Rome would ban the book because of its republican principals. He resigned himself for the time with a frank sentence, “I don’t see how one man could do much against slavery.”

Robert also questioned religion. He received a letter from one of his St. John’s teacher priests who feared for his education at Roulet’s and expressed hope that Robert would go to school in Italy. Robert scoffed back that “He meant that he’s afraid I won’t be converted to Catholicism, because he hopes I’d be left in the clothes of the Jesuits at Rome, and would become catholic right off.” Roulet attempted to convince Robert that he should take religion classes and attend church regularly, but he fired back angrily to his parents that it was not Roulet’s business if he were “good or bad” and that those students who do go are not “any better than me and that’s what I told them.” Robert never ended up devoting himself to religion or a church. 

Robert also began to take up career goals. He did not want to be a reformer. He did not mention gaining an education at Harvard and instead, to his parents, in one verse while most likely caused them a little concern, said: “I think I should like to go to West Point.” HIs mother replied of her disapproval and he commented, insisting that “I think I should like it and what else can I do? I can’t think of any thing else, for I don’t want to be a Merchant, or Doctor, or Minister, or any thing like that.”

During the summer of 1855, Shaw traveled with Roulet throughout Switzerland and bid farewell as school began again in September. He spent the next ten months with his family at their rented house in Sorrento on the Malfi peninsula south of Naples. The family also toured Rome, Florence and Heidelberg. After celebrating the Fourth of July with his family, Robert took a trip with his father to Hanover, Germany where he continued his education for two years via private tutors. The first time of freedom in his life caused him to be rather reckless as he was not homesick and commented to his mother “how big inside I’ve got since I’ve been here. I’m at least five years older then when I came.” In his impulsiveness, he spent all of his allowance and had to ask his mother for more.  In an arrogant statement he said, “I have no taste for anything excepting amusing myself!” and that he’d rather be a chimneysweep then a merchant. 

Despite this, he kept up his studies. From nine in the morning the two in the after family he studied with an occasional late afternoon class. Most nights he was in place for the seven in the evening curtain at the theater, opera or concert. He loved literature and music. He also became a regular at “fancy-balls where he made friends. Sometimes he drank too much champagne and said “its almost impossible not to drink a good deal, because there is so much good wine here.” He took a trip to Norway by himself as well with other students he knew and only informed his parents once he returned. Often he said that his purse was “getting hollow cheeks again.” He sugar coated it, however, and thought his mother’s scoldings were a bit too harsh as he commented to his father. 

Robert finally decided on Harvard and reassured his parents that his studies were going well. Over confident, he thought he would have no trouble passing the entrance examinations in the fall of 1856. He hoped he might be able to enter as a junior but would enter no lower than a sophomore. His parents suggested his might want a tutor to push him through his intensive studies in the summer before examinations. Robert returned to America in may of 1856 and passed the Harvard entrance examinations which he rated as “very easy.” Spoiled by his elaborate European education, he found everything “horridly stupid here and just like a school.” He said he had to again “ask if he wanted to go anywhere.”

By October he discovered he had not prepared well for Harvard’s academic demands and threatened to leave school to “go into a store” if “at the end of the year I stand very low.” His dislike of discipline transferred over, “I hate Cambridge,” he said. He considered switching to Columbia or New York University but did not. Robert stayed in school but never pulled himself academically to the top half of his class. He reported the Class of 1860 to the staff was “the latest class they have had for a long while.” 

He excelled, however, in extracurricular activities. he enjoyed playing “football” but with fifty to seventy men on a team all engaged at once, he was beaten up regularly by older players. In his second year he joined about club and participated in rowing raced with other clubs. He took boxing lessons and played the violin well enough to join a musical group, the Pierians, who played twice a week. he was always inclined to music. He lavished in the social hour and other societies sponsored. His best friend at Harvard was his cousin Harry Russell. Shaw roomed with the football and rowing champion, Caspar Croninshield. He would also skip school on the weekends to sneak off with his friend’s uncle. 

[inthisformiambadwolf]

Requested by @bloodofthepen

*Also, the Doctor makes a less than complimentary comment about France. It was meant to be a sort of foreshadowing reference to “The Girl in the Fireplace” and I mean no offense to actual France.

Part I - Part III - Part IV

The Doctor didn’t like to admit that his great big Time Lord brain forgot things, but the truth was that he forgot a lot of things. It was all still stored in his brain, but he just wasn’t constantly thinking about everything, and the things that he didn’t think about got shoved to the back of the storage closet of his mind.

Which was kind of a pain, because the closet was a mess and he couldn't sort through it all.

It was time to dust off some of the old memories, as well as a few books, and renew his mind on the subject of courting. Because, honestly, he hadn’t thought about that in a long time. When he was the Fifth, he had been rather charmed by one of his companions, but to think that it would actually lead anywhere hadn’t occurred to him, so he hadn't bothered with any thought of courting. With you, though, it was different. He wasn’t going to let you slip away because he couldn’t take action.

The issue was that he didn’t know how to take action. This body was better with actions than words (although he wasn’t half bad with words, when he really got his head around a concept), but he didn’t have a clue as to how to… well, romance you. He knew how to flirt, sure, but he didn’t want to flirt with you. He wanted you to love him, not think he was some dumb ape just thinking below the waist, no different from any human bloke. Flirting might be fun, but this was serious, and therefore, he had to go about things the serious way.

Lucky for him, nothing was more serious than a Gallifreyan.

He had done his best, so far. Some of it had been instinctual, like the touching, and the staring (he was still waiting for you to rat him out for that), and some things had been brilliant, like taking you to his yet-unnamed planet (he was thinking of letting you name it, since you loved it so much). But that had been going on for a while, and while he liked to think that you were noticing his affection, he wasn’t sure. Maybe you were completely clueless. Or, if he was very unlucky, you knew exactly what was going on and you were kindly ignoring it in order to spare him pain. Hopefully not. Either way, it seemed to Nine that he needed to put a little more oomph into the process. Gallifreyan courting, real Gallifreyan courting instead of this moseying-about he had been doing, had plenty of oomph.

Time to find out what he could do.

The book he found was in ancient Gallifreyan, but as far as he could tell, it wasn’t any different from the modern version he had read in the Academy. A bit less polished than what he had read, but the content was unchanged. Perfect.

“Alrigh’, let’s see wha’ we’ve got,” the Doctor muttered to himself, handling the old book with care. The thing was absolutely ancient, even to him.

He skimmed the first chapter of superfluous Time Lord fluff, technical babble meant to confuse, and a plethora of warnings against the courting process. It had been looked down on for generations. It was much more appropriate and approved of to simply go along and accept whatever marriage was arranged for you, and who needed courting when you knew that you had no choice in the matter? The Doctor remembered scoffing at courting as a child, and then yearning for it when he felt the stifling noose of an arranged, loveless, unbonded marriage. Now, the chance to actually use these old customs made him feel a little… excited? Nervous? His Eighth self had these things memorized, that romantic sap.

"No... no, that's not what I need, no…”

And then Nine's eyes caught a phrase that was, unfortunately, a good description of his situation.

'… if the woman being courted seems to be unaware or purposefully ignorant of your first advances…'

The Doctor groaned. Great. Just what he needed but not what he wanted to see. The idea that you were ignoring him hurt a little bit. Maybe you were doing it to be kind, but you would… well, you would just come right out and tell him you weren’t interested, right? You wouldn’t let him trip over himself trying to impress you when you weren’t interested, right? That would be- stop it. Just read the bloody book.

'If the woman being courted seems to be unaware or purposefully ignorant of your first advances, it would be in your best interest to take more formal steps.'

Well, obviously. That was why he was reading the book, yeah?

“Doctor?”

The Doctor jolted at the sound of your voice, reflexively splaying the book against his chest in order to hide what he was reading. He immediately relaxed when it occurred to him that your couldn’t read it even if you tried; the TARDIS didn’t translate Gallifreyan. Thank Rassilon.

“Er, yeah?” he called, satellite ears straining to hear any sound that might give away your position. He heard shuffling and the unique sound of vibrations through grating- you were in the hallway. “Ya need anythin’?”

“No,” you answered, so softly that if it weren’t for his Superior Time Lord-iness, he might not have heard you. “You were just gone for a long time. I thought maybe you weren’t even in the TARDIS. Out on your own adventure.”

Out on his own? Without you? Yeah, sure, the Doctor liked his space, but the idea of leaving his mate -potential mate, potential, because you weren’t his yet and you might never be- behind without establishing a telepathic link made him feel a little sick. It would be one thing if you were bonded- he would be able to check up on you from time to time, and he would know if you needed something (needed him), but that wasn’t the case. You weren’t bonded to him, and therefore, to leave you behind would be to leave you truly alone. His long-repressed instincts reared up from their sleep and rebelled against the idea of his almost-maybe-mate being left unprotected. The likelihood of something happening to you while the TARDIS was protecting you was low, nigh nonexistent, but it still didn’t feel right. He was the Doctor, and he was Gallifreyan. Protect was written into him, lasting through each regeneration without fail.

“No, no, o'course not!” the Doctor scrambled to answer, clutching the book tightly against his side. He heard you move; now you were just outside the door. “I didn’t realise how long it had been, is all. Vortex can play tricks on my Time Sense. I’ll be out in mo��.”

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” you protested, but the Doctor was having none of it.

“You’re not! You’re not. I’ve been workin’ on a thing, ya know things, for way too long. Lemme put this away and we- we’ll, uh, we’ll watch a film. I’ve got one from 2145 I’m sure you’ve never seen.”

The Doctor heard you stifle a giggle, and he smirked in victory. Making you laugh was bonus points for him, he believed. Laughing was good. Laughing made you happy, and if he was making you laugh, then he was making you happy. He hoped. He may have acted like he knew everything, but he didn't know how you processed his attempts of making himself... important to you. But laughter seemed like a safe goal.

“Sure,” you answered, and he listened as your footsteps faded away. He focused his attention back on his book, hoping to find at least one helpful thing before- ooh.

'The joining of the hands can be an activity of utmost importance to the courting process. It is a more physical form of bonding, and therefore inferior, but it has been found to be extremely effective. One must initiate contact of the hands, so that you and she whom you are courting clasp fingers and press palm-to-palm. Then situate the bodies close together, so that they are touching within appropriate limits. Hold this position for as long as both of you are comfortable. During palm-contact, it is possible to engage in a lower form of touch-telepathy the allows a pair to share or transmit not thoughts, but emotions. [Note: for those who are very strong empaths, this process can be either stabilizing or overwhelming. Discuss this possibility with your wooing partner so that you will both be prepared.] This minor telepathic joining is crucial to the pre-bonding, as is the physical expression of hand joining.'

The Doctor tried not to laugh, but of course he did laugh, because how could he not? An ancient Gallifreyan text had just told him to hold your hand, have a good cuddle, and play the telepathic equivalent of emotion-footsies. This wasn’t funny. It was bloody hilarious. And the funniest part was that he was going to do it. He was! He was going to put in that film, cuddle up with you on the couch, and hold your hand like a love-struck ninety-year-old. And then he was going to use this body’s rather weak telepathy to let you feel just a hint of how enamored he was. Oh. He scrubbed his palms over his short hair. This was ridiculous. He was about to go embarrass the Time Sense out of himself, and he was too focused on you to stop himself.

Well, he thought, time to go. There had to be a better way to say that.

Allons-y. No, that was let’s go, and it was French. He hated France. Never go to France. What about… geronimo? Huh. Geronimo. He liked that. He would have to use that one day. He opened his door and stepped into the hallway, smiling.

Geronimo, love.

[peopleandrhythm]

Episode Nine: Chasing Old Ideas

Vincent stumbles through the dank tunnels beneath New Orleans, tripping his way into a large, dimly lit cavern. He brushes a hand roughly along the sleeve of his jacket. “Damn, Marcel. You sure know how to make a guy feel…” He trails off, spotting Theo LeRoy chained to the wall. “Special.”

Marcel’s lounging against the far wall of the cavern. “She’s not talking.”

Vincent doesn’t look at the vampire. “Yeah, I bet.” He slowly approaches Theo, who glares back. “What the hell are you up to?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

Vincent finally shoots Marcel a disparaging look. “You think I’d authorize some of my witches to torture a teenage girl?”

In a quiet, rough voice, Theo scoffs, “Your witches.”

The men’s eyes snap to her. “That’s right,” Vincent says. He crouches low, looking Theo dead in the eye. “My witches. Y’all elected me your regent after realizing that some kid from the Ninth Ward wasn’t gonna cut it.”

“We elected you regent because the position became meaningless,” Theo spits, teeth bared. “After you betrayed us by eliminating our connection to our ancestors, the regent’s power came only from politics, and none of us could be bothered to fix what you broke. So yeah, we elected you regent, and let you and Marcel have your fun playing kings while the rest of us did the real work behind the scenes.”

A small smirk plays across Vincent’s face as he rubs his hands together. “She’ll talk to me. But you gotta go.”

“No way,” Marcel says, pushing off the wall. “I’m staying for every minute of this.”

“Either you trust me to get the information or you don’t, but I’m tellin’ you now, she ain’t gonna talk with you here.”

Marcel’s nostrils flare as he narrows his eyes at Theo. “Fine. I’ll be up at my place. Just…” He gestures vaguely as he turns to disappear into the tunnels. “…figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Don’t worry.” Vincent cocks his head to the side, regarding Theo shrewdly. “I will.”

Hope pads down the stairs into the courtyard, still dressed in her pajamas. Her father stands with her back to her. “Hey.”

He turns, face lighting up. “Good morning, luv.” He steps to the side to reveal a table covered in pastries. “Breakfast is here.”

With a laugh, Hope approaches the mountain of baked goods. “That is…a lot of food.”

“I wanted you to taste the best New Orleans has to offer.” He snags a pastry off of a tray. “Have you ever had a beignet?” Hope shakes her head. “Well you’ll never have one quite like the ones in this city.”

“Not even in France?” Hope asks skeptically, taking the beignet.

Klaus scoffs. “Forget the French. New Orleans is the true birthplace of the beignet.”

Hope takes a bite. Her eyes slide shut and she moans, “Crap.”

“Told you.” He holds out a tray laden with the pastries. “I thought you might like to take some up to your girlfriend.” Hope opens her eyes, surprised. “How is she?”

Taking the tray, Hope says, “She’s still asleep. Had a couple of nightmares during the night. She seems to be mostly healed now, though.”

Klaus nods. “I’m glad.” Swallowing thickly, he looks away, awkward. “You best return to her. I imagine she…could use your support. And you should eat up, too.”

“Eat quickly.” Father and daughter turn to see Hayley striding into the courtyard, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. “We’re leaving.”

Klaus and Hope exchange a confused look. “Leaving?” Hope asks.

“Yep. We’re getting out of this city before Marcel or the witches or anyone else decides to remove us.”

Klaus squares himself. “I’m not leaving until the witches answer for what they have done.”

The duffel bag hits the floor. “Are you out of your mind, Klaus? Forget revenge, I’m trying to keep everyone safe.”

“Mom, he’s right.” Hayley glares at her daughter. “Look, we don’t even know what the witches really want from me—”

“And we’re not going to find out.”

“Listen to your mother.” Hope’s jaw drops as she regards her father with a look of betrayal. “One night in this city and they tried to hurt you, succeeded in hurting someone you care about.” Klaus nods to Hayley. “Your mother will take you and River far away from here. I will follow once I have eliminated the threat to you.”

“No.”

“Hope—”

“No. I am not running away. Something is going on in this city and I’m not leaving until I figure out what it is.” She whips around and stalks back up the stairs. “And I’d like to see you try and stop me.”

Vincent’s sitting on the dirt floor of the cavern, arms resting on his knees. Eyes narrowed, he asks, “What did you want with Hope Mikaelson?” No answer. “Marcel told me about your little ritual down at the cemetery. Didn’t seem like you wanted her dead, and yet…” Two pieces of the puzzle connect in his mind. “Were you the one who told Alistair Duquesne that Hope was in town?” No answer, but Theo’s eyes slide away to the floor.

Nodding, Vincent muses, “So you tried to have her killed. That didn’t work. So why not kill her when you lured her to the City of the Dead? Why go through some ritual when you could have consecrated her power?”

Gritting her teeth, Theo looks back up at Vincent. “Killing her was only Plan A. But you know witches. We always have a Plan B in our back pocket.”

“What was the ritual?”

Theo’s face cracks open into a smile. “Does it bother you at all that witches from every coven in New Orleans have been organizing behind your back for the past five years? How does it feel to know that we have been plotting to overthrow you and the rest of this mockery of a peace right under your nose, and you never had a clue?”

Letting himself be pulled off-topic, Vincent snaps, “What did y’all expect from me? Those ancestors were ruining our lives.”

“They gave us power!”

“There was no power with them!” Vincent’s voice echoes off the brick walls. “They had all the power! They told us what to do, and if we didn’t listen, they killed us, or got some vampires to do the dirty work for ‘em! The ancestors had to go if we were to be a free people.”

“And are we free, Vincent? Our magical abilities are a fraction of what they used to be, and Marcel Gerard still calls the shots in this city. Tell me how we’re better off now than we were fifteen years ago.”

“Tell you how—how about the fact that there’s not open war in the streets? How about our children not being sacrificed and slaughtered? How about the fact that with the Mikaelsons gone—”

“But the Mikaelsons aren’t gone, Vincent! You brought them back here!”

Vincent tips his head back against the brick, loosing a frustrated groan. “I brought Hope back so that she would finally free New Orleans of Klaus Mikaelson’s presence. I had no idea they all would come back after the fact.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?”

“No.” Vincent sighs. “I guess not.” They sit in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of pipes rattling in the walls. Eventually Vincent asks, “What’s the grand plan, Theo?”

Theo rolls her eyes. “What do you think the grand plan is? We only have one option, one action we can take to reclaim our former glory.”

Vincent’s faces drops as realization washes over him. “No.”

“Yes, Vincent. After five years of meticulous planning and preparation, we finally have all of the pieces in place to reestablish the connection with our ancestors, making the witches once again the most formidable force in all of New Orleans.”

River awakens to a delicious smell. Sitting up slowly, she looks around. There’s a plate of some kind of pastry at the foot of the bed, and the doors to the outer balcony are open, a light breeze wafting in to the room. Excited, River takes a pastry off of the plate, her fingers instantly coated in powdered sugar, and pops it into her mouth. “Damn,” she says to herself, the word barely audible around the food.

“Good, huh?” Hope walks into the room from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. “Beignets, from my dad.”

“He made these?”

“God no,” Hope laughs. “Probably compelled some poor pastry chef to make them for him. But I guess it’s the thought that counts.” She tosses her toothbrush into her bag and then sits on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “How are you feeling?”

River shrugs, and then winces. “I’m okay. Sore, more than anything. Still kind of tripped out on wolfsbane, I think.” She reaches for another beignet. “Are we planning on heading home soon?”

Hope thinks on that question for a minute. As much as she wants to stay and get to the bottom of whatever the witches are scheming, she knows that River never signed up to be bait, never volunteered to join her family’s dangerous world. Hope would like more than anything to stay by River’s side, but if River wants to leave…

“Whenever you’re ready,” Hope finally answers. “Whenever you’re ready, we can get you back to Tallahassee.”

River looks confused. “Why does that sounds like you won’t be coming with me?”

“Because…” Hope sighs. “Because there are things I need to do here, things that you shouldn’t have to sit through. Your parents are probably freaking out—”

“Forget my parents, I’m not just going to walk away from you.”

“This isn’t your fight!”

“Well it’s not yours either!”

“But it is!” Hope pushes herself off the bed, starts pacing around the room. “I know it doesn’t make sense. I only spent a fraction of my life here, years I can’t even remember, but no matter where I go or how long I’m gone for, this city is always going to be a part of me. And right now…it’s in trouble. And maybe I can help.”

“And what if these—these witches want to sacrifice you?”

“It won’t come to that.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“Because they had the chance to and they didn’t?” Hope sighs. “I don’t know what they want. I don’t know what’s going on, that’s why I need to stay and figure it out. And maybe…maybe the witches aren’t the bad guys in all this.”

River looks like she’s been slapped. “They drugged and kidnapped me in the middle of the night.”

“I know, I know, it’s just…” Hope sits back on the bed and grabs River’s hand. “If they really are trying to regain the power that they lost fifteen years ago…can I blame them? I can’t imagine suddenly losing all of the power I’ve lived with for my entire life. The trauma of it…”

River rests back against the headboard, contemplative. “Okay. So we stay.”

“We—”

“If you’re in this, I’m in this. I’m a wolf, remember? I’m not running away with my tail between my legs.”

Hope bites her lip and smiles. “I’m glad I have you on my team.”

“Me too.”

“Oh!” Hope digs in her pocket. “I almost forgot.” She removes a thin leather cord. “This fell off when we were in the cemetery. My mom saved it.” She hands the necklace to River.

River accepts the jewelry. “Thank you.” She fingers the pendant, a small, black river rock with a hole bored into the top for the cord to slide through. “My parents gave this to me. It’s a rock from the Rio. My dad picked it up the day I was born.” She smiles pensively. “I know what it’s like to miss the place you’re from.”

Hope’s answering smile is soft, but quickly turns into a frown. “Oh no.” She lifts the cord to inspect it. “It’s torn. Don’t want it to break.” Hope wraps her hand around the tear in the leather and closes her eyes. After a few moments, she opens them and reveals the cord, completely fixed.

River’s jaw drops as she stares in awe at the cord. “Okay, I am never going to get used to that.” She looks up at her girlfriend to thank her, but before she can speak, her expression turns to horror. “Hope!”

Shocked by River’s outburst, Hope touches her face in surprise, and pulls her hand away to see a spot of blood. “Oh.” She darts away from the bed, grabbing a towel and pressing it to her nose. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?” River starts to push herself out of bed, but Hope shoos her back in. “Hope, you’ve got a nosebleed.”

“It’s fine,” Hope says dismissively. She checks her nose; the bleeding has stopped. “Don’t worry about me. You…get some rest. I’m going to go see if I can steal some more beginets from my dad.” Before River can argue, Hope’s out the door.

Vincent paces the length of the cavern as Theo watches, almost bored. “This is a terrible plan.”

“We’re not stupid, Vincent.” Theo rolls her eyes. “Asking Davina Claire to blow up the channels that connected us to our ancestors may have been the most reckless and inconceivable thing you have ever done, but you weren’t wrong. The ancestors’ control over our decisions was unsustainable. The dead had more of a say than the living, and you were right to want to change that. So we’ve made some…adjustments.”

Vincent stops pacing. “What adjustments?” Theo only responds with a mysterious smile. “Seriously, Theo? Tell me what you’re planning.”

“Well I can’t give away all of our secrets, can I?” Theo stretches her legs, trying to get more comfortable. “Maybe if you let me out…”

“Maybe I’ll let you out if you tell me what you’re planning.”

“The details are irrelevant. What I’m planning is security, a way to ensure that the witches don’t just survive, but thrive. We are tired, Vincent. Tired of bowing to vampires, to the Mikaelsons, to regents, hell, to our own ancestors. The witches of New Orleans aren’t just looking for freedom. We’re looking to rule.”

Vincent’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. “To rule? And let me guess, you’ll be queen.”

“Well…” Theo gives an amused, self-deprecating shrug. “It’s been proposed.”

“No.” Vincent tosses his hand up. “No, this is insane. These covens are a community, you can’t just unilaterally—”

Theo barks out a laugh. “You’re really going to lecture me on decisions made unilaterally?” Vincent falls silent. “And besides, there are dozens of us. We’re not some small faction, we are representative of every coven in the city.” She looks Vincent dead in the eye. “Change is coming, Vincent. It’s time for you to make a choice. Will you stand with your witches as they seek to regain control of their city—or will you die defending the status quo?”

Vincent stares at her for a long while, both of their faces unreadable. Then, without a word, he turns on his heel and vanishes into the tunnels, leaving Theo in her prison.

Elijah steps into the library to find Klaus tearing it apart. He leans against the door nonchalantly, a hand sliding into his pocket. “Do you need assistance, Niklaus?”

Digging through a pile of junk heaped into a corner, Klaus snarks, “Now that you’ve mentioned it, some help would be appreciated, but fret not, brother.” He shoots an impetuous look at Elijah. “I am quite used to being the sole defender of his family.”

Elijah’s face blossoms into a raised-eyebrow expression of disbelief. “Is that what you believe, brother? Is that how you would speak of the past fifteen years, during which the mother of your child single-handedly pieced this family back together?”

“Spare me your lecture, Elijah.” Klaus tugs a long dagger from the pile and tosses it into an open duffel bag beside him. “I have witches to kill.”

“Must you be so reckless so soon after your return to the world?” Elijah asks.

“They came for my child, Elijah!” Klaus thunders, appearing suddenly before his brother. “Do not ask me to look the other way while they lure her into a trap! What if the next time they don’t want to take her power, but her life?”

Extending a hand toward his brother, Elijah says, “And what of your child, Niklaus? What will she think of you when she learns you have gone on a killing spree, murdering witches just like her?”

“These witches are not like her!” Klaus spits. “And she will think that her father is her stalwart defender, ready and willing to eliminate any threat to her safety.”

Dragging his finger along the broken desk, Elijah muses, “Yes, that worked wonderfully with Rebekah, didn’t it?”

Klaus’s expression sours. “Listen to me—”

“No, you listen to me!” Elijah brings his face inches from Klaus’s. “You have, not for the first time in your endless life, the opportunity to decide exactly the sort of man you wish to be. More importantly, you have the opportunity to decide the sort of man you wish your daughter to know. If your first instinct is always to seek revenge, that is what Hope will learn from you, and not only will it ruin her, it just might get her killed.” With that, Elijah spins on his heel and stalks from the room, leaving a speechless and humbled Klaus in his wake.

There’s a long, narrow crypt made of crumbling stone on the east side of Lafayette Cemetery. Over the entrance is carved a name: LeRoy. Vincent pushes open the heavy door, revealing a tiny work table covered in parchments, candles, and other evidence of magic. “Let’s see what Theo’s been up to.”

Marcel stands in the doorway, watching Vincent rummage through Theo’s belongings. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“We know that Theo’s looking to reconnect to the ancestors,” Vincent explains. “But I don’t know how she plans on keeping them in check.”

“Well you said she was gonna be in charge at the end of all this, yeah?”

“Yeah, and I don’t know about you, but she’s not exactly the kind of person I’m lookin’ for in a leader.” He holds a piece of parchment up to the light streaming in from a small round window in the stone. “This is beyond me, man. The magic she’s trying to do ain’t been done before. It’s not going to be so easily recognizable. I need help.” He sighs and looks out the window.

Then an idea strikes him. “I know where to go.”

Brow furrowed, Marcel asks, “There’s someone in this city who’s gonna know when you don’t?”

“There is.” Vincent turns to look at him. “But you ain’t gonna like it.”

Klaus is storming toward the exit of the compound when he pulls up short, his duffel bag full of weapons and dark objects clanging at his side. “To what do we owe this unwelcome surprise?”

Vincent and Marcel block his path out. “We need to talk to Hope,” Vincent says.

“Absolutely not.” Klaus squares his shoulders. “Your witches tried to steal my daughter’s power, you’re not going anywhere near her.”

“Klaus, you gotta believe, I had no idea that they were going to do this, otherwise I would’ve warned you.”

“So I should just take you at your word, let you have access to my child?”

Marcel rolls his eyes. “We’re trying to help Hope, Klaus. Whatever Theo and the others were up to when they took her, they’re still trying to complete their mission. We need her help to stop them.”

“You can’t expect—”

“Dad.”

All three men look up to see Hope leaning against the balcony, watching them. She nods to her father. “I want to help.”

Everyone gathers around the grand staircase, the family scattered along the steps, facing Vincent and Marcel. From his place on the landing above, Klaus calls down, “Tell us what you know.”

Nodding, Vincent begins. “We know that Theo LeRoy, the witch who kidnapped Hope’s girlfriend and used her as bait, is leading a faction of witches who are seeking to reestablish the connection to the ancestors.”

“She told me that much,” Hope agrees, sitting about halfway up the left staircase, River a step above her. “I don’t really know what that means.”

“Well that’s what I was hoping to learn from you,” Vincent says. “Did she anything about how she was gonna do it?”

Hope shakes her head. “That wasn’t really what we talked about. She was less concerned about the covens’ connection with the ancestors and more concerned with mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“She means that this witch tried to get Hope to reject her connection to the ancestors,” Hayley snarls.

Vincent bring a fist to his lips as he contemplates this revelation. Hope tentatively offers, “She seemed…I don’t know. She seemed to think I was some kind of threat? She wouldn’t say why, just that I’m a Mikaelson and a Mikaelson shouldn’t have access to the ancestors.”

With a small nod of understanding, Vincent murmurs, “She has a point,” but then, seeing glares of disapproval, says quickly, “She has to think that you specifically have the ability to throw some kind of wrench in her plans.”

“Here.” Marcel approaches Hope, reaching up to hand her a small stack of parchments. “These are Theo’s. Take a look, see if anything looks significant.”

Hope takes the parchment and scans each page. They’re covered in runes and chicken-scratch. “This is for the ritual?”

“We think so,” Marcel answers.

Freya climbs the stairs to peer over Hope’s shoulder. Hope points at something. “This is the incantation she was using when she tried to unlink me from the ancestors.”

Freya examines that page more closely. “All of this is about the connection, linking and unlinking. But this here—” She pulls a sheet with a complicated diagram on it out from the stack. “It’s a linking spell, but something I’ve never seen before.” She looks up at Vincent. “Could she be trying to link someone to the ancestors?”

“I think she’s trying to link all of us to the ancestors,” Vincent answers dryly.

“Here’s a thought.” Everyone turns to look at Kol, who’s lounging at the very top of the right staircase. “Why don’t we just leave this shitty town in our rearview, avoid this mess altogether?”

“For once, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, I agree with Kol,” Hayley says. “This is New Orleans witch business, and we shouldn’t be a part of it.”

Hope starts to argue, “I’m a New Orleans witch, Mom!” but Vincent lifts a hand to stem her tirade. “I understand that you have no reason to help us, but if this doesn’t go right, our people could be in serious trouble.”

Hayley opens her mouth, but Elijah cuts in smoothly, “Why don’t you let us discuss this matter as a family?”

Vincent looks as if he wants to argue, but Marcel nods. “Yeah, alright. Take some time. But know this: if you don’t help us take these witches down, I will make sure your asses are out of my city before nightfall tomorrow.” He looks at Vincent and jerks his head toward the door, and the two of them leave.

Later, surrounded by bowls (and pots and mugs) of crawfish étouffée, the family is once again gathered on the staircase. Hayley stabs at her food angrily. “We’re not staying.”

“Mom, you heard Vincent. He needs our help.”

“And I feel bad for him. But my job is to keep you safe, and you aren’t safe here. And neither is your girlfriend.”

“We owe Vincent,” Hope insists. “He helped me rescue Dad!”

Rebekah hums. “Maybe not the best argument in favor of helping him.” She smiles at the nasty look Klaus shoots her.

“Theo knows something we don’t know,” Hope says. “In some way or another, I’m important to her plans. If we can figure out why she’s so threatened by me, maybe we can figure out how to stop her from reconnecting with the ancestors.”

“Wouldn’t it make you more powerful, though?” River asks around a mouthful of crawfish. She swallows. “If this ancestral connection is…reconnected, wouldn’t you get that power, too?”

“I think that’s part of the problem,” Hope says. “But it doesn’t matter. I don’t need more power.”

River doesn’t miss how Hope unconsciously touches just below her nose, as if checking for blood.

“You’re being uncharacteristically quiet, Niklaus,” Elijah calls. “Any thoughts on the matter?”

Klaus leans his head back against the metal banister with a put-upon sigh. “I do abhor giving the witches of this city any assistance. However, the ancestors have caused quite enough trouble in our lives, I should think.”

“They can’t cause us any more trouble if we’re not here,” Hayley argues.

“Hayley’s right,” Rebekah says. “Forget this city, forget these witches. Isn’t time we left this madness behind us, spent time with the family that was torn apart for fifteen years?”

Klaus locks eyes with his daughter, who’s sitting opposite him on the other half of the staircase. She silently pleads with him, and he knows that this is important to her. “We’re staying.”

Hope’s face lights up, and Hayley’s shoulders sag. “Klaus—”

“Hope knows better than any of us the threat that these witches pose, and the even bigger threat that the ancestors do. If she is asking me to stay and fight…well what kind of father would I be if I didn’t go into battle for my daughter?”

Hope’s smile is one of sweet disbelief. Thank you, she mouths to her father, and he nods back.

“Well you all have fun.” Kol drops his bowl onto the top landing and stands up. “I think I’ll be leaving now.”

Klaus rolls his eyes. “Sit down, Kol, we’re too tired for your antics tonight.”

“These aren’t antics, brother. I simply…can’t stay.”

Rebekah pulls herself to her feet. “Kol. You’re not serious.”

“I am.” He smiles softly. “I’ve spent the day thinking on it. There are reasons I do wish to remain with you lot—not only to better know the niece I…may have mistreated.” Hope blinks up at him in surprise. “But this city…this city took everything from me. Things I cannot get back. I need…” He trails off, unable to finish his thought.

Rebekah slowly climbs the stairs to be beside her brother. She kisses his cheek. “Time. You need time. Take as much of it as you need. You know we’ll be here for you.”

“Always and forever,” Klaus says, a half-smirk on his face.

Kol descends the steps to crouch just above Hope. “Hope Mikaelson. You know, I never much cared for children.” Hope gives a little frown and squints, unsure if she’s being insulted. “But you…you’ve got that Mikaelson tenacity that is impossible to ignore. I like that about you.” He looks down. “I apologize for my behavior toward you. Both of you,” he adds, nodding to River. “I hope that one day I can be a proper uncle to you. I have a rather impressive stash of magical artifacts that I think you’d be keen on.”

He nods to Freya. “Listen to your aunt. She’s the only one here who’s got half a clue what she’s doing. She’ll be able to help you.” He gives her a significant look, and a thought flashes in Hope’s mind: He knows. “I’ll be back, baby Mikaelson. And when I do, I expect to find the most powerful witch in the world waiting for me.” He gives a melancholic smile. To the room he says, “Try not to have too much fun without me,” and then he’s gone, leaving his siblings to once again adjust to his absence.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

IN OO LANGUAGES, YOU CAN FOOL INVESTORS FOR AT LEAST ONE AND PERHAPS EVEN TWO ROUNDS OF FUNDING, REGARDLESS OF ITS DE FACTO PURPOSE

Founders who succeed quickly don't usually realize how lucky they were. It's really true. On closer examination I see a more exaggerated version of the change I'm seeing. If your first version is so impressive that trolls don't make fun of Eric Raymond here. I am more fulfilled in my work than pretty much any of my friends who did not start companies.1 But if I had to pick the worst, it would still be important to release quickly, because for a startup don't care whether you've even graduated from college, they borrowed $15,000 from their friend's rich uncle, who they give 5% of the company in some way by letting them invest at low valuations. In the sciences, especially, it's a sign the terms are reasonable. There is no such thing as a killer feature.2 But what a long fight it would be five years before you had it too. So it's not surprising that after being trained for their whole lives up to their necks in rules and regulations. So if you don't let people ship, you won't have any artists.3 It doesn't even have x Blub feature of your choice.4

It was striking how old fashioned this sounded.5 If companies stuck to their initial plans, Microsoft would be selling programming languages, consider the following problem. If you believe everything you're supposed to be working on their company, not worrying about investors.6 You had to go through bosses, and they all think we're going to be disappointed. VCs, but the fear of missing out. Lisp didn't put all those parentheses in the language just to be different. If anything major is broken—if they sense you're ambivalent, they won't give you much attention.

But it means if you have competitors who get to work full-time on a startup, and he, as CEO, has to deal with employees, who often have different motivations: I knew it would feel better; what's surprising is how much on what terms. And you want to be on any shortlist of admirable people. Whether they like it or not, investors do it if you let them. Suppose you realize there is nothing so wrong as the principles of the most powerful all the way down to machine languages, which themselves vary in power. If they could even get here they'd presumably know a few things we don't. So if the company were being founded anew. Especially if you have genuine intellectual curiosity, that's what you'll naturally tend to do if you just follow your own inclinations. Probably not.

How can a machine be on it, and the distraction of having to deal with employees, who often have different motivations: I knew it would be used to express Lisp programs in practice.7 In America only a few thousand are startups.8 It was a sign of trouble. I'll tell you about one of the best things about working for a startup or not. The way to succeed in a startup founder wondering why some angel investor isn't returning your phone calls, you can expect to do as well before or after, like plunge deeply into projects on a whim and travel super cheaply with no sense of a deadline. If you're thinking about getting involved with someone—as a cofounder, and that the hope of good returns, but the idea is so overlooked as one that's unthinkable. But my increased belief in the importance of this idea would remain something I'd learned from this book, even after I'd forgotten I'd learned it.9 What you need to do. The nine ideas are, in theory, explaining yourself to someone else.10

In Silicon Valley no one would dare express it in public?11 From one end of a pendulum's swing, the other end of the spectrum could be detected by what appeared to be unrelated tests.12 The most important is to explain, as concisely as possible, what the hell your site is to convert casual visitors into users—whatever your definition of a user is. A good example is the airline fare search program that ITA Software licenses to Orbitz. Startups and yuppies entered the American conceptual vocabulary roughly simultaneously in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Extraordinary devotion went into it, and even current employees. Some will be shocking by present standards.

Evelyn Waugh and Nancy Mitford cared what other people thought of them: he wanted to seem aristocratic; she was afraid she wasn't smart enough. In retrospect, it would seem crazy to most people to try to recast one's work as a single thesis. I do then is just what the river does: backtrack. Before credentials, government positions were obtained mainly by family influence, if not outright bribery. No idea for a product could ever be so clever as the ones you can discover by smashing a beam of users. Of all the places to go next, choose whichever seems most interesting. I want to do is not to save them from being disappointed when things fall through. Few startups get it quite right. I want to study here. You can't let the suits make technical decisions for you.13 So the kind of essay I thought I was going to visit Italy in the 1630s, Sir Henry Wootton, who had been ambassador to Venice, told him his motto should be i pensieri stretti & il viso sciolto. In America only a few rich people buy original art, and even current employees.

I ignored it because he seemed so impressive.14 It is not the number that can get acquired by Google and Yahoo going to buy you, and you prosper only to the extent you do. We know that Java must be pretty good, because it meant that to write as he wanted to, he had people working for him who made more than he did, because they'd been there longer. What that means is that if someone is wise, all you can see is the large, flashing billboard paid for by Sun. No more nice shirt. Enjoy it while it lasts, and get as much done as you can, because you tend to get cram schools on the classic model, like those that prepared candidates for Sandhurst the British West Point or the classes American students take now to improve their SAT scores.15 But now it worked to our advantage.16 Macros are harder to write than ordinary Lisp functions, and it's hard to imagine how that town felt about the Steelers.17 This doesn't work in small companies.

Notes

It wouldn't pay.

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, the un-rapacious founder is in itself, not where to see artifacts from it. Mehran Sahami, Susan Dumais, David Heckerman and Eric Horvitz. Japanese car companies have never been the plague of 1347; the Reagan administration's comparatively sympathetic attitude toward takeovers; the defining test is whether you want to create wealth with no valuation cap at all is a fine sentence, but we decided it would be rolling in their social lives that didn't already exist. Hackers Painters, what that means service companies are also much cheaper when bought in bulk.

The French Laundry in Napa Valley. This prospect will make it harder for Darwin's contemporaries to grasp the distinction between matter and form if Aristotle hadn't written it?

Like us, because time seems to have had little acquired immunity to tax avoidance. Patrick Collison wrote At some point has a great programmer will invent things an ordinary adult slave seems to have the least important of the whole story.

It doesn't end every semester like classes do. I don't know. My work represents an exploration of gender and sexuality in an absolute sense, if you get older or otherwise lose their energy, they could bring no assets with them.

Dan was at Harvard since 1851, became in 1876 the university's first professor of English.

Certainly a lot of money from writing, he was made a lot better to embrace the fact by someone with a wink, to sell them technology. If the rich. Your Brain, neurosurgeon Frank Vertosick recounts a conversation—maybe not linearly, but you're very docile compared to adults. Even the desire to do it for you.

Trevor Blackwell, who may have to get frozen yogurt. Prose lets you be more selective about the millions of people who did invent things an ordinary one? The actual sentence in the country would buy one. For example, the same superior education but had a demonstration of the number of big companies funded 3/4 of their portfolio companies.

If you're doing. In any case, companies' market caps do eventually become a so-called lifestyle business, having spent much of the things I remember the eyes of phone companies are up there.

A few startups get started in New York, and it doesn't commit you to acknowledge it. You know what kind of protection against abuse and accidents.

In a country, the reaction might be interested to hear about the origins of the word wealth. Though you never have come to you.

Some government agencies run venture funding groups, just as you get older. When that happens, it will seem to be significantly pickier. This is almost pure discovery.

For more on the order of 10,000 sestertii apiece for slaves learned in the woods. And no, unfortunately, I was once trying to dispute their decision—just that everyone's the same superior education but had instead evolved from different, simpler organisms over unimaginably long periods of time, because you're throwing off your own morale, you could try telling him it's XML.

If language A has an operator for removing spaces from strings and language B doesn't, that probably doesn't make A more accurate predictor of high quality.

Together these were the seven liberal arts. If asked to come up with much greater inconveniences than that. It's not a nice-looking man with a Web browser that was a kid, this is a declaration of war on. They accepted the article, but the idea that could be made.

Who knew how much they'll pay. Not startup ideas, and everyone's used to hear about the meaning of distribution. In technology, so we hacked together our own Web site.

With the good groups, just the location of the Industrial Revolution happen earlier? Strictly speaking it's impossible to write and deals longer to close than you could only get in the Baskin-Robbins. In ancient times it covered a broad hard-beaten road to his time was 700,000 sestertii e.

Thanks to Jessica Livingston, Trevor Blackwell, Ben Horowitz, and Sam Altman for putting up with me.

[create-ninety]

Tuesday 1st January, 2019

I’ll admit I was nervous about travelling to Morocco. I didn’t know what to expect. There’s only so much you can read about before you simply need to experience it to make up your own mind. But our trip to Fes has been one of my favourite cities that I have visited – ever.

On the way to the riad from the airport, I tried to gauge what the general vibe was. But it was dark and we couldn’t see a lot. Glimpsing various buildings, I was reminded of bits of Spain. My anxieties had been quelled slightly; I liked the driver and didn’t feel unsafe. And soon I was even grinning for a moment - I noticed a guy sitting in the back of a swerving white van ahead of us, the back door wide open and flailing about with each twist and turn of the driver’s whim. I thought maybe the door was broken but Lucie pointed it out – the guy was smoking a cigarette, and looked completely nonplussed.

But then I felt my heat sink not long after. While pulled up at some lights, a small child darted around the side of our van. The driver waved his finger at the kid who was probably no older than nine. Rejected, he made his way to the vehicle on the other side of us and I saw what he was holding: a brush and bottle of water. A sight not uncommon in parts of New Zealand – but I’d certainly never seen a child working for probably nothing more than a Durham at a time.

When we got to the riad, my anxieties weren’t quite quelled. There were groups of teenage boys gathered around, leaning against walls and listening to music. The buildings were high and chipped, and if there were windows, they were protected by bars.  Almost immediately a homeless looking man rushed forward with a trolley in the hopes of wheeling our luggage, but he was also dismissed by our driver. Tall, hands buried in his jacket pockets, he lead us  through narrow, winding alleyways for at least five minutes. If he had merely dropped us off, we would haven’t have had a clue. If I was nervous then I’m sure Lucie would have been too. But soon we stopped outside a big wooden door with an iron knocker and a thin slit at eye level. The driver knocked. And when a woman answered and let us inside, it almost took our breath away – a dazzling hallway and then open space came into view, with a ceiling so high you had to crane your neck to see the ornate detailing at the top. Doors with painted gold, green and red stars and shapes stood tall, framed by windows looking in on our bedroom. Our host Elodie showed us the room and gave us the key. She spoke in a hush voice and in the morning I knew why: the layout of the Riad places the rooms around and above the communal area.

We curled up in bed, grateful to finally be able to rest, in awe. The room had been decorated with such impeccable detail that it almost seemed rude to disturb the bed. Paintings of African women were hung beside the elaborate door; ivory elephants lined up in size order on a shelf; a Moroccan guitar; white and green tiled floors; painted shutters. A traditional bathroom. I couldn’t believe that such a grand and beautiful house was there, hidden amongst those intimidating alleys we had walked through. We fell asleep in pure darkness and I was completely at ease.

Elodie greeted us for breakfast in the morning. The tables had been laid out with the same effort and care as our bedroom, and we were pleased to spot an elegant long-haired cat. Elodie said her name was Amira, which is Arabic for princess, a name Lucie particularly liked.  We hurriedly ate a breakfast of bread, freshly squeezed orange juice, and coffee, and then got a very quick explanation of the Medina from Elodie. We had a deadline to be at the Post Office to meet our Medina tour guide – our first activity of our trip. Thankfully Elodie kindly agreed to take us to our meeting point so that we weren’t swallowed by the Medina before we even started.

Our guide was friendly, tall, Moroccan, and was wearing a traditional robe with a peaked hood – I came to realise that peaked hoods, which I’d only seen in Harry Potter, were a common occurrence in the Medina. And he excitedly led us to the Blue Door and into the thick of it all, and I found myself falling in love with the strange city.

Thin alleyways but bursting with colour, delicious smells, the sounds of accents and language I couldn’t identify. The cobbled ground underneath was uneven and well worn; this was a city with the most interesting history, and its inhabitants seemed all at once otherworldly and familiar.

We visited one of the three tanneries of Fes, and I was chosen by one of the salesmen as an easy target. And he had selected well. I was a bumbling mess as, after I announced quietly to Lucie that I liked one of the bags on display, the man darted forward and started (in his opinion, likely) humerously trying to sell me the bag. I was awkward and uncomfortable as the rest of the group were watching me fail – I can only describe it as being more of a ‘guess the price’ game, because I kept saying low numbers even though I knew there was no way we’d be buying it. But every time I said no he persisted. By the time we left the tannery I was red-faced and thinking there’s no way I’d be stepping foot back in there, even though the view from the top of the factory was truly a stunning sight to behold.

We carried on, and I adored the rest of the sights. The ceramics, the leather goods, and the rugs… all on display in the most vibrant waves of colour. People were in most cases far more polite than they were pushy, a pleasant surprise which kept me calm. And when we stopped off towards the end of the tour at a tiny roofed stall, just off the copper square, our tour group got to taste – in my opinion – some of the most delicious tea and coffee that I had ever tasted. It was served by a man who had almost no knowledge of English, and who stood behind a tiny counter covered in fresh herbs, and who twiddled the knobs and taps of a gigantic copper vat. We sat and drank and I grinned. How beautiful, to be surrounded by people so interesting, different to me, and who were just going about the business of their every day life, not knowing that I was in awe of someone merely making coffee. The man had a permanent smile on his face and the guide mentioned in passing he’d been there since the sixties. I turned to Lucie: “I’m going to find this place tomorrow. We’re going to come back.”

“I’d be very impressed if you manage to find this again!”

By the time the tour was over, we were hungry and tired, and ate a tagine meal at the ‘Cinema Café’ not far from our Riad. And then we picked up a blue pouffe and some beautiful hand painted plates from a shop. I have some lovely pictures of Lucie crouched down on the floor as we were choosing which ones we liked the best. Along with a little copper pot we’d bought on the tour, we excitedly dropped our goods off and headed back out into the Medina by ourselves. On that excursion we found another pouffe we liked – this time a mustard one – and I made a fool of myself for a second time that day, accidentally low-balling the shop keeper because I was convinced we had paid less for the exact same thing up the street. Only after he denied our offer and we’d left did we realise that his pouffe was bigger than the one we’d bought earlier; we turned around and went back, paying his lowest price.

New Year’s dinner was divine. Elodie and her mother, and perhaps others, had prepared a three-course meal for us. We were so full at the end we could barely fit the dessert in too. All the guests staying were French speakers, and I found myself desperately trying to understand the conversations as we joined them in the lead-up to midnight. I picked up a kids book on a shelf and did some reading, surprised with how much I was able to remember, but a little frustrated that my listening and understanding skills weren’t as sharp.

Midnight ticked over and suddenly it was 2019, and with a clink of champagne glasses and a chorus of ‘happy new year!’, we stood around drinking for a while longer before bidding each other goodnight. Lucie and I collapsed into bed totally full, a tad drunk, and trying to stifle a fit of giggles: we’d been laughing most the day, and at times during dinner, had struggled to contain ourselves.

The next day I looked at the map. And then I boldly declared to Lucie that I would find that coffee shop – that I was determined. And I did! Somehow I was able to identify stalls we had passed, instinctively knowing what we had seen and what was unfamiliar. At one point I paused and listened: sure enough, I could hear the clanking of mallets on copper, and knew that if I could find that square, then I would know how to get to the coffee. Connecting those dots in my mind was of the greatest satisfaction, and as we entered the little stall, the man behind the counter exclaimed excitedly something in Arabic. Lucie was beyond surprised, and the coffee tasted extra sweet.

From there I was confident I could navigate us around places we’d seen on the tour. After then it didn’t really matter where we went, so long as we could get back to the copper square. And after a couple of turns, me making metal notes, we found a narrow street that was home to knives and other metal work. At one of the stalls a man with blue eyes and an array of hand made knives set out in front of him caught my attention; picking up one of the small objects, he told me proudly he’d made it himself, and that the handle was from ram’s horn. We had a conversation in French and when he told me that the knife I liked was twenty Durhams, or the equivalent of £2, my jaw dropped and I handed over the money without even trying to negotiate. Bursting with glee, imagining making my books with the knife, I lead us back to the copper square. There we picked up four small copper pots and four small glasses to go inside; it was as close to the way the man in the coffee stall served it to us, and we wanted to recreate it. There we watched as another man polished the pots so that they shined bright in the sun – it was the most magical day, seeing people creating things with their hands, with such care and pride, with such ease and creativity. I looked at all the items and saw them, in a sense, as art: sculpted, cut, melted, bent, forged, painted… all by the hands of people with a story to tell.

We started hunting for lunch, and discovered a terraced restaurant overlooking the Medina. We ate another tagine, with vegetables on the side, and a cat circled the table. The sky was blue except for a few scatterings of clouds. Lucie revelled being in the warmth of the sun, and when the call to prayer rang out over the city, I hit record on my phone to capture it. I felt so happy. I was with the woman I loved. We were getting lost somewhere beautiful. It was the first day of the new year; a new chapter, a new beginning.

Leaving the restaurant, I thought I knew where to go. But I realised quickly that we must have gone too far, or not taken a turn; the stalls were unfamiliar. We turned around to head back the other way and Lucie spotted a bright orange rug with embroidered detail. And to my surprise (she hadn’t liked many of the rugs we’d seen), she engaged in a price battle with the shop keeper. He dropped his price, but we agreed it was still too much, and we didn’t have the cash anyway. I was anxious because I must’ve made a wrong turn but couldn’t work out where we had made the mistake… and even after we left the rug shop, I still couldn’t catch my bearings. But when the shop keeper came running after us shouting, “okay, okay, I can do 1900, but that’s as low as I can go!”, we excitedly went back with him. That worked out to be £180. We got it. And the men in the shop wrapped it up for us, and scrawled the name of the place it had come from: somewhere in the Atlas mountains, made by one of the Berber tribes.

Thankfully, the men also told us how to get back to the Blue Door. From there I could navigate easily. And we were close – I worked out that we had indeed missed a turn off down a non-descript alley I hadn’t thought to remember, as I had actually thought we’d be taking a taxi back. But we made it back, thrilled, and dropped all the stuff off. We had a sleep and then went out and found some dinner: skewered meat, rice, and chips. Normally I’d not like being caught up at a table by the river of passers-by. But I didn’t mind it in this context. Even though I’m sure I stood out with my red hair, and did attract a few curious stares, I felt anonymous enough. People went on about their days, and so did we, and I loved it.

[rollinbrigittenv8]

European Train Operators Want Slice Of UK Rail Companies Ahead of Brexit

The UK may be clattering toward an exit from the European Union, but its railways are headed full pelt in the opposite direction. Christopher Jasper / Bloomberg

Skift Take: How the UK's transportation infrastructure will remain connected to mainland Europe is a question that will continue to loom large as Brexit talks roll on.

— Dan Peltier

The UK may be clattering toward an exit from the European Union, but its railways are headed full pelt in the opposite direction.

As Brexit talks continue, the national rail companies of France, Germany, Italy and the Netherlands are snapping up contracts spanning London commuter routes to long-distance expresses as private British firms struggle to compete with the lower cost of capital available to their state-owned rivals.

Two decades after the world’s oldest railroad was privatized, 14 of 19 major U.K. franchises are at least partly controlled by government-owned operators from mainland Europe. Even as the split from the EU looms, Rome-based Trenitalia SpA is planning the biggest raid yet with a bid to run the 55 billion-pound ($71 billion) High Speed 2 line between London and northern England.

Overseas operators are ramping up efforts to grab a bigger slice of the world’s biggest open rail market as steps toward liberalization elsewhere proceed more slowly than expected. With U.K. passenger journeys doubling to 1.7 billion since privatization and ticket prices set to rise the most in five years in 2018 because of a peg to inflation, European state players are being joined by Japanese and Chinese companies eager for a slice of the franchise pie.

Foreign control of the rail network is an emotive subject in Britain, where trains have played a key role in the economy since horses pulled the first carriages back in the early 1800s. During the industrial revolution, steam locomotives delivered raw materials to mills and factories and shuttled goods throughout the country and for export around the world. The system was privatized in the 1990s as one of the last major sell-offs of state assets begun by the Conservative administration of Margaret Thatcher.

‘Priced Out’

Go-Ahead Group Plc, Britain’s biggest rail operator, says it doesn’t expect Brexit to stymie the overseas challenge, and that while competition is welcome, the government must ensure awards aren’t distorted by foreign firms making low-ball bids to gain a foothold in the U.K. The company was this month ousted from a contract to run trains in Birmingham, England’s second-biggest city, by the Abellio arm of state-owned Nederlandse Spoorwegen.

“If the government wants me to export abroad we need work in the U.K.,” Go-Ahead Chief Executive Officer David Brown said in an interview. “If I’m priced out, then we won’t be exporting. We are not going to bid for things that are unsustainable. Sometimes a foreign operator may have different criteria.”

Since last year’s Brexit vote, state-controlled Deutsche Bahn AG’s Arriva unit has won a two-year extension to its CrossCountry franchise stretching 775 miles from Cornwall to Scotland, taken over the London Overground network, and been confirmed as operator of the Northern regional concession.

Over the same period, in addition to its Birmingham win, Abellio has been awarded the Greater Anglia franchise for a further nine years, edging out Aberdeen-based FirstGroup Plc and London-based National Express Group Plc. And Trenitalia in January agreed to buy National Express’s contract to run the C2C line between the capital and satellite towns to the east, signaling the exit from U.K. rail of a company once ranked as its biggest player.

Cheaper Financing

For Arriva — bought by Deutsche Bahn for 1.6 billion pounds in 2010 in the German giant’s first move into U.K. rail — there’s no question that being part of Europe’s biggest railway company confers an advantage in raising cash.

“We benefit so much from German ownership — from the treasury of Deutsche Bahn,” CEO Manfred Rudhart said in an interview. “We have access to financing streams that we never had as a listed company. That is a massive benefit in terms of our ability to invest in U.K. projects.” Rudhart has told DB that Brexit shouldn’t impact U.K. business fundamentally.

The lower capital costs conferred by state ownership have become critical as the government seeks to wring more revenue out of rail infrastructure, causing margins on U.K. franchises shrink to around 3 percent from 10 percent when the network was first privatized. That trend has rendered U.K. rail unattractive, National Express said after selling its C2C contract, predicting that a slowdown U.K. passenger growth will “present significant challenges” to other operators.

HS2 Face-Off

European companies also have an advantage because they’re vertically integrated, meaning that they have experience of running infrastructure projects, not just train operations, according to Mark McVicar, an analyst at Barclays in London. That’s becoming more important as the government looks to reduce the role of state-backed track and stations manager Network Rail.

The extent of foreign penetration of U.K. rail was revealed by the list of competitors for the HS2 line in June. Trenitalia, partnered with FirstGroup, will draw on its experience with Italy’s Red Arrow expresses in bidding for a route on which trains could reach 225 miles per hour. That’s compelled Richard Branson’s Virgin Trains and ally Stagecoach Plc, the operator of the predecessor franchise, to team up with French leviathan SNCF, which operates the TGV service. Completing the lineup is an all-Chinese venture of Hong Kong’s and MTR Corp. and Guangshen Railway Co.

U.K. companies say their chief concern is a lack of reciprocity, especially given EU rules requiring member countries to move toward liberalization. Go-Ahead, though a long-time partner of SNCF, is unable to compete in many mainland nations, according to Brown, who says foreign operators are honing their skills in Britain so that they can be better prepared to protect their position at home once more markets are pried open.

Even Deutsche Bahn admits to frustration at the pace of change given that Germany, too, is beginning to invite foreign tenders. “If someone comes into our travel market it’s not unreasonable to ask that their market is opened up as well,” Rudhart said.

Meanwhile, there are some in Britain who say Brexit should be used as a trigger to turn back the clock on privatization and re-nationalize the network. Unions, in particular, argue that if the railway is returning to state control, the state in question should at least be the U.K.

“Even from the early days foreign governments have tried to get their snout in the trough,” said Mick Whelan, general secretary of train drivers’ union Aslef. “We shouldn’t let them keep it there.”

This article was written by Christopher Jasper from Bloomberg and was legally licensed through the NewsCred publisher network. Please direct all licensing questions to legal@newscred.com.

[omcik-blog]

New Post has been published on OmCik

New Post has been published on http://omcik.com/health-care-collapse-could-leave-trump-winless-in-first-year/

Health Care Collapse Could Leave Trump Winless in First Year

(Photo: Thinkstock)

(Bloomberg) — President Donald Trump is now more likely than ever to end his first year in office without a single major legislative accomplishment.

His Affordable Care Act change effort collapsed Tuesday. He won’t even release the broad outlines of his tax overhaul plan until September. The last time Washington did a major tax bill, in 1986, it took more than a year. A $1 trillion infrastructure plan is little more than a talking point. Congress ignored his budget proposal. Republicans are as divided on all of these issues as they are on health care. Lawmakers haven’t even given him money to build his border wall.

(Related: Health Insurers’ Next Affordable Care Act Scare Is Just Two Days Away)

And between now and the end of the year, Congress still has to approve more than $1 trillion in federal spending, pass a veterans health care bill and navigate a debt-ceiling fight to avoid a potential default, all in the space of about a dozen working weeks. It doesn’t leave much time for legislating, even for a Republican president who came into office with a package of promises and a Republican Senate and a Republican House to boot.

The White House pledges next time will be different — preparing to launch a tax overhaul effort, complete with a coordinated strategy and travel by Trump to key states to promote the plan, something he never did in a concerted way with the Affordable Care Act change effort. The administration is asking corporate chief executives and conservative groups to pitch in with media appearances and town halls and is recruiting governors and local officials to do the same.

That still might not be enough. The failed fight over the Affordable Care Act exposed weaknesses that imperil much of Trump’s agenda: a historically unpopular and inattentive political novice in the Oval Office, an uncompromising hard-right wing on Capitol Hill, and their leadership’s inability to bridge internal philosophical divides.

Fruitless Months

The first casualty of the Affordable Care Act debate is time: six fruitless months exhausted on a subject Republican leaders had hoped to dispatch in January. And this was supposed to be the easy one. Since 2010, Republicans had promised a repeal. Trump and Republicans campaigned hard on the issue. Yet despite full control of Washington, they couldn’t get it done.

“Every Republican for the last seven years has campaigned on repealing Obamacare,” Republican Senator Ted Cruz of Texas said Tuesday. “I think the credibility of the conference is seriously undermined if we fail to deliver on that promise.”

On Wednesday, Trump said he planned to meet with Republican senators for lunch at the White House to see if they could try again to get a health care bill through the chamber. “They MUST keep their promise to America!” he tweeted. “The Republicans never discuss how good their healthcare bill is, & it will get even better at lunchtime.”

Surprised By Defections

Even by the standards of Trump’s own instincts to delegate the detail work, the president was unusually disconnected from the debate as Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell’s health care bill veered off course.

Last week, he traveled to Paris to participate in Bastille Day festivities with French President Emmanuel Macron. On Friday, he went directly from Paris to his club in Bedminster, New Jersey, where he spent nearly nine hours over three days on the golf course watching the U.S. Women’s Open. On Monday, he kicked off the White House’s “Made in America” week with a photo op in which he sat in a fire truck on the South Lawn, tried on a cowboy hat and hefted a baseball bat.

Two Republican senators, Mike Lee of Utah and Jerry Moran of Kansas, were meanwhile planning to publicly defect from the Obamacare legislation.

“I was very surprised when the two folks came out last night because we thought they were in fairly good shape,” he told reporters Tuesday at the White House.

Trump gamely tried to put the blame on Democrats. “We’re not going to own it,” he said “I’m not going to own it. I can tell you the Republicans are not going to own it.”

The public would disagree. Americans say they would blame Trump and Republicans for a problems in the health care system over Democrats by 59% to 30 percent, according to a Kaiser Family Foundation poll taken June 14-19.

All 52 Republican senators were invited to the White House for lunch on Wednesday to discuss health care with Trump, White House spokesman Ninio Fetalvo said.

Currency markets reacted strongly as traders concluded Trump’s overall agenda is imperiled. The dollar slid to a 14-month low against the euro.

Pivot to Taxes

The White House argues that Trump has been successful outside of legislation. He won confirmation of his nominee for the Supreme Court, Neil Gorsuch, and his administration is making steady progress on deregulation.

Congressional Republican leaders and the White House have to now figure out whether they can salvage any of their legislative agenda, particularly the promise of major tax cuts.

The Affordable Care Act change effort has weighed on the popularity of both Trump and his party. The public rejected the health care legislation they drafted mostly behind closed doors without any Democratic input. Trump’s approval rating is 4%.

The president says he’s ready to abandon health care and move on to tax cuts he believes will goose the economy.

“It will go on and we’ll win, we’re gonna win on taxes, we’re going to win on infrastructure and lots of other things that we’re doing,” Trump said.

Congressional Priorities

But the Senate isn’t quite done with health care. McConnell still plans a vote on a repeal bill early next week. And he acknowledged that if it fails the Senate may hold bipartisan hearings on legislation to stabilize the Affordable Care Act public exchange system — exactly what the Senate Democratic leader and Trump foil, Chuck Schumer of New York, has sought for months.

White House officials say they’ve learned lessons from the health care experience, and they believe Republicans, desperate for a political win after the collapse of the Affordable Care Act change bill, can rally around a compromise tax plan.

Rather than letting the House and Senate draft their own versions of the bill, as the White House did with health care, the administration plans to release a unified framework for changes to the tax code — with compromises on rates and loopholes already baked in and signed off by leaders in both chambers.

September Release

A small group of top Republican leaders — McConnell; House Speaker Paul Ryan; Senator Orrin Hatch of Utah and Rep. Kevin Brady of Texas, who chair the Senate and House tax-writing committees; Treasury Secretary Steven Mnuchin and National Economic Council Director Gary Cohn — are discussing high-level principles for an overhaul, according to one person familiar with the matter.

They aim to outline their principles by the end of the month, vet them with members of Congress in August and release a plan in September, the person said. Debate would extend through the fall.

White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer is developing a comprehensive messaging strategy, recruiting surrogates and interest groups to support the legislation even before the details are final.

Marc Short, the head of the president’s legislative affairs team, has said he recognizes that opponents of the health care bill did a better job rallying their supporters.