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twdmusicboxmystery · 1 year

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My Re-Watch of Ghosts, Part 4

@wdway:

I can't wait to read your next Carol/Beth timeline segment, @galadrieljones! It fit well with @twdmusicboxmystery's thoughts from Ghosts. The photos below I believe was to emphasize the white cross on the black crate (that also has diamond shapes) and the black car white cross car that carried away Beth from the funeral home.

I don't know if you realize though that there is another tie with Carol's car and Beth, on top of the crate is a IV bag. Which would connect to Beth's IV bag and foreshadows Carol at Grady being watched over and protected by Beth. I can envision the scene and hear Beth telling Carol, "I just want you to know I was here," (paraphrasing.) Loving all of this!

@galadrieljoness:

Oh I forgot about that line. I feel like the fact that Beth speaks to Carol solidifies that Carol was embedded in her timeline, even if only for a little while!! I’m actually super relieved my thoughts are coherent lol. I was so tired when I typed this and I feel like I reordered it and reread it like three times before hitting send so like my brain had gone to bits and I was like “Welp here goes nothing!!”

@wdway:

I've been thinking about how Carol somewhat has no time nor physical boundary. I just wanted to point out that that Maggie, Glenn and Company came in the front. Rick and Company came in the back and reunited in the A train car, but even though we saw Carol shooting rockets into Terminus, we never actually saw her enter nor did we see her leave. It is as if she didn't physically come or go. She was simply there, suspended in space and in time. See, I have been reading and thinking about what you are saying about Carol and time.

@galadrieljones:

That’s super good! It’s true. She just sort of materializes inside and then suddenly she’s in the woods taking off her camouflage. That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about!!

I mean honestly Carol really is sort of like a ghost. Her entire strategy for survival is basically to remain as invisible as possible. It makes a lot of sense based on her past abuse. Daryl exhibits similar tendencies but while Daryl will literally just disappear or simply stay quiet, Carol is more of a chameleon. She can be anyone, fit in anywhere. The ruthless killer, the happy homemaker. She infiltrates the CW via her connections with Lance. She infiltrates the Wolves, infiltrates the Whisperers by manipulating Negan. She infiltrates Terminus. If and when Melissa returns she would be the perfect character to infiltrate the CRM.

@wdway:

I think I have mentioned this before but I'll tell you about it again it concerns codas. There are two others I think we could call them official TWD coda's although they're not in season episodes.

The first coda I believe that we ever saw in the series was in the official trailer for s5 that aired at Comic-Con that summer. The trailer ended and then we had a coda of Beth being slapped by Dawn. Of course we didn't know who the officer was at the time or anything other than that Beth was in hospital scrubs and a policewoman slapped her.

The other coda came the following summer during Comic-Con in the official trailer for s6. Again it was after the trailer ran and then credits came up or the TWD logo if I remember correctly then it went into the coda of Daryl being tied up by Dwight. We found out later when it aired that it was from e6 Always Accountable. I don't know if this would mean anything to you but I just thought I would tell you or remind you of these two other coda's. Now I'm going above and read what you just sent.

@galadrieljones:

Ever since the TTD guy (I think?) referred to the WB coda as a “coda” I feel like this is all really important.

I want to come back and talk some more about Ghosts. I also think I might rewatch The Same Boat now. I honestly think I’ve only seen that episode once lol. I don’t remember liking it that much. But now, with a better lens through which to view the episode, I have a feeling that might change.

The whole theme with Ghosts is “seeing,” or “not seeing.” We just got done talking a lot about how Carol has seen something others have not. She’s the only person who was inside Grady with Beth, who was in Beth’s story and may have witnessed what happened, and how this is connected to what’s going on in Ghosts. Everyone in Ghosts is “not seeing” something, aka they’re in denial, except for Carol.

As I said earlier, Carol is “unstuck.” I think because of this she lacks the blinders that many other characters seem to have, in terms of the truth. In Ghosts, everybody has the thing they want to believe, and the thing they can’t see. The main thing is the question as to whether or not Alpha sent the walkers. Mary says it isn’t Alpha and so does Lydia, but this can’t be true, because then who could it be? The actual truth is too much to handle. It’s too big and the possibilities are ferocious. This is just a precursor to a lot of other ways the characters are in denial.

Michonne and Daryl are repeatedly appeasing Alpha to prevent further bloodshed, and to prevent another war, but the thing is, they need a war. Their inaction or indifference, while simultaneously having overstepped their bounds with Alpha and her “rules” causes them to lose more land, only pushing things further to the brink. The Highway Men are right, in that Alexandria needs to fight. But Michonne and Daryl are like a snake with its head cut off. They aren’t the leaders the community needs. They are still mourning Rick.

Aaron, meanwhile, is in denial about what happened with Eric. Eric fought willingly in the war with the Saviors and died per his own choices to do so. Aaron blames Negan, so Negan projects on Aaron in an uncomfortable way, which is to say, he didn’t protect his wife, and she died. Negan, too, is still in denial about his role in what happened to Lucille, something he doesn’t let go of until Here’s Negan.

But Negan doesn’t really see clearly either, not until he has to face Maggie in 11A, when he reminds her that it was Rick who started that war, and he doesn’t regret his actions. He regrets that Glenn had to pay the price, but he commits that no matter what, somebody had to. That it was Glenn, that’s just fate, and for this, he is sorry, but he wouldn’t go back and change a thing, and he’s not going to grovel.

But Carol. In Ghosts, Carol is having bad dreams but she is able to see the whisperers because her subconscious, cracked open by drugs and lack of sleep and a lack of inhibition or greater purpose, leads her straight to them. Carol sees Alpha for what she is. She knows that Alpha needs to die, and she is sick of the dance they’re doing to appease her. Carol is RIGHT about this but her approach is all wrong, bringing that gun to the meeting, because, just like always, she’s brash and selfish.

Even in Find Me, I want to point out that Carol is right to question Daryl’s sanity, his emotional stability, and what went on with Leah. It’s just, she already fucked that up with what happened to Connie, so nothing she says or does will ever reach him. She was also right btw to try and pursue Alpha in season 10 after what she did the Alexandrias, but again, she did it all wrong. Because rather than find a way to lead, Carol tries to do everything on her own, and it just doesn’t work that way. Carol’s intentions are often right. Her instincts are often spot on. It’s just her approach that causes so many problems.

In Indifference, she grovels to Rick. She says she had to do something, because Rick wouldn’t. She earlier says, “You can be a farmer, Rick. You can’t just be a farmer.” I think in the episode, we are drawn to think of Carol as the indifferent one, because she seems only to be out for herself and what she thinks is right, and this might be true, like what Daryl accuses her of during their fight in Find Me; however, I think Rick is also truly indifferent. He drives Carol away because he can’t commit to dealing with Tyreese, dealing with what to do when somebody does what she did. He can’t make this choice so he just…removes it.

When she says she had to do something, Rick says, “No, you didn’t.” And he’s technically right. But where he’s wrong is that SOMEBODY had to do something. Maybe not THAT, but something. But Carol is selfish, always focused on her own point of view and her own objectives. She’s not a leader. She’s a mother, protecting her young above all others, only her young are all dead, so she has nobody on whom to project this ruthless, selfish mechanism.

This is what causes people to disbelieve her, including Daryl. They assume she’s only out for herself. Carol is not beholden to anyone or any one set of ideals, just as she’s not beholden to any one timeline. She is, however, highly intelligent, and this is something that we see play out in season 11 a little bit, when Carol is sort of past her internal conflicts and her selfishness, and when she’s no longer putting pressure on herself to avenge those she’s lost, but instead, she makes it her entire life goal to help and protect others, like Kelly, like Ezekiel.

In Hunted, for example, she gets flack from Magna for fuelling Kelly’s hope that they will find Connie, and Carol struggles because she’s not sure: Is she actually doing this for Kelly, or is she only trying to make herself feel better? In the end, after everything that happens with the horses, Carol decides that she’s doing it for Kelly after all, and so she defies Magna. Once again, she’s right. They do find Connie. And because her approach is unselfish, everything is okay.

In his dream story, Daryl says something like, even tho his dad was a drug addict, it doesn’t mean he was wrong. This is right. It’s like Carol talking to herself. Just because I’m a selfish co-dependent ruiner doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

Some other notes, related. In his dream story, Daryl’s dad sees a girl being hit by a truck, who disappears. Odd that this is what Carol’s mind would invent, as, back to Grady, she was hit by a car and disappeared. “There was no girl,” Daryl says. Is this some sort of allegory? Is this some sort of story Carol is telling herself about what happened? Intriguing.

Carol is seeing things. They’re real, but not in the way it seems. She’s being lead around by her subconscious. In Fear, we see this happening with Grace in “In Dreams,” very obviously, and also with Siddiq in Open Your Eyes. The subconscious is a storyteller and a truth bomb.

Per Siddiq, he’s REALLY not seeing. He’s traumatized. Siddiq is having flashbacks, when he is with Dante. It’s like Dante’s voice is triggering him, but he doesn’t know it yet. He isn’t seeing. He’s only hearing.

Per the other storylines: It’s important that Negan is the one who sees, while Aaron is blinded. Negan’s act of tough love helps Aaron see again, literally and figuratively, but it also forces Negan to make a choice. Is he loyal to these people? Yes, he is. Or else he would have run. He wouldn’t have helped Aaron. He might have just killed him or let him die. It’s the same with Rosita. She helps Eugene to see. It’s hard but it sets him free, gives him his “crushing moment of clarity.”

Seeing is akin to waking up. Opening your eyes. Eugene talks about how when one is sleep deprived this “enhances impulsivity” as if one is drunk. “Drunk minds speak sober hearts.” Dante brings Siddiq the moonshine. Dante was also a field medic, same as Bob.

In the end, Daryl is smoking a clove cigarette and for a second I thought it was a cinnamon stick.

Idk why they have him smoke that clove cigarette with the brown paper. I don’t know that they’ve had him do that before. He doesn’t smoke a lot in those seasons tbqh.

I think it’s obviously meant to call us back to Alone, and to what Carol saw that he didn’t see. But ofc I am biased.

The ending dream with Henry is weird, because it seems unsettled. It seems like he’s still waiting for her. The compass calls us back to the day she was unstuck.

Carol’s cast. Why did she get a big old cut like that in her arm? This episode is full of broken glass. “Did you have to break the glass?”

The callbacks to Indifference intrigued me, too, because in Indifference, the B story has Daryl and Michonne’s group traveling to the school to find drugs and supplies. In Ghosts, they also go to a school, and the bleeding eyes is consistent with the theme of “not seeing.”

Like at some point, Daryl says something to Michonne about what they need to do about the walkers and she snaps back, “I have eyes.” Aaron goes blind. I’m wondering now if the bleeding eye disease is just a symbol meant to communcate to us that there is something majorly unseen at work.

There’s also something weird, too, about Judith sitting by the window. She just sits there, the whole episode, and RJ is fast asleep. He sleeps through the whole ordeal, like the little Red King. Had me wondering if he wasn’t just dreaming the whole thing. Made me think of how Michonne isn’t seeing them, or like they don’t exist when she’s not there.

She says something like, “It’s not smart to go to sleep unless it’s safe.” This recalls Carol, who is obviously feeling unsafe. Henry told Daryl that story about the reason she used to cut her hair, because Ed used to grab her by the hair, and the fact she let her hair grow out showed that she finally felt safe enough to do so.

Continued tomorrow...

#beth greene #beth greene lives #beth is alive #beth is coming #td theory #td theories #team delusional #team defiance #beth is almost here #bethyl

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welcometogrouchland · 1 year

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Okay thoughts after that promo:

-i do not think that is actually Luz's palisman. It just looks wrong (and high-key spooky, we all know animation rules that green/purple/black colour combos = villainous) and I don't think they'd give it away that easy. I'm 90% certain that this is something Belos, the collector, or some other antagonist has sent/planted to trick her (it's notable she's alone in all the frames with it. Perhaps the group got spilt up to leave Luz vulnerable?)

- the boiling isles looks mostly normal but startlingly empty, which gives me the notion that whatever the collectors "owl house" ends up being, that's where all the boiling isles citizens are, participating in the game (likely unwillingly)

- also, this may not be right, but when hunter says "something's coming" and Gus and willow respond with "is it demons? Witches?" (All dialogue paraphrased), that tells me that they're setting up for a rule of 3 joke where whatevers coming is none of those things...meaning it's probably not the CATTs </3 or yknow, it could more of a "is it demons? Witches?" (Eda falls out of a bush) "...IT'S THE OWL LADY!!". Or something among those lines

- STILL NO BOILING ISLES CHARACTERS MAN!! Probably saving those for the owl house specific promos instead of the generalized channel ones? If we get FTF promos at all...(Disney I know you hate this show but blease...my crops are withering in this winter)

-other frames were too small or quick for me to pick up on what was happening so I'm just gonna let other people scrub through the promos frame by frame and analyse them

Anyway. Absolute crumbs from Disney but yknow what. I'm eating aren't I?

#ramblings of a lunatic #the owl house #the owl house spoilers #toh spoilers #since i know some people like to go in blind and would prefer to have the promos tagged for spoilers #mmm getting nervous lads!!! where is everyone else!!!!!

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goongiveusnothing · 10 months

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yup harries/jack nicholson jr. totally lied about mitch’s experience. see below.

apple doc, mtv, capital fm, mirror, etc. literally had quotes of clown from clown’s mouth saying mitch was never in a studio before. he also said of mitch (paraphrase) that he was happy to record an album with someone who was also doing it the first time- that person doing it for time is mitch just in case zot3 missed that part.

there used to be a lot of pictures and info on mitch and his old band, including them being in a recording studio, but strangely most of it has been scrubbed from the internet.

however, here’s a link to mitch and total navajo’s album. scroll all the way down for and it literally says it was recorded at a recording studio.

https://totalnavajo.bandcamp.com/album/eyelids-ep

“Recorded at: The Farm, Grove City PA Firehouse Recording Studios, Pasadena CA TNHQ, Los Angeles CA

credits

released October 7, 2014”

#hitch

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thekittyburger · 2 years

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Drew my ocs if they were in the lotr universe

Pre Bo5A- Basically Sage(wyn) (left) got locked out of the Woodland Realm like a fucking idiot and travelled to lake-town, to pass the time while she waited for quarantine to be over, completely oblivious of the barrels out of bond thing. Anyway she doesnt have permission to enter but no one notices till too late, and shes arrested and brought on trial after the dwarves ascend the mountain. Alfrid is tired of all the newcomers so charges her guilty with the masters approval, but she says that shell just leave its fine no gaol stay for me besties, and immediately gets tripped up and knocked out by the guards when she tries to run. nice one. she then meets Rosemary (right) the caretaker in the gaol and theres mutual onlivious pining while Sagewyn tries to flirt. Later they hear rumbling from the mountain and Sagewyn is dragged out to the middle of nowhere on the banks to be tortured for information. naturally shes stupid so doesnt know anything but they beat her up anyway. She is escorted back to the gaol but luckily Rosemary breaks in and takes her to an old shack on the opposite side of the lake from Dale.

[Photo transcript]

Sage: if i idve known a beautiful woman was going to rescue me i wouldve scrubbed up more, nin melith (my love (in sindarin))

Rosemary: shhhh

[end of photo transcript]

Sages quote is paraphrased from a short story in a book called All Out.

@ramblingstaylorsversion

#Sage oc #Rosemary oc #Sage x Rosemary #Kitty screams #oc #oc art #lotr au

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wallacetheentertainer · 11 months

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"Let's do a friendly, SFW RP blog for a change!" I said, then immediately created a spin-off of my grossest fanon character interpretation ever.

This'll just be a low-interaction in-character blog to figure out the life & exploits of Mundane Human AU Wallace as a "fandomless OC" for my own amusement. I cannot imagine anyone wanting to roleplay with such an offputting little bastard so for the moment considering this a semi-private blog, but future threads aren't off the table entirely depending on how attached I get to this loser shithead.

🎃 @coffinbreath

🎭🎭🎭

Wallace James Punch

Alternate stage moniker: Wally DeLarge

Birthday: 5/22/1993

Voice: if Genesis P-Orridge constantly smoked cigarillos, with a little Sid Vicious

5'/145 lbs/stereotypical angry redhead/fishbelly pale/cold dead blue eyes/terrifying smile/trash fashion sense/trashier tattoos

Basics

A shock-comedy "performance artist" born in Cheshire, England, Wallace Punch's Variety Act has been described by the few critics brave enough to stomach its entirety as "a one-man pantomime of The Aristocrats"---to paraphrase the sex-shop owner in Se7en, "the sort of guy who pisses in a cup on stage and then drinks it". Lots of prop-based humor and dead baby jokes, once landed himself in the hospital with salmonella after biting the head off a plucked dead chicken, another time was banned from the premises for bleeding all over the place when he pierced his nipples with safety pins. He has a small but dedicated fanbase of edgy groupies and is notorious for being mediocre in the sack whenever he does bed them; while not an outright rapist his incel energy is OFF THE CHARTS and if he starts joking about roofies that unfortunately means he likes you. Surprisingly not a drinker given his hair-trigger temper, Wallace prefers club drugs and is very casual about being hooked on amphetamines, definitely not above buying adderall from teenagers despite his age---very "Hello fellow youths" at whatever party he's crashing.

Though as crass and lecherous as his puppet blueprint, Wallace Punch is a complete 180 in other aspects---melancholic as opposed to violent, masking his insecurities with deranged jokes and a pathological need to have all eyes on him, secretly terrified of most animals because for some reason they tend to attack him, masochistic to a point that he's almost too kinky to torture and charismatic in a skanky way that keeps him surrounded by similarly-othered people, topped off with the type of personality disorder that no matter the size of the crowd egging him on, he tends to feel like the loneliest man in the world. Puts the "bi" in "bipolar"---eh, probably, there may not be a straightforward diagnosis for what's wrong with him, and he had a normal-enough childhood that there's no Freudian excuse for his antisocial behavior. Perhaps Wallace is just what happens when a mildly emotionally neglected 10 year old with unsupervised internet access starts stealing his mom's cigarettes and finds that negative attention is better than none.

Backstory, Etc.

The first major turning point in his life was being arrested at age 20 for assault with a weapon, and Wallace was lucky to only spend a year in prison for breaking his flatmate's jaw with a metal juggling torch as soon as he walked in the door---the judge was very lenient, taking into consideration that Wallace's motive was finding "fucked up photos of kids" while snooping through the guy's room for weed; however the case brought so much negative publicity to the Punch name & family restaurant that his father Harold disowned him, with the final comment "you always ran with a bad crowd, why don't you stick with them". This insult on top of the injury of a very rough stay in Wormwood Scrubs broke something in Wallace (it's the one aspect of his criminal history he won't brag about) and led him to start ramping up the show's indecency while using his real name as if to send the message that he wouldn't be so easily forgotten; beyond that he's a registered sex offender due to the number of times he's stripped on stage or taken a leak in public, had to crowdfund bail from fans when he was arrested for soliciting a prostitute while touring the United States, been fined for possession and public intoxication multiple times, regularly steals and engages in prostitution himself despite being quite comfortable from his eccentric aunt's inheritance "because it's fun", and had his license revoked for reckless driving because he's near-sighted yet refuses to wear glasses.

Despite these charges and the general misogynistic bent of his humor, there are quite enough women willing to ignore his many red flags out of sheer curiosity from the rumors (and video clips) that circulate. He's more popular with men, seeming to take pride in making other guys question their sexuality and having lost track of how many times he's heard "you look like a girl from the back"---with his short stature, alto voice, fat ass and flamboyant wardrobe the question as to his sex occasionally comes up, which he'll happily answer with a visual demonstration. Trans fans give him the t-slur pass because for all that he refuses to label himself, he does seem to have quite a fondness for skirts, stockings and tacky jewellery, and while he's definitely chaser-y about it his admiration for transsexuals' "commitment to the bit" in his words is genuine. Wallace isn't particularly bigoted towards one group more than others and will use whatever derogatory language comes to mind first, defaulting towards homophobia (because irony) and antisemitism (because I'm Jewish & comfortable "reclaiming" that, plus I think he'd say some funny shit about us controlling the entertainment industry) or just trash-talking a target's appearance ("Ya call that a moustache? It looks like you're eating a rat!") if sexual and racist epithets don't stick. He gets real enjoyment from audience members heckling him right back, seeming to consider a show a failure if there hasn't been at least one argument or disgusted walk-out.

#notes #thoughts #heyyy it's me #<- in-character screenshots/''selfie'' tag #out of character #to be updated

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nihilisticvaginas · 1 year

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Art helps sometimes. It doesn't get you your money back, but it may* help you feel better.

(*your mileage may vary!)

This is a parking ticket I got at work while I was parked in my buildings parking lot. They charge $50 a month just for the privilege of showing up to a 4 hour maximum work day at $15/hr where I get to empty trash cans and scrub public toilets :) They gave me this ticket (which costs about 2 hours of my 4 hour work day) 13 minutes before I clocked out at 9am. I cut it up into middle fingers and wrote a (paraphrased) quote from my building supervisor that reads "You should collect cans and bottles to help pay for parking!" You read that right! My boss gleefully let me in on this "tip" that supposedly "other workers" on campus were doing regularly which is, and I cannot stress this enough, DUMPSTER DIVING FOR EMPTY SODA CANS TO PAY TO PARK AT THE PLACE THEY ARE EMPLOYED.

Anyways, how's your day going?

#burn it to the ground tbh #🔥🔥🔥#I hope attendance plummets and these vultures go bankrupt

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meanwhileinstasiville · 1 year

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This comic sort of paraphrases how I felt with respect to my best friend’s family, when we were kids. Same today, sort of. “Automotive surveillance” you might call it, because wholesaler, and also “the relative worth” indicator discussed above.

Commutes to nowhere in particular wasting people’s time (though they aren’t really working) and also gas, that variously is a tax write off or else company paid. Ashland is character revealing for corporations, so it never really bothered me until it evidenced the pretend caring of, “we try not to think about it, or you in particular beyond a convenient afterthought at most”. Should mention the secular organization(s) responsible for proselytizing on behalf of my friend at this point, too. Also their direct competition with the synagogues; 1980s Japan’s success prompted the East Main synagogue. China’s success in the 1990s prompted the Mountain Avenue Synagogue. Debt America owed through China’s awakening developed the “Community Center” across from the university, between France’s (because China respects France culturally), and also the “People’s Bank” which is where Chinese government types are supposed to park their money. Across from the “head”. Across the street and uphill from MoC, the Ms13 bastion (la eme, like emek, you know). Ashland takes this all in stride because it’s been going on since the 1800s. Groups from government associations trying to become majority stakeholder about town, and thus bashing horns in the process, making room for the next group from the next era.

This abutted by the drug cartels who control I-5 and have regional management operations longstanding here. They’ll respect America’s rules when they have America’s white privileges. And left to their own second oldest cultural complex devices, they’ll min-max what they control until everyone is literally the same. Americans could all end up wearing “Tom’s” shoes, latex gloves to spare soap and water, and also scrubs as a waste management strat. Latinos don’t mess around with that stuff, but that’s a ways down the road.

Edit: I wonder to this day how “yeah but Isaac’s post has more names on it!” at the historical south-of-town cemetery came to be a thing way back in the 1850s. Way before the theater, way before the civil war.

What congress should do, is create a list of rights and privileges (and bylaws) ensured to every American, and then strikethrough the ones withheld from ugly people, to better understand Latino life.

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oldgooddaysoldgooddays · 1 year

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192

While my brain feels on an even keel, my heart flutters and rattles and clunks, begging me to notice what I assume is anxiety. Stop! It say to the heart, I can't do anything about our planning permits, only Islington council has that power There are upsides, I guess, to a total lack of mind-body union. I can, for instance, read a Vanity Fair article from 1999 while my blood pressure rockets. I believe I could suffer cardiac arrest while still meditating. It's what allowed me, back in the spring, to draft notes to my mixing engineer about my own album while receiving oral sex. Compartmentalising is in equal parts sad and useful this way. To paraphrase Bukowski: "there's a home renovation crisis in my heart that wants to get out / but I'm too tough for it. I say / Do you want to jeopardise my painting practice? Do you want me to get an EKG?" B sent me the Vanity Fair article and I tell him that, as always, he has nailed it, that with content I like to dine prix fixe with him lunchtime. He makes me feel like I could delete the Safari app on my phone and just have him spoon-feed me cultural ephemera instead. The piece is about a mystery woman, fake name Miranda Grosvenor, who entranced famous men of the 80s with her witty phone calls. Requests for in person meetings were rebuffed for years. The central victim was a music industry power player who eventually got her face to face in a hotel room. She was, shock horror, in her thirties, and worse, OVERWEIGHT. "Catfish to the stars", B says As a palate cleanser I throw on Louis Theroux's newest documentary, about rehabilitating sex offenders in California. I of course realise, halfway in, that I'm attracted to one of the aggressors interviewed. I think his teeth and voice are supremely erotic, and scrub back several times to watch him show Louis the van now serving as his home. "This is my LA mansion", he says, his unwashed vest clinging to his pectoral muscles. The camera pans in on a NOT GUILTY tattoo on his bicep. "If she hadn't been fourteen I wouldn't be wearing an ankle monitor" J calls for the third day in a row and I can see how sheer persistence could make me come to rely on this as a part of my routine. If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, the way to my heart is through the clock on my laptop. It sucks that it takes the vague promise of either sex or business to make a phone call now. Gone are the days of "Miranda" luring, say, Billy Joel to the well of infatuation with only the sound of her own voice, for her own enjoyment, and him asking her to call again, for his own enjoyment

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neckocase · 3 years

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Tanjiro: “If Zenitsu was drowning at the beach and he told you not to save him, would you do nothing?”

Inosuke: “Depends, what if there’s women there? Maybe he wants one of them to save him.”

Tanjiro: “Say there’s no women.”

Inosuke: “There’s always women at the beach!”

Tanjiro: “Fine, then he’s in a pond.”

Zenitsu: “I would never swim in a pond! They’re infamous for serpents!”

Tanjiro: “Fine, then Inosuke is the one drowning!”

Inosuke: “Hey, I can swim just fine!”

Tanjiro: “Oh my god! I would rather become a demon than try to explain this to you two idiots!”

#paraphrased from scrubs #kny #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #zenitsu agatsuma #tanjiro kamado #inosuke hashibira #incorrect quotes

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eggbagelz · 2 years

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Theres nothing quite like the sheer terror of realizing the people who're in charge of giving you intensive medical care are your best friends from highschool

#doodles #scott summers #hank mccoy #jean grey #x-men #RELAX SCOTT THEYRE MEDICAL PROFESIONALS #quote paraphrased from scrubs!

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terrainofheartfelt · 2 years

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I do not know you well enough to tell you NOT to watch something ... but also ... don't watch HIMYF. it's some of the worst sitcom writing I've experienced in a long time but I keep watching b/c I am fascinated by how inexplicably bad it is. very little of the fun, tropey, clever inversions that were hallmarks of the og series. BUT! it was picked up for s2 so what do I know?

LOL I do trust your taste, bc according to your blog & writing mine is very similar!!! I will keep it in mind as something to watch when I am in the mood for something bad, but it’s low on my list. I think Sex Lives of College Girls and Abbot Elementary are higher priorities.

But like, the things that made the og so good was the Bits, and how they leaned into them. I can’t imagine the new not doing them bc why ever not?

But then again…so few sitcoms these days are given a chance to run long enough to develop those, yk?

#it’s true though when I see something from you on the dash #i’m like ‘yes of course you rb Scrubs bc you’re awesome!!’#asks #nevertothethird #with the og himym i don’t know…it was like…there was a self awareness to it?#like a: yeah this WILL be cheesy and it will be goofy but we aren’t taking ourselves too seriously #so when the serious/dramatic moments landed they LANDED.#and their greatest sin (i.e. the very last 5 minutes of the show) they took themselves too seriously. and that’s what sunk them #but to paraphrase your closing statement: what do I know?

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white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen · 2 years

Text

25% (Part One)

Summary: Neal added himself to a national bone marrow registry. He unexpectedly matches closely to a female cancer patient a few months later.

Word Count: 5,392

A/N: Requested by anonymous. This was a oneshot but it got too long so now it's a two-parter. Potential trigger warning of blood cancer, chemotherapy, and mention of hypodermic injections. Dr. Wilson and House are borrowed from House, M.D. Longer A/N at the bottom. Enjoy!

February 2010

“Peter, did you know that someone in this country is diagnosed with blood cancer every three minutes?” Neal asked, paraphrasing from the informational leaflet.

Peter, standing in the line just ahead of him, sighed sympathetically. “Yes, Neal, I read it, too.”

The thief looked back down at the trifolded pamphlet, reading the rest of it through a second time while the line slowly moved forward. Gift of Life adorned the top of each third of the cardstock. When the nonprofit had reached out to the businesses and organizations in Federal Plaza, the bureau had forwarded the notice to its New York agents en masse, and for the last two days, agents, as well as lawyers, clerks, police, and civilians, had been filtering through the queue to be tested. Neal had opted to go with Peter, not seeing any harm. Now, reading the leaflet he’d been given to ensure his consent was informed, he was altruistically glad that he’d come.

“White patients are almost guaranteed to find a compatible donor,” Neal read, tapping Peter on the shoulder to make sure that the agent was paying attention. “The odds go down for other ethnicities. This says Black Americans only have a two-in-three chance*.”

Peter’s sigh sounded more irritated this time. “I read the same thing you did, Neal.” He turned partway to talk more easily to his consultant while still able to move forward when the line did. They were almost at the front.

“I wonder why,” Neal thought aloud. “Have fewer Black people been tested? It could be their sample size. Maybe some demographics aren’t as willing to be tested.” Knowing the country’s history of medical abuse towards Black citizens, that wouldn’t be too surprising.

“It could be about genetics,” Peter answered, grudgingly curious.

Before they could theorize further, the line moved forward. A woman in scrubs wearing a paper mask over her face poked her head out of the small tent and gestured for Peter to come inside. Peter ducked in and Neal waited alone. Maybe a minute later, she stuck her head back out and gestured for Neal.

Inside the pop-up tent, a collapsible plastic table had been set up. One volunteer sat at the table, taking down information and using a small barcode printer to code information to the stickers put on samples. Beside the table were two milk cartons full of empty little vials, and a huge glass jar had nothing but long cotton swabs.

Neal wrote in his name, birthday, and contact information, then responded to a short checklist of yes or no questions about his medical history while Peter had his cheek swabbed. When he was done, he turned the clipboard back towards the volunteer. She took the sheet he’d used off the clipboard and then turned it back towards the table for the next donor. His handler was ushered out of the other side of the pop-up, and Neal took his place while the nurse sealed the vial shut and added the printed barcode sticker corresponding to Peter. She beckoned the next person inside, then turned to Neal.

He didn’t remember getting his cheek swabbed so roughly before, but at least it didn’t hurt. He wasn’t even supposed to stay until the sticker was on his vial, instead being shown the door (well, exit flap) by the nurse. Neal came back out of the tent into the sunshine and saw Peter had stopped to wait for him a few feet away.

“Done your civic duty for the day?” The agent checked dryly.

“Yeah,” Neal said, folding up the leaflet he’d been holding onto and putting it in his pocket. “Now that that’s over with I can get back to my foreign duties instead.”

“Ha! Maybe in 44 months,” Peter snorted, leading the way back to the FBI building.

July 2010

You’d known something was wrong since late March, when your pants stopped fitting. You hadn’t been worried then; it was just a sign you needed to make sure you were getting enough to eat. But then you realized you couldn’t remember the last time you’d woken up feeling refreshed. And then there was the brain fog that started crowding your thoughts out on bad days. None of these things would have concerned you alone, because everyone had bad days, and sometimes when you couldn’t sleep, you were tired, and it was hard to concentrate. Finally, the pain in your back started, and you realized too much was wrong at once to not go to a doctor. Two visits and a specialist appointment later, you had a diagnosis. Multiple myeloma.

And now this: it wasn’t getting better.

“I thought the chemo was helping,” you said, feeling sick to your stomach at the thought of cancerous cells multiplying and spreading, poisoning your body from within. And, worse, you’d just been making yourself feel and look like shit pointlessly because the chemotherapy wasn’t even helping.

“It was. The results were promising and we still aren’t seeing any signs that it’s moved to your other organs,” Dr. Wilson told you kindly. You hated him. Well, no. You hated coming to see him. His track record for giving you good news was pretty bad, considering he was the one who’d given you the cancer diagnosis in the first place. But he was one of the best oncologists in the tri-state area that you could get in to see. “But we’re also not seeing the cancer going away any more now than it was this time last month.”

It was just sitting there, festering. You squeezed your eyes shut so tightly you started seeing dark spots flashing against your eyelids, and then breathed in heavily and looked at the doctor again.

“Do I have any options?” You asked hopefully, battling the bone-deep tiredness that you felt both physically and mentally.

“I think, with your permission, it would be best to look at a more aggressive treatment,” Dr. Wilson said, reaching back over to his desk. When his patients came in, he often sat with them on one of the couches or chairs instead of being several feet away behind a table. He gave you one of those little thin hospital leaflets. Bone marrow transplantation.

“When we’re looking at this problem, there are two factors to consider.” Dr. Wilson explained patiently. “First, you’ve got the cancerous cells. We have to take them out of your body so they can’t keep replicating and, God forbid, metastasize. Second, you still need to have some cells to be healthy, so we need to make sure you have those.”

“But you can’t specifically take out only the cancerous cells,” you said dully, seeing where it was going. As if the leaflet hadn’t given it away already.

“No, we can’t,” he confirmed. “So in cases like this, sometimes our best option is to just… well, to weaken your immune system and kill off all of the cells in that area. No more cancer. A healthy donor supplies some replacement cells, and while your immune system is down, it’s more likely to accept the donated material. Those cells then replicate and offer a new supply of healthy, non-cancerous marrow.” Dr. Wilson locked his fingers and set his hands on his knee. “It’s not always fast to find a donor, and there’s always the chance your body will reject the transplant, even after everything. And, as you know, there’s no cure for cancer – you would be in remission, but you wouldn’t be cured.”

The moment he said remission, you knew that you were on board, no matter how apprehensive you still felt. Even in the simplified explanation he had given you, there were a few things you didn’t feel confident that you understood. But… to be cancer-free…

You wrung your hands nervously and, wanting to know what you were getting into, asked, “Will it kill me if it goes wrong?”

Dr. Wilson shook his head quickly. “That’s always possible, but it would be an exceedingly rare case. It’s an inpatient procedure. You’d stay here at least overnight and if there were any signs that your body was rejecting the donation, you’d have medical care immediately.”

“But my immune system would be shot,” you said worriedly.

“But in a sterile environment with doctors and nurses on call at all times, that’s not nearly as dangerous as it used to be,” he reassured you. “And the body is strong. It’s usually only three to four weeks before any chemotherapy patient is back to full immunological health.”

Biting your lip, you weighed the risks. Dr. Wilson seemed pretty certain that it was worth taking the risk to go ahead with it, and that those risks were relatively small. And the thought of not having this mutation sitting in your back anymore was incredibly tempting. Resisting it, you imagined, was like asking a recovering alcoholic to resist a Cosmo put right in front of them. Every day you felt unsafe and paranoid of your own body – the one place you could never actually flee from.

“When you say aggressive treatment…”

“It’s aggressive in the sense that we would be deliberately, albeit temporarily, shutting down your immune system. It won’t be pleasant for you, but it wouldn’t last very long,” Dr. Wilson offered. “And in that the transplantation process is inherently an invasive procedure. But it’s also a relatively low-risk one, given a close genetic match.” He lowered his head down to try to meet your eyes as you stared towards a crease on the knee of his pants. “Does that mean you’re considering the option?”

You nodded without thinking. Considering was the absolute least of what you were doing. “I want to do it,” you said.

It wasn’t like you weren’t signing up to be a chemo-weakened shadow of yourself for yearsjust for one longshot operation. You were signing up to feel like hell and be vulnerable in a relatively safe environment, and what sounded like a relatively minor operation. Having a needle put in your back, or even into your bones, was a far cry from the open-heart surgeries which were successful most of the time. Maybe your judgment was skewed, but there was little you wouldn’t do to put yourself in remission. Even if it wasn’t permanent, it would be worth it to have your normal life back for a little longer.

“Oh – okay.” Dr. Wilson blinked and sat up straight. “Alright. The first thing we do is find a donor. Once we find one, and they’re willing to go through the donation process, then we begin the more intensive prep work. Until then,” he said, standing up from the chair and going back to his desk. The oncologist grabbed a pen and made a few notes for himself while you listened, daring to look up hopefully and track him with your eyes. “You stay on your current treatment plan. Not getting better’s frustrating, but for now, we know you’re not getting worse, and you’re still able to function.”

That was debatable. Some days were worse than others. You decided not to point that out. The glumness you normally felt about it was absent now as you grew excited. This was happening. You were going to get better!

“For that donor,” the doctor said, turning back around to you and sitting on the edge of his chair. “Do you have any living biological relatives?”

… Oh. Nausea slammed into your stomach and your heart dropped. You hadn’t thought about that. About what it meant when he’d said that you’d need to find a close genetic match. The sun shining through the huge, clear windows felt horridly inappropriate; you expected and wanted to be swallowed up by the dark.

“I’m sure I do,” you said quietly, “But I was adopted. I have no idea who they are.”

Dr. Wilson’s smile had fallen in concern when yours had, but then he started to give you a reassuring smile. “That’s okay,” he said swiftly, seeing how your mood had changed. You raised your eyebrows skeptically. “We’re not matching DNA, we’re matching protein markers. Siblings are only about 25% likely to be a match, anyway. There are massive donor registries that cover the entire country. Your odds aren’t too bad. I’m going to send an order to the lab you go to.” He uncapped his pen to make more notes to himself. “They’re going to do a blood draw, and when they do, you’re going to have to sign authorization forms for them. With your consent, they’ll submit your sample to the biggest registries and contact me when they find possible options.”

You tentatively started to smile. “When,” you repeated after him quietly. “I really hope you’re not just trying to make me feel better.”

The blond man looked at you seriously and promised, “I would never mislead you about your medical situation. I think you should be optimistic. I’ll let you know when I have an update for you on your search, and if nothing comes up in the next month, then I’ll see you at your regular time.”

August 2010

If Lauren was allowed to doodle angry little sharks in the margins of her notes during meetings, then Neal strongly believed he should also be allowed to multitask. Judging by the fact that Peter confiscated Neal’s phone during their latest meeting, the agent felt differently.

Peter gave it back to him with a scolding order to pay more attention next time. Neal looked as apologetic as he could in the face, while in the eyes he made sure Peter could see he wasn’t contrite at all. It wouldn’t do to have Peter thinking that Neal was so easily cowed about something so trivial, but performing the lip service had the best outcomes for him because no one else knew him well enough to read the defiance in his eyes. That message was only for Peter, and Peter couldn’t rebuke him for it.

During the meeting, he had missed a phone call from someone who wasn’t in his contacts. Neal returned to his desk while waiting for it to dial back and hoping it wasn’t a spam call. There was a chance it was Mozzie, though, or even Alex, so he couldn’t not call back.

No one picked up, but the answering machine piqued his interest. It was an oncologist. Instead of leaving a message, the artist opened up a new tab on his desk monitor and searched the man’s name. Google had a couple small articles on the guy. As of two years ago, he was working as a cancer specialist at a teaching hospital in New Jersey. He double-checked and found that the area code he had called from was a New Jersey number, so it seemed like he was still there.

Mozzie would only go to a doctor if he were literally dying, and he would only go to a doctor in New Jersey if he were half-dead and being escorted there against his will by someone else, so Neal knew that wasn’t it. Purely out of curiosity, he called back, and this time, he left his name and phone number on the answering machine, and added that he was more reachable in the afternoons.

A few hours later, his phone rang again. It was from the same number. Neal excused himself from his desk and strode quickly towards the kitchenette so that his call didn’t bother anyone who was working, and answered it quietly by the coffee machine.

“Is this Mr. Neal Caffrey?” A man’s voice asked on the other end. “This is Dr. Wilson from Princeton-Plainsboro. I tried to call this morning.”

“Yeah,” Neal said vaguely to both. “You’re speaking to him. Can I help you?”

“Not me, specifically,” the doctor answered. “Do you remember registering with Gift of Life this past February?”

Neal blinked. That had been so long ago, and so much had happened since, that he’d all but forgotten about it. After he’d gotten home that evening, he’d looked up more information and found out that most donors would never be the closest match to someone looking for a donation. The thief had put it out of his mind and worried about the more important things on his plate, like corrupt OPR agents, his girlfriend’s murder, and how quickly he was going to be released from prison a second time.

“Yeah,” he said again. “I remember. Am I a match?” He couldn’t think of any other reason he’d be getting called.

“I have a patient whose HLA markers are a close match to yours,” the doctor told him. “If you’re still willing to be a donor, would you mind coming to the hospital for more thorough testing?”

He’d been through so much ugliness in the last couple of months that the idea of saving a life, even by something as passive as holding still and getting stuck with a needle, felt like it satisfied a mellow desire in his chest. He couldn’t save Kate, the one he’d desperately wanted to save, and he was gradually coming to accept that. But he knew that Kate – his Kate, at least, the one she’d been before she left – would’ve agreed to such a request in a heartbeat, and maybe this was a way to honor her.

Except that hospital was about 50 miles out of his radius.

Neal looked down at his right ankle and the lump under his trouser leg. “I actually don’t have a way to get to Princeton,” he said remorsefully. Even if Peter were willing to drive there, and he may have well been, the US Marshals would have had something to say about them taking a personal trip out of state, no matter what their intentions were. “Would it be possible to do that testing in Manhattan?”

The answer was absolutely. Dr. Wilson told him that compatibility testing could be done and transplantation performed from any medically licensed facility, and that his patient was willing to travel to said facility. Neal felt a sympathetic pang about that. Who wouldn’t be willing to go fifty miles out of their way to help themselves survive? If it were his health in jeopardy, he’d cut his anklet and run for it if that’s what it took to prolong his life.

On Tuesday morning, Peter picked up Neal and drove him to the hospital, carrying a messenger bag with cold cases to review and a deviled ham sandwich to eat for lunch since they’d taken the morning off. Peter didn’t even complain about the lost time once Neal said what he needed to go to the hospital for, and again, the artist was comforted by the knowledge that he was friends with genuinely good people. A part of him hoped their goodness would rub off a little bit more.

The longest part was having to wait to be checked in and taken back, but it wasn’t a short time in the office, either. Neal had to answer detailed questions about his medical background, and a doctor came in quickly to perform a routine physical and ensure that he was in good health. The nurse explained that, although they were only collecting blood to compare his protein markers to the anonymous patient’s, they liked to make sure that anyone they tested for compatibility would be healthy enough to go through with a donation process. If they weren’t, then it was a waste of everyone’s time to collect his blood. He saw the logic and signed a release permitting his history, evaluation, and blood results to be sent to Dr. Wilson at the Princeton-Plainsboro hospital.

Finally, a nurse came to draw his blood. “Last step and then you can leave,” she told him helpfully. “You’ll be contacted again if your HLA typing matches the donee closely enough to satisfy her doctor.”

“Her?” Neal asked curiously. He had assumed he was going through the process to donate to a man, although now that he thought about it, there was no real reason he’d thought so.

The nurse nodded. “The patient’s a woman with multiple myeloma. Blood cancer,” she added at Neal’s inquisitive look. “And based on the initial comparison, I’m hopeful you’ll be a good match. We usually don’t see them so close, except in siblings.”

“Huh,” he said aloud. Neal didn’t consider himself to be spiritual, but Kate would have seen that as a sign.

She took his blood quickly, having done it to other patients hundreds if not thousands of times before, then stuck a piece of gauze on his arm and a band-aid on top of that. Before he knew it Neal was being seen out of the room so it could be sanitized for someone else to use.

“How did it go?” Peter asked in greeting once Neal re-entered the waiting room.

Neal showed him the beige band-aid on his arm. “They stole my blood. And you call me a thief,” he joked.

September 2020

When Dr. Wilson saw you at your regular appointment, you had barely held your tongue long enough to sit down before you asked if there was any luck finding a donor. Although the man didn’t answer you right away, you were unbelievably relieved by how he seemed to fight to keep the smile off his face and remain measured and professional. That was a good sign, and it felt like suddenly this lead in your lungs was evaporating to let you breathe easily for the first time in weeks.

“We still need some time,” the blond had told you, gently making sure you didn’t get ahead of yourself. “A promising match is only so much. We need to run more comparisons, make sure that the odds of a rejection are as low as we can make them with the potentials that we have.”

Curious about the plural form, you’d asked if you actually had multiple matches. Dr. Wilson had nodded slowly, watching your face carefully to make sure you understood his explanation. You’d had two potential matches come up in the Gift of Life registry. Both were theoretically close enough to work, but one of them was a significantly closer match than the other. Dr. Wilson had already reached out to both about further testing so that if the closer match refused, or wasn’t that good of a match after all, the time wouldn’t have been wasted.

Another two weeks, almost three, and you were back in the office early at the doctor’s request. The markers were in, and so was the donor’s physical workup. He was in good health and willing to proceed. He was just about all you were able to get out of Dr. Wilson, what with the HIPAA laws in place for a reason. He was a he, and he was in your general age range, and he lived in Manhattan.

The doctor moved the process along, while you did all the preparations you could for the procedure. You tolerated what felt like exhaustingly long chemotherapy sessions and felt like you’d been hit by a slow-moving bus after each one. Though you fell asleep quickly, you were also woken up quickly by anything from a queasy stomach to muscle soreness, and even when you slept through several hours, you didn’t feel very refreshed. Your body was being put through the wringer in a new way. You just kept telling yourself that it was for the sake of a life where you didn’t have to do this all the time.

You wondered what he was like. The donor, that is. In your head, you’d started calling him X in place of a name. Whose protein markers were so much like yours that he was quite literally saving your life, granting you four, five, maybe even up to six extra years just by taking some blows for you this week. Finally, on the day of your last chemo treatment before the transplant, you decided you had to at least try for some answers and stopped at Dr. Wilson’s office after your treatment was over. Fortunately, he was still in his office.

“Hey,” he said, getting the door for you and guiding you to a seat. You didn’t need the gestures, but you did feel fatigued, and you knew that his walking with you was as much about liability if you fell than about thinking you needed the assistance. “Hey. Are you okay? What brings you here this evening? Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“Very,” you replied confidently, clenching your fists around the hem of your shirt. The taxi company had already called to confirm the fare out to Manhattan in the morning. “I was just hoping… well, I mean, I know you can’t tell me. But I’d like to know who my donor is, and meet him, if he’s willing.”

Dr. Wilson tilted his head to you curiously. “There’s a waiting period*, of course,” he said slowly. “You have to be 30 days post-op, no indication of required further transplant activity. That keeps it clean in case we have to ask the donor to go through the process again.”

You nodded, disappointed but understanding. You couldn’t know who was saving your life until it had already been saved. Maybe you weren’t meant to know at all, and maybe that was the point of the registry in the first place: you didn’t need to know Donor X, just that they were a fellow human who cared enough to be a good Samaritan.

“But after the waiting period, I can share your contact information with him, and vice versa, if you both consent,” Dr. Wilson offered after you didn’t say anything.

You perked up a little. “Yes. I’d like that, when it’s allowed.”

“Okay.” The oncologist nodded to himself. “I’ll make a note, and if you can just remind me in one of your follow-ups-“

A wheezing sound came from the ajar door to the hall. The wheeze was so bad it sounded like a balloon was slowly squeezing out its air. Dr. Wilson looked over your shoulder, and you tiredly, slowly craned your neck to look behind you. A rubber chicken continued to make a low squeaking noise while it slowly reinflated.

Silence. You looked at Dr. Wilson to ask if this was normal, and he was speechless, mortified.

A second rubber chicken came rolling through the open door. Someone in the hallway was throwing them. This one landed further in the office and inflated itself faster, at the cost of the wheezy, squeaking sound being more high-pitched.

Dr. Wilson finally recovered his voice and awkwardly forced a laugh, standing up and fixing his tie to hang straight. “I’m so sorry about this,” he told you profusely, his face turning red.

Before you could ask what he was apologizing for, since you were still very confused on the entire spectable, a third rubber chicken appeared, this one held up at the side of the door at eye-height. A man’s hand was squeezed around its side, and one finger at the back of its neck made it bob its head forward aggressively. The man on the other side of the door bawked equally aggressively.

Dr. Wilson’s embarrassed blush turned into a pink-faced scowl of anger as he rushed around you and to the door to deal with the rubber chicken man. “What do you think you’re doing?” He yelled at the other person in a tight-throated stage whisper.

“Bawk?” The other guy asked, using his tone to convey his meaning while he made the chicken squeak. “Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk.”

“House,” Wilson said tersely, “I’m with a patient right now. I can’t deal with you.”

“Bawk,” the rubber chicken man – House – said. It sounded very accusing.

Your doctor must have thought so, too, because he paused, then came storming back into his office. He vehemently kicked both of the rubber chickens on the floor back out into the hallway, ignoring their wheezy screams of protest, and the judgmental, bawking cry from the rubber chicken man. Then the oncologist closed his door, hard enough that it made you jump, and kept a hand on it while he leaned to keep it closed, turning his body back to face you and forcing a polite, if nervous, smile.

“I – ah – what were we talking about?”

“Work friend?” You asked knowingly, making a face at the long, despairing bawk made on the other side of the door.

Dr. Wilson paused only for a second before he realized there was no point in pretending that hadn’t just happened. “Friend is a strong word,” he grumbled. “Right. Like I was saying. If you still want to share your contact information with the donor, I can pass it along after the mandatory waiting period has passed.”

You nodded in acquiescence, knowing you didn’t have a choice. It was for the best. Now you could put a pin in those worries about what Donor X would think of you and just focus on handling your fluttering nerves about the operation… and leaving without being ambushed by rubber chickens.

Meanwhile

Neal had lost track now of how many times he had rubbed at the injection site now. It already felt hot and swollen, and the itching and achiness hadn’t gone away since the second day after the regiment had started. To say he was relieved that it was almost over was precariously close to being an understatement.

He checked the clock again as the day slipped into the evening. The artist wasn’t usually such a clock-watcher, unless he was trying to agitate Peter by doing it very obviously during a boring meeting. It was just that the Filgrastim shots were draining. He still knew he wasn’t the one getting the short end of the stick – that would be the poor cancer patient he was donating marrow to, who was probably going through aggressive chemo today, if the Internet was right about her side of things. Knowing that didn’t make him physically feel any better, though, and he waited for the minutes to tick forwards until he could go home, put on his softest pajamas, and hide in the warmth of a tightly-tucked blanket.

Although Peter had asked without mockery in his voice, Neal hadn’t admitted to anyone that he was just a little nervous about the operation tomorrow. It was an outpatient procedure on his end, but it was still a procedure, and Neal hadn’t had any sort of medical procedure done on himself since some cosmetic dental work in his early adulthood. Afterwards, he'd be recovering in the hospital from the anesthesia, free of charge, until he was released in the late afternoon to go home. He knew the ins and outs as well as he could, short of going to medical school himself.

Thankfully, Peter was a nine-to-five man. Reliably, as soon as the clock hit five, Peter began to show the signs of packing up to leave. It took him a few minutes to get all of his last-minute boxes checked, but the agent was leaving his office with his coat in hand by ten after, and Neal stood up quickly in eagerness to go. He braced himself on his desk and hoped that the dizziness didn’t show too clearly.

The conman was losing some of his touch, he realized, when Peter stopped and asked sympathetically, “You need an Advil?”

It was beyond tempting, but Neal shook his head. He could manage the trip back to June’s. The doctor had said to take something if it became unbearable, but he could read between the lines and knew it was ideal if he didn’t have any drugs in his system come morning. Peter waited patiently while Neal collected his things, careful not to bend over or stand straight so quickly again. On their way out, the agent put his hand up on Neal’s shoulder while they waited for the elevator.

“You’re doing a good thing,” Peter stated gruffly. Neal chanced a look at the agent’s reflection in the shiny metal front of the elevator. Peter wasn’t looking at him, and was also smartly refusing to look in the reflection, too. The thief thought he heard what might have been pride in the older man’s voice.

“I know,” Neal said, resolutely not questioning how nice it felt to hear it from a source other than his own conscience.

~~~ ~~~

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! Part two will be coming soon.

* This is a real, ongoing problem in American healthcare. Medical experts believe it’s a combination of what Neal and Peter both suggest; specifically, there is a much smaller pool of Black and African-American donors, and some doctors also believe that, due in significant part to the transnational nature of the slave trade, people who are Black may have comparatively more racially mixed genetic combinations, making it harder to find close matches.

Blood cancers include leukemia (common in children), Hodgkin’s lymphoma (common in adults), and a number of other variations, including multiple myeloma, as the reader has in this story. In addition to treating blood cancers, bone marrow donation can also treat some immunodeficiency disorders and aplastic anemia. If you haven’t already, and are in good health, please consider being added to a national bone marrow registry to potentially help save a life.

* While this is true, for the sake of the story I shortened the waiting period significantly. It is usually at least a year, according to the resources I could find online.

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 3 years

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The Long Con Part Two

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part Pairing: Marcus Pike x Reader Rating: T Notes: Thanks for all of the encouragement on the first couple of parts of this 🥰💕 I hope y’all had a good week! 💖 Warnings: Cursing; some angst Summary: “Shitty liars need to practice, Pike.”

“Alright, I’ve got a list,” You said, shrugging off your bag and setting it down beside Marcus’ couch. “A list?” Marcus repeated, coming back from the kitchen with a glass of water for you, “Of what?” “Thank you-- Things that we need to sort out before we get to Austin. Look, you’re a shitty liar, right? Your words, I’m paraphrasing,” You tacked on, reaching into your bag and pulling out your notebook and a pen.

“Uh-huh,” Marcus agreed amusedly. “Right, so hopefully if we sort out our details now, you won’t feel so freaked when we’re down there. And you won’t be trying to cobble together facts on the fly. That would get incredibly messy— especially if we’re going to pull this off all week.” “A full week of lying to my family,” Marcus sighed, “Talk about a long con, huh?” You glanced up at him from under your lashes, amused. “God, you’re such a boy scout. And technically you’ve already lied to them, you started the second you told Marnie that you were bringing me— though that’s technically not a lie anymore. Just...Don’t think about it as lying, pretend you’re undercover or something,” You shrugged, flipping your notebook over to your list of questions. “So I’d be lying to myself about the lie? Isn’t that compounding it?” “You’re overthinking it, Agent.” “You might want to start calling me Marcus.” “Right,” You muttered, “I will...Remember to do that.” “So what’s on the list?” Your eyes darted up from your list as you watched Marcus shrug out of his suit jacket. You’d seen Pike in less-than-pristine states before, especially throughout the Coleman case. You’d seen him with his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, and when you were half-tweaked on caffeine in your cramped office, it was… more than a little distracting. You leaned forward, picking up the glass and taking a pull from it before setting it down and settling back again. “Basics first,” You said, “How we met. I say we stick with ‘work’.” “That’s not a lie.” “I know, I thought you’d like that.” “I do.” “Okay. How long have we been together?” “Uh...Few months at least-- Five?” “I can handle five,” You jotted it down, “How come you haven’t mentioned me to them before?” You glanced over at Marcus, smiling a little when you saw his panicked expression. “Or have you gotten this one already?” You added. “No, I haven’t-- Work has been busy? Again, I think that would be sufficient, so-- Hang on.” You raised your brows as Marcus leaned back against his couch. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head. “What’s happening over there?” You asked. “We should change how long we’ve been together to...Maybe two or three months? If we’d been together for five and I hadn’t said anything, my family would be very suspicious.” You nodded, scribbling out ‘5’ and writing ‘2-3’. “‘Kay. Are there any significant past relationships - serious girlfriends, fiancés that I should know about? I don’t need full details, just, like, broad strokes so that if someone mentions something, I’m not completely in the dark.” “One ex-wife, one ex-fiancé,” Marcus answered without hesitation. You nodded a little, jotting that down, and stilled when he added, “My ex-wife will be at the wedding.” “Good to know. Is that contentious?” “No,” Marcus shook his head, “No, it ended amicably.” You considered Marcus, his puppy-dog eyes, soft smile and kind nature, and you couldn’t imagine it ending any other way. “She’s still close to my family,” He tacked on. “Oh,” You laughed a little, “Great. That’s gonna be fun for me.” “What do you mean?” Marcus frowned. You shot him a look. “Your family is still close to your ex-wife. You’re bringing a new girlfriend home. You don’t think this could get a little tense? Or is your entire family just as nice as you are?” Your brows rose as Marcus laughed a little, his head ducking bashfully at the question. “We try not to judge,” he conceded, shrugging, “I’ve brought a couple of other people home since the divorce. They’re not going to jump to conclusions.” You hummed, glancing further down your list. Your stomach twisted at one question, but it was one that you knew that you had to ask. “Speaking of jumping to conclusions,” You shifted in your seat, “Is there anyone in your family that might run a background check on me?” “A background check?” “Yeah,” You nodded, “I mean, I know my records are sealed and wouldn’t pop if someone ran a normal background check on me, but if anyone in your family is in law enforcement like you and...And went poking?” “No, they wouldn’t,” Marcus shook his head. “You sure?” “I’m positive.” You lowered your eyes, biting the inside of your cheek to stopper asking for a third reassurance as you jotted the note down. “...You don’t trust easily, do you?” Marcus asked softly. The question turned your blood icy for a moment. But for as much ire as it raised in you, you were careful not to take offense. You knew that he wasn’t trying to get a rise out of you - you were doing the guy a favor, and it would be pretty ill-advised of the man to piss you off at this point. “What ever gave you that idea?” You teased instead, giving him a look out of the corner of your eye. Marcus’ lips twitched with a smile and you returned it. “Alright,” You added, looking through the rest of your list, “Let’s see what else we’ve got before we start drilling this stuff.”

“Drilling?” “Shitty liars need to practice, Pike.” “Marcus.” “Hey, it was better than ‘Agent’.” “At least I’m not the only one that needs practice.” --

“Run it by me again,” You requested, tucking one leg up under yourself and leaning back against the arm of the couch. Marcus sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face. He’d ditched the tie, had popped the top few buttons of his shirt, and his sleeves had been rolled up around his elbows. The man looked a little haggard - it was precious. He straightened up, brow scrunching before his head tipped to the side just a little. “Okay. Okay, we met a year ago when I moved to D.C... You work with the Bureau, assisting on cases, mostly art forgeries.” You nodded encouragingly, waving him on. “We started dating two and a half months ago,” He’d settled on that, finally, not wanting to pick two or three, “After we spent so much time together on the Coleman case. You’re an art history professor, you...Have been engaged twice before,” He added, pointing a finger at you. You rolled your eyes a little bit. “Keep going,” You ordered. You raised a brow as Marcus’ brow furrowed a little more, his head turning just a bit. “You don’t have any siblings, you’re not close to your family, and we have not set any plans for the future in stone...Yet.” “Why do you keep tacking on that ‘yet’?” “Because my family knows me. They know I think about those things, and they know I don’t get into relationships unless I really think there’s something there. If they feel me pulling back on that, they’ll think it’s because I’m worried about scaring you off.” “You’re bringing me home not only to meet your family, but to stay there for a week and for a wedding-- which your entire family will be attending. I think that’s a healthy fear,” You retorted. Marcus smiled a little bit, raising his hand in concession. “How’d I do?” He asked. “Much better. You didn’t close your eyes halfway through to remember the details and you stopped ticking things off on your fingers. You do this thing, though, when you’re getting ready to lie, it’s like watching someone wind up for a pitch.” “What do I do?” “You do this--” You imitated Marcus’ furrowed brow and tilted head, “It’s subtle, but you always do it.” “You think my family’ll notice?” “Only if you play poker with them.” Marcus chuckled, slouching back against the arm of the couch and scrubbing his hand over his face. “God, I’m beat,” He muttered. You nodded a little, shutting your notebook and getting ready to tell Marcus that you would get out of his hair. “Wanna go get some dinner?” Was his next question. -- “Did you seriously just order pancakes?” You asked, brows raised. You’d wound up at a diner not too far from Marcus’ apartment - somewhere where the staff seemed to know and were very fond of him. “Yeah,” Marcus nodded firmly, “Dinner is the best time for breakfast.” You chuckled a little, reaching out and taking up your soda. “So, engaged twice?” He asked. You rolled your eyes a little. “Once in college, when I was young and...Quite stupid,” You admitted, “And then once a couple of years ago.” “What happened the second time, if you don’t...Mind?” Marcus cringed a little as he asked. It took you a moment to answer, and he rushed to add, “You don’t have to tell me.” You shook your head. “It’s okay,” You promised, “I, um… I told them that I had a record.” Marcus’ expression softened. “You hadn’t told them before?” “We moved really fast, which I usually don’t when it comes to relationships. I don’t know, usually that stuff is always on my mind when I’m with someone, but with them it never really felt like it mattered. When I did tell them, though, it…” Your eyes lowered to the table as regret twisted in your stomach, “It broke everything.” “Did you tell them what happened?” “They didn’t give me the chance.” The two of you were quiet for a few moments - Marcus digesting this information as you sat in the swirl of bitterness that it had dredged up. “Anyway,” You shook your head, drawing the both of you out of it, “Guess it shouldn’t really matter that they left when they did. I realized later that, given their reaction, they were going to leave no matter when I told them… How much of that you disclose to your family is up to you.” Marcus didn’t say anything for a few moments, searching your face. “Know what I never understood?” He finally asked. “What?” “Why they never nailed any of the people buying from you or your grandmother.” You shot him a skeptical look. “You know that it’s not punishable by law to buy a forgery or be a rich piece of shit.” “You were a kid,” Marcus frowned. You considered this for a moment, directing your eyes to the ceiling to find the best way to order your thoughts. “...I was a minor,” You contended, “But I was old enough to know that what we were doing was wrong. I… I knew that we were duping people, I knew that it was illegal. I knew the paintings were forgeries, and I knew that the people that we were dealing with were dangerous. I’m just lucky I wasn’t tried as an adult.” “You were raised to do all of that and then left hung out to dry by the person that was supposed to protect you,” Marcus argued quietly. You swallowed thickly, hurriedly looking to the table as you felt tears spring up in your eyes. You tried not to think about these things most days. And for Marcus to have this level of empathy, of understanding...You were sure that the man had glanced through your case file at some point when he started working with you, but hadn’t expected this. Most people didn’t look too far past what you were doing to try and understand how you’d come to be in your position. But then, most people weren’t Marcus. “...No wonder I don’t trust easy, huh?” You tried to joke after you’d blinked the tears away and lifted your eyes back to his, a thin smile on your lips. Before he could say another word on the matter, the food arrived.

The two of you tucked in quietly, After a few minutes, you nudged his foot with yours.

“Tell me about Marnie? And her fiancé, um… Hazel, right?” You requested.

Marcus’ face pulled with a fond smile, and you felt ease wash over you again. -- “So, just let me know what the wedding colors are so I don’t wind up wearing a dress that matches them and we should be all good,” You reached for your bag as Marcus pulled his car up in front of your apartment building. “Sure thing.” “And if you think of anything else that your family might ask about us, you know, so we can plan ahead.” “I will.” “Okay-- Oh! Uh… Are you a big PDA guy? Like, is that something your family’s going to expect?” “I tend to be kinda touchy, yeah, but I can tone it down.” “Well, what are we talking about here? Hand-holding, hugging?” “Yeah,” He nodded, “And probably a hand on your shoulder or your back, maybe a kiss on your cheek or forehead or…” Anticipation thrummed through you as his gaze darted to your lips. “‘Kay,” You nodded a little, feeling your heartbeat tick up in your chest. “We don’t have to--” Marcus started to reassure, but you waved him off. “It’s totally fine,” You reassured him, “I trust you.” Marcus smiled at you, a gentle smile overtaking his lips. “Glad to hear it. I’ll get you those wedding colors as soon as I can.” “Thanks,” You smiled, “Night, Marcus.” “Goodnight,” He chuckled as you got out of the car. Tag list: @hufflepuffing-all-day-long ; @spideysimpossiblegirl ; @blueeyesatnight ; @elen-aranel ; @yespolkadotkitty ; @artsymaddie ; @phoenixhalliwell ; @lunaserenade ; @winniedaboo ; @empress-palpat1ne ; @randomness501 ; @nutmeg-20 ; @leonieb ; @the-feckless-wonder ; @lou-la-lou ; @captain-jebi ; @supernaturalgirl ; @naturenebula21 ; @evelynseventyr ; @giselatropicana

#The Long Con #Marcus Pike x Reader #Marcus Pike x You #Marcus Pike/Reader #Marcus Pike Fic #Marcus Pike Imagine

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