#the rest of the family had to go back down to mexico like a decade ago

[universalsatan]

the mexican urge to adopt people…

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 5: Artemis, Goddess Of The Hunt]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.6k

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“So you smoked grass in college,” Aegon says, pondering you with glazed eyes as he slurps his cherry-flavored Mr. Misty. You’re in Biloxi, Mississippi where Aemond is making speeches and meeting with locals to commemorate the first summer of the beaches being desegregated after a decade of peaceful protests and violent white supremacist backlash. Route 90 runs right along the sand dunes. If you walked out of this Dairy Queen, you could look south and see the Gulf of Mexico, placid dark ripples gleaming with moonshine. “And swore, and had a boyfriend, and presumably, what, did shots? Skipped class on occasion?”

“Yeah,” you admit, smiling sheepishly, remembering. You stretch out your fingers. “I chewed gum, I talked during mass. And I loved black nail polish. The nuns would beat my knuckles with rulers, I always had bruises. I wore these flowing skirts down to my ankles and knee-high boots. My hair was a mess, long and blowing around everywhere. My friends and I would do each other’s makeup, silver glitter and purple shadow, pencil on a ridiculous amount of eyeliner and then smudge it out. If you saw a photo you wouldn’t recognize me.”

Aegon takes a drag on his Lucky Strike cigarette, weightless smoke and the tired yellowish haze of florescent lights. Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth is playing from the Zenith radio on the counter by the cash register. “I’d recognize you.”

“I used to skip this one class all the time. The professor was a demon. I could do the math, but not the way he wanted me to. Right solution, wrong steps, I don’t know. I learned it differently in high school, and I couldn’t figure out the formula he wanted me to use. So he’d mark everything a zero even if my answer was correct. I couldn’t stand that bastard. Then the nuns kept catching me sunbathing on the quad when I was supposed to be in Matrices and Vector Spaces. I racked up so many demerits they were going to revoke my weekend pass, and then I wouldn’t be able to go into the city with my friends. So I stole the demerit book and burned it up on the stove in my dorm. Almost set the whole building on fire.”

Aegon is laughing. “You did not. Not you, not perfect ever-obedient Miss America!”

“I did. I really did.” You sip your own Mr. Misty, lemon-lime. Across the restaurant, Criston and Fosco are eating banana splits—dripping chocolate syrup and melted ice cream all over their table—and passionately debating who is going to end up in the World Series; Criston favors the Cardinals and the Orioles, Fosco says the Red Sox and the Cubs. The rest of the Targaryen family is back at the hotel watching news coverage of the Republican National Convention, something you can only stomach so much of, Otto’s cynical commentary, Aemond’s remaining eye fixed fiercely on the screen as he nips at an Old Fashioned. “I was wild back then.”

“And you gave it all up to be Aemond’s first lady.”

You think back to where it started: palm trees, salt water, alligators in drainage ditches. “My father grew up in a shack outside of Tallahassee. No electricity, no running water, he dropped out of school in eighth grade to help take care of his siblings when his mom died. They moved south to live with their aunt in Tampa, and my father wound up in Tarpon Springs working as a sea sponge diver.”

Aegon’s eyebrows rise, like he thinks you’re teasing him. “Sea sponges…?”

“I’m serious! It paid better than picking oranges or sweeping up in a factory. It’s dangerous. You have to wear this heavy rubber suit and walk around on the ocean floor, sometimes 50 feet or more below the surface.”

“What do people do with sea sponges?”

“Oh right, you would be unfamiliar. You’re supposed to clean yourself with them, like a loofah. Soap? Water? Ringing any bells?”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “You’re a very mean person. Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example for the merciful wives and daughters of this great nation?”

“Painters and potters buy sponges too. And some women use them as contraceptives. You can soak them in lemon juice and then shove them up there and it kills sperm.”

“I suddenly have great appreciation for the sea sponge industry. God bless the sea sponges.”

“So my father spent a few years diving, and he fell in love with a girl who worked at one of the shops he sold sponges to. That was my mother. They got married when he had absolutely nothing, and by their fifth anniversary he had his own fleet of boats, a gift shop, and a processing and shipping facility, all of which they owned jointly. They just opened the Spongeorama Sponge Factory this past April, a cute little tourist trap. But my point is that they were partners from the start. My father listens to my mother, and she works alongside him, and it was never like what I’ve seen from my friends’ parents: dad at the office 80 hours a week, mom at home strung out on Valium, just these…deeply separate, cold planets locked in orbit but never touching each other. I knew I didn’t want that. I wanted a husband who was building something I could be a part of. I wanted a man who respected me.”

Aegon watches you as he lights a fresh cigarette, not saying what you imagine he wants to: And how is that working out? He puffs on his Lucky Strike a few times and then offers it to you. You aren’t supposed to smoke, not even tobacco—it’s not ladylike, it’s masculine, it’s subversive—but you take it and hold it between your index and middle fingers, inhaling an ashy bitterness that blood learns to crave. The bracelets on your wrist jangle, thin silver chains that match the diamonds in your ears. Your dress is mint green, your hair in your signature Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo. Aegon is wearing a black t-shirt with The Who stamped across the front. When you pass the cigarette back to him, Aegon asks: “What music did you listen to? The Stones, The Animals?”

“Yeah. And Hendrix, The Kinks, Aretha Franklin…”

“Phil Ochs?”

“I love him. He’s got a song about Mississippi, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware. It’s one of my favorites.”

“And I’m currently getting a little obsessed with Loretta Lynn. She’s so angry!”

“She’s sanctimonious, that’s what she is. Always bitching about men.”

“Six kids and an alcoholic husband will do that to someone.”

Aegon winces, and then you realize what you’ve said. Loretta Lynn sounds a lot like Mimi. He finishes his Mr. Misty and then fidgets restlessly with his white cardboard cup, spinning it around by the straw. You feel bad, though you shouldn’t. You wouldn’t have a month ago.

“Aegon,” you say gently, and he reluctantly looks up at you, sunburned cheeks, blonde hair shagging over his eyes. “Why do you ignore your children? They’re interesting, they’re fun. Violeta invited me to help her make cakes with her Easy-Bake Oven last week. And Cosmo…he’s so clever. But it’s like he doesn’t know who you are. He might actually think Fosco’s his dad.”

Aegon takes one last drag off his cigarette and discards the end of it in his Mr. Misty cup. Now he’s fiddling with it again, avoiding your gaze. “I don’t have much to offer them.”

“I think you do.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” you insist. “You can be kind of nice sometimes.”

He frowns, staring out the window. You know he can’t see anything but darkness and streetlights. “I should have been the one to go to Vietnam. If somebody had to get shot at so Aemond could be president, I was the right choice. No one would miss me. No one would mourn me. Daeron didn’t deserve that. But I was too old, so Otto and my father got him to enlist. Now he’s in the jungle and my mother has nightmares about Western Union telegrams. If I was the son over there, I think she’d sleep easier.”

I’m glad you’re still here, you think. Instead you say: “Your children need you.”

“No they don’t. Between me and Mimi, they’re better off as orphans. Helaena and Fosco can be their parents. Maybe they’ll have a fighting chance.”

The glass door opens, and a man walks into the Dairy Queen with his two sons scampering behind him, all with sandy flip flops and carrying fishing rods. The dad is at least six feet tall and brawny, and wearing a Wallace For President baseball cap. You and Aegon both notice it, then share an amused, disparaging glance. You mouth: Imbecile bigot. The man continues to the cash register and orders two chocolate shakes and a root beer float. At their own table, Criston is mopping up melted ice cream with napkins and telling Fosco to stop being such a pig.

“Me?!” Fosco says. “You are the pig, that spot there is your ice cream, do not blame your failings on poor Fosco. I have already let you drag me to this terrible state and never once complained about the fried food or the mosquitos. And that thing out there is not a real beach. The water is still and brown, brown!”

“For once in your life, pretend you have a work ethic and help me clean up the table.”

“You are being very anti-immigrant right now, do you know that?”

Aegon begins singing, ostensibly to himself. “Here’s to the state of Mississippi, for underneath her borders, the devil draws no lines.”

“Aegon, no,” you whisper, petrified. You know this song. You know where he’s going.

He’s beaming as he continues: “If you drag her muddy rivers, nameless bodies you will find.”

Now the man in the Wallace hat is looking at Aegon. His sons are happily gulping down their chocolate shakes. Criston and Fosco, still bickering, haven’t noticed yet.

“Oh, the fat trees of the forest have hid a thousand crimes.”

“Aegon, don’t,” you plead quietly. “He’ll murder you.”

“The calendar is lyin’ when it reads the present time.”

“Hey,” calls the man in the Wallace For President hat. “You got a problem, boy?”

Aegon drums his palms on the tabletop as he sings, loudly now: “Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of, Mississippi find yourself another country to be part of!”

In seconds, the man has crossed the room, grabbed Aegon by the collar of his t-shirt, yanked him out of his chair and struck him across the face: closed fist, lethal intent, the sick wet sound of bones on flesh. Aegon’s nose gushes, his lip splits open, but he isn’t flinching away, he isn’t afraid. He’s yowling like a rabid animal and clawing, kicking, swinging at the giant who’s ensnared him. You are screaming as you leap to your feet, your chair falling over and clattering on the floor behind you. The man’s sons are hooting joyously. “Git him, Paw!” one of them shouts.

“Criston?!” you shriek, but he and Fosco are already here, tugging at the man’s massive arms and beating on his back, trying to untangle him from Aegon.

“Stop!” Criston roars. “You don’t want to hurt him! He’s a Targaryen!”

“A Targaryen, huh?” the man says as he steps away, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his tattered white t-shirt, stained with fish guts. “All the better. I wish that bullet they put in Aemond woulda been just another inch to the left. Directly through the aorta.”

Aegon lunges at the man again, hissing, fists swinging. Fosco yanks him back.

“Are you gonna call someone or not?!” Criston snaps at the girl behind the cash register, but she only gives him a steely glare in return. This is Wallace country. There’s a reason why it took four years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to finally desegregate the beaches.

“We should go,” you tell Criston softly.

“Yes, we will leave now,” Fosco says, hauling Aegon towards the front door. Then, to the cashier: “Thank you for the ice cream, but it was not very good. If you are ever in Italy, try the gelato. You will learn so much.”

“I can’t wait ‘til November,” the man gloats, ominous, threatening. His sons are standing tall and proud beside him. “When Aemond loses, you can all cart your asses back to Europe. We don’t want you here. America ain’t for people like you.”

“It literally is,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “It’s on the Statue of Liberty.”

“Yeah, where do you think your ancestors came from?!” Aegon yells at the man. “Are you a Seminole, pal? I didn’t think so—!” Fosco and Criston lug him through the doorway before more punches can be thrown.

Outside—under stars and streetlights and a full moon—Aegon burst out laughing. This is when he feels alive; this is when the blood in his veins turns to wave and riptides. You didn’t think to grab napkins from the table, so you wipe the blood off his face with your bare hand, assessing the damage. He’ll be fine; swollen and sore, but fine.

“You’re insane, you know that?” you say. “You could have been killed.”

Aegon pats your cheek twice and grins, blood on his teeth. “The world would keep spinning, little Io.” Then he starts walking back towards the White House Hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the four of you arrive at your suite, Aemond, Otto, Ludwika, and Alicent are still gathered around the television. The nannies have taken the children to bed. Helaena is reading The Bell Jar in an armchair in the corner of the room. Mimi is passed out on the couch, several empty glasses on the coffee table. ABC is showing a clip they recorded earlier today of Ludwika travelling with Aemond’s retinue after he made an impassioned speech condemning the lack of recognition of the evils of slavery at Beauvoir, the historic home of former Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The reporter is asking Ludwika what she thinks makes Aemond a better presidential candidate than Eugene McCarthy, as McCarthy shares many of the same policy positions and has an additional 15 years of political experience.

“This McCarthy is not a real man,” Ludwika responds, her face stony and mistrustful. “He reminds me of the communists back in my country. Did you know he met with Che Guevara in New York City a few years ago? Why would he do such a thing?”

Now, Otto turns to her in this hotel room. “I love you.”

Ludwika takes a sip of her martini. “I want another Gucci bag.”

“Yes, yes. Tomorrow, my dear.”

“What happened to you?” Aemond asks his brother, half-exasperated and half-concerned. Criston has fetched a washcloth from the bathroom for Aegon to hold against his bleeding lip and nose. Aemond is still wearing his blue suit from a long day of campaigning, but he’s taken out his eye and put on his eyepatch. His gaze flicks from Aegon’s face to the blood still coating your left hand. On the couch, Mimi’s bare foot twitches but she doesn’t wake up.

“There was a Wallace supporter at the Dairy Queen,” you say. “Aegon felt inspired to defend you.”

Aemond chuckles. “Did you win?” he asks Aegon.

“I would have if the guy wasn’t two of me.”

On the television screen, Richard Nixon is accepting his party’s nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Miami, Florida.

“He’s a buffoon,” Otto sneers. “So awkward and undignified. Look at him sweating! Look at those ridiculous jowls! And he comes from nothing. His family is trash.”

“Americans love a rags to riches story,” you say. And then, somewhat randomly: “He loves his wife. He proposed to Pat on their very first date, and she said no. So he drove her to dates with other men for years until she finally reconsidered. He said it was love at first sight. He’s never had a mistress. And jowls or no jowls, his family adores him.”

Aegon turns to you, still clutching the washcloth against his face. “Really?”

You nod. “That’s the sort of thing the women talk about.”

There’s a knock at the door. You all look at each other, confounded; no one has ordered room service, no one is expecting any visitors, and the nannies have keys in the event of an emergency. Fosco is closest to the door, so he opens it. A man in uniform is standing there with a golden Western Union telegram in his hands. Alicent screams and collapses. Criston bolts to her.

“It’s okay,” you say. “He’s not dead. Whatever happened, Daeron’s not dead.”

Otto crinkles his brow at you. “How do you know?”

“Because if he was killed, there would be a priest here too.” They always send a priest when the boy is dead. Aegon glances at you, eyes wet and fearful.

“Ma’am,” the soldier—a major you see now, spotting the golden oak leaves—says to Alicent as he removes his cap. “I regret to inform you that your son Daeron was missing in action for several weeks, and we’ve just received confirmation that he’s being held as a prisoner of war in Hỏa Lò Prison.”

“He’s in the Hanoi Hilton?!” Otto exclaims. “Oh, fuck those people and their swamp, how did Kennedy ever think we had something to gain from getting tangled up in that mess?”

“But he’s alive?” Aemond says. “He’s unharmed?”

“Yes sir,” the captain replies. “It is our understanding that he is in good condition. The North Vietnamese are aware that he is a very valuable prisoner, like Admiral McCain’s son John. He’ll be used in negotiations. He is of far more use to them alive than dead.”

“So we can get Daeron back,” Aegon says. “I mean, we have to be able to, right? Aemond’s running for president, he’ll probably win in November, we have millions of dollars, we can spring one man out of some third-world jail, right?”

The captain continues: “Tomorrow when your family returns to New Jersey, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be there to discuss next steps with you. I’m afraid I’m only authorized to give you the news as it was relayed to me.” He entrusts the telegram to Otto, who rapidly opens it and stares down at the mechanical typewriter words.

“I have to pray,” Alicent says suddenly. “Helaena, will you pray with me? There’s a Greek church down the road. Holy Trinity, I think it’s called.”

Obediently, Helaena joins her mother and follows her to the doorway. Criston leaves with them. Otto gives his new wife a harsh, meaningful stare. Ludwika, an ardent yet covert atheist, sighs irritably. “Wait. I want to pray too,” she says, and vanishes with them into the hall.

As the captain departs, Mimi sits up on the couch, blinking, groggy. “What? What happened?”

“Go with Alicent,” Otto tells her. “She’s headed downstairs.”

“What? Why…?”

“Just go!” he barks.

Mimi staggers to her feet and hobbles out of the hotel room, her sundress—patterned with forget-me-nots—billowing around her. The only people left are Otto, Aemond, Fosco, Aegon, and you. The fact that you are the sole woman permitted to remain here feels intentional.

After a moment, Otto speaks. “You know, John McCain has famously refused to be released from the Hanoi Hilton until all the men imprisoned before him have been freed. He doesn’t want special treatment. And that’s a very noble thing to do, don’t you think? It has endeared him and the McCains to the public.”

Aemond and Otto are looking at each other, communicating in a silent language not of letters or accents but colors: red ambition, green hunger, grey impassionate morality. Fosco is observing them uneasily. Aemond says at last: “Daeron wants to help this family.”

“You’re not going to try to get him out.” Aegon realizes.

Aemond turns to him, businesslike, vague distant sympathy. “It’s only until November.”

“No, you know people!” Aegon explodes. “You pick up the phone, you call in every favor, you get him out of there now! You have no idea if he has another three months, you don’t know what kind of shape he’s in! They could be dislocating his arms or chopping off his fingers right now, they could be starving him, they could be beating him, you can’t just leave him there!”

“It’s not your decision. It could have been, had you accepted your role as the eldest son. But you didn’t. So it’s my job to handle these things. You don’t get to hate me for making choices you were too cowardly too take responsibility for.”

“But Daeron could die,” Aegon says, his voice going brittle.

“Any of us could die. We’re in a very dangerous line of work. Greatness killed Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Huey Long, Medgar Evers, John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Vernon Dahmer, Martin Luther King Jr., does that mean we should all give up the fight? Of course not. The work isn’t finished. We have to keep going.”

“Will you stop pretending this is about America?! This is about you wanting to be president, and everything you’ve ever done has been in pursuit of that trophy, and you keep shoving new people into the line of fire and it’s not right!”

“Aegon,” Otto says calmly. “It’s unlikely we’d be able to get him out before the election anyway. Negotiations take time. But if Aemond wins in November, he’ll be in a very advantageous position. The North Vietnamese aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t kill the brother of a U.S. president. They don’t want their vile little corner of the world flattened by nukes.”

“Still, it feels so wrong to leave a brother in peril,” Fosco says. “It is unnatural. Of course Aegon will be upset. We could at least see what a deal to get Daeron released would entail, maybe his arrival home would be a good headline—”

“And who the fuck asked you?” Otto demands, and Fosco goes quiet.

“Okay, then tell Mom,” Aegon says to Aemond. “Tell her you’re going to pretend Daeron made some self-sacrificial vow not to come home until all the other POWs can too. Tell her you’re going to let him get tortured for a few months before you take this seriously.”

Aemond replies cooly: “Why would you want to upset her? She can’t change it. You’ll only make her suffering worse.”

“What do you think?” Otto asks you, and you know that he isn’t seeking counsel. He’s summoning you like a dog to perform a trick, like an actor to recite a line. He’s waiting for you to say that it’s a smart strategy, because it is. He’s waiting for you to bend to Aemond’s will as your station requires you to, as moons are bound to their planets.

“I think it’s wrong,” you murmur; and Aemond is thunderstruck by your treason.

Without another word, you walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and gaze down at Aegon’s blood on your palm. For some reason, it’s very difficult to bring yourself to wash it away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s mid-August now, the world painted in goldenrod yellow and sky blue. The Democratic National Convention is in two weeks. You and Aemond are posing on the beach at Asteria, surrounded by an adoring gaggle of journalists who are snapping photographs and jotting down quotes on their notepads. You’re sitting demurely on a sand dune, you’re building sandcastles with the children you borrowed from Aegon and Helaena, you’re flying kites, you’re gazing confidently into the sunlit horizon where a glorious new age is surely dawning.

“Mr. Targaryen, what is it that makes your partnership so successful?” a journalist asks as flashbulbs pulse like lightning. “What do you think is the most crucial characteristic to have in a wife?”

Aemond doesn’t need to consider this before he answers. He always has his compliment picked out. “Loyalty,” your husband says. “Not just to me or to the Targaryen family, but to our shared cause. This year has been indescribably difficult for me and my wife. I announced my candidacy, we embarked on a strenuous national campaign that we’re currently only halfway through, I barely survived a brutal assassination attempt in May, in July we lost our first child to hyaline membrane disease after he was born six weeks prematurely, and at the beginning of this month we learned that my youngest brother Daeron was taken by the North Vietnamese as a prisoner of war. To find the strength not just to get out of bed in the morning, not just to be there for me and this family in our personal lives, but to tirelessly traverse the country with me inspiring Americans to believe in a better future…it’s absolutely remarkable. I’m in awe of her. And when she is the first lady of the United States, she will continue to amaze us all with her unwavering faith and dedication.”

There are whistles and cheers and strobing flashbulbs. You smile—elegant, soft, practiced—as Aemond rests a hand firmly on your waist. You lean into him, feeling out-of-place, bewildered that you’ve ever slept with him, full of dull panic that soon you’ll have to again.

“How about you, Mrs. Targaryen?” another reporter asks. “Same question, essentially. What is the trait that you most admire in your husband?”

And in the cascading clicks of photographs being captured, your mind goes entirely blank. You can think of so many other people—Aegon, Ari, Alicent, Daeron, Fosco, Cosmo—but not Aemond. It’s like you’ve blocked him out somehow, like he’s a sketch you erased. But you can’t hesitate. You can’t let the uncertainty read on your face. You begin speaking without knowing where you’re going, something that is rare for you. “Aemond is the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. When he has a goal in mind, nothing can stop him.” You pause, and there are a few awkward chuckles from the journalists. You swiftly recover. “He never stops learning. He always knows the right thing to do or say. And what he wants more than anything is to serve the American people. Aemond won’t disappoint you. He’s not capable of it. He will do whatever it takes to make this country more prosperous, more peaceful, and more free.”

There are applause and gracious thank yous, but Aemond gives you a look—just for a second, just long enough that you can catch it—that warns you to get it together. Fifteen minutes later, he and the flock of reporters are headed to one of the guest houses to conduct a long-form interview. This will be the bulk of the article; you will appear in one or two photos, you will supply a few quotes. The rest of the story is Aemond. You are an accessory, like a belt or a bracelet. He’s the person who picks you out of a drawer each morning and wears you until you go out of fashion.

Released from your obligations, you return to the main house and disappear into your upstairs bathroom. You are there for fifteen minutes and emerge rattled, routed. You pace aimlessly around your bedroom for a while, then try again; still no luck. You go back outside and stare blankly at the ocean, wondering what you’re going to do. Down on the beach, Fosco is teaching the kids how to yo-yo. Ludwika is sunbathing in a bikini.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You whirl to see Aegon, popping a Valium into his mouth and washing it down with a splash of straight rum from a coffee mug. “Huh? Nothing. I’m great.”

“No, something’s wrong. You look lost. You look like me.”

You gaze out over the ocean again, chewing your lower lip.

Aegon snickers, fascinated, sensing a scandal. “What did you do?”

Your eyes drift to him. “You can’t make fun of me.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

There is a long, heavy lull before you answer. When you speak, it’s all in a rush, like you can’t unburden yourself of the words fast enough. “I put a tampon in and I can’t get it out.”

Aegon immediately breaks his promise and cackles. “You did what?!” Then he tries to be serious. “Wait. Sorry. Uh, really?”

You’re on the verge of tears. “I’ve been bleeding since I had the baby, and I hate using tampons, I almost never do, but Aemond wanted me to wear this dress for the photoshoot and it’s super gauzy and from certain angles I felt like I could see the pad bulge when I checked in the mirror, so I put a tampon in for the first time in probably a year. I’m not even supposed to be using them for another few weeks because my uterus isn’t healed all the way or whatever. And now I can’t get it out and it’s been in there for like six hours and I’m scared I’m going to get an infection and die in the most pointless, humiliating way imaginable.”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Aegon says. “There’s no string?”

“No, I’ve checked multiple times. It must be a defective one and they forgot to put a string in it at the factory and I didn’t notice, or the string somehow got tucked under it, I don’t know, but I can’t get it out, it’s like…the angle isn’t right. I can just barely feel it with my fingertips, but I can’t grab it. I’m going to have to go to the hospital to get it taken out, but I’m scared word will spread and journalists will show up to get photos when I leave and then everyone will be asking me why I was at the emergency room to begin with and I’m going to have to make up something and…and…” You can’t talk anymore. There are other reasons why you don’t want to go to the hospital. You haven’t stepped foot in one since Ari died; the thought makes you feel like you are looking down to see blood on your thighs all over again, like you’ll never have enough air in your lungs.

“Did you bleed through it? Because that should help it slide out easier.”

“I don’t know,” you moan miserably. “I mean, I guess I did, because there was blood when I checked a few minutes ago. I had to stuff my underwear with toilet paper.”

“Why didn’t you just tell Aemond you couldn’t wear this dress?”

You give him an impatient glance. “I’m tired of having the same conversation.” When do you think you’ll be done bleeding? When do you think it’ll be time to start trying again?

Aegon sighs. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”

“Please stop. I’m really panicking here.”

“I’m not joking.”

You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have fished many objects out of many orifices, you cannot shock me. I am unshockable.”

“I’d rather walk down to the sand right now and strangle myself with Fosco’s yo-yo.”

“Okay. So who are you gonna ask to drive you to the hospital?”

You hesitate.

“I’d offer to do it,” Aegon says, grinning, holding up his mug. “But I’m in no condition to drive.”

“But you are in the proper condition to extract a rogue tampon, huh?”

“Two minutes tops. That’s a guarantee. My personal best is fifteen seconds. And that was for a lost condom, much trickier to locate than a tampon.”

Perhaps paradoxically, the more you consider his offer, the more tempting it seems. No complicated trip and cover story? Over in just a few minutes? “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever.”

Aegon taunts: “I thought you already hated me.”

You aren’t sure what you feel for him, but it’s certainly not hate. Not anymore. “Where would we do it?”

“In my office. And by that I mean my basement.”

“Your filthy, disease-ridden basement? On your shag carpet full of crabs?”

“You’re in luck,” he jokes. “My crab exterminator service just came by yesterday.”

You exhale in a low, despairing groan.

“Hey, would you rather do it on the dining room table? I’m game. Your choice.”

You watch the seagulls swooping in the afternoon air, the banners of sailboats on the glittering water. “Okay. The basement.”

You walk with Aegon to the house and—after ensuring that no one is around to notice—sneak with him down the creaking basement steps, the door locked behind you. Aegon is darting around; he sets a small trashcan by the carpet and tosses you two towels, then goes to wash his hands in his tiny bathroom, not nearly enough room for someone to stretch out across the linoleum floor.

You’re surveying the scene nervously. “I don’t want to get blood all over your stuff.”

“You’re the cleanest thing that’s ever been on that carpet. Lie down.”

You place one towel on the green shag carpet, then whisk off your panties, discard the bloody knot of toilet paper in the trashcan, and pull the skirt of your dress up around your waist so it’s out of the way. Then you sit down and drape the second towel over your thighs so you’re hidden from him, like you’re about to be examined by a doctor. Your heart is thumping, but you don’t exactly feel like you want to stop. It’s more exhilarating than fear, you think; it is forbidden, it is shameful, it is a microscopic betrayal of Aemond that he’ll never know about.

Aegon moseys out of the bathroom, flicking drops of water from his hands. He wears one of his usual counterculture uniforms: a frayed green army jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki shorts, tan moccasins. He kicks them off before he kneels on the shag carpet. He checks the clock on the wall. “2:07. I promised two minutes max. Let’s see how I do. Ready?”

You rest the back of your head on your linked hands, raise your knees, take a deep and unsteady breath. “Ready.”

But he can see that you’re shaking. “Hey,” Aegon says kindly, pressing his hand down on the towel so you’re covered. “Do you want me to go to the hospital with you? I’ll try to distract people. I’ll pretend I’m having a seizure or something.”

“No, I’m okay,” you insist. “I just want it out. I want this over with.”

“Got it.” And then he begins. He stares at the wall to his left, not looking at you, navigating by feel. You feel the pressure of two fingers, a stretching that is not entirely unpleasant. He’s warm and careful, strangely unobtrusive. Still, you suck in a breath and shift on the carpet. “Shh, shh, shh,” Aegon whispers, skimming his other hand up and down the inside of your thigh, and shiver like you’ve never felt before rolls backwards up the length of your spine. “Relax. You alright?”

“Fine. Totally fine.”

“Oh yeah, it’s definitely in there,” Aegon says. His brow is creased with comprehension. “No string…you’re right, it must either be tangled up somehow or it never had one to begin with. Maybe you accidentally inserted it upside down.”

“Now you insult my intelligence. As if I’m not embarrassed enough.”

“I should have put on a record to set the mood. What gets you going, Marvin Gaye? Elvis?”

“The seductive voice of Richard Milhous Nixon. Maybe you can get him on the phone.”

Aegon laughs hysterically. His fingertips push the tampon against your cervix and you yelp. “Sorry, sorry, my mistake,” Aegon says. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, on his temples; now his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m gonna try to wiggle it out…”

As he works, there are sensations you can’t quite explain: a very slow-building indistinct desire, a loosening, a readying, a drop in your belly when you think about the fact that he’s the one touching you. Then he happens to press in just the right spot and there is a sudden pang of real pleasure—craving, aching, a deep red flare of previously unfathomable temptation—and you instinctively reach for him. You hand meets his forearm, and for the first time since he started Aegon looks at your face, alarmed, afraid that he’s hurt you again. But once your eyes meet you’re both trapped there, and you can’t pretend you’re not, his fingers still inside you, his pulse racing, a rivulet of sweat snaking down the side of his face, his eyes an opaque murky blue like water you’re desperate to claw your way into. You know what you want to tell him, but the words are impossible. Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon clears his throat, forces himself to look away, and at last dislodges the tampon. It appears dark and bloody in his grasp. “No string,” he confirms, holding it up and turning it so you can see. “Factory reject.”

“Just like you.”

He glances at the clock. “2:09. I delivered precisely what was promised.” He chucks the tampon into the trashcan and then grins as he helps pull you upright with his clean hand. “So do you like to cuddle afterwards, or…?”

You’re giggling, covering your flushed face. “Shut up.”

“Personally, I enjoy being ridden into the ground and then called a good boy.”

“Go away.” You nod to where he disposed of the tampon and say before stopping to think: “You’re not going to keep that under your ashtray too?”

Aegon freezes and blinks at you. He smiles slowly, cautiously. “No, I think that would be a little unorthodox, even for me.” He pitches you a clean washcloth from the bathroom closet. “That should get you upstairs.”

“Thanks.” You shove it between your legs and rise to your feet, smoothing the skirt of your dress. “I owe you something. I’m not sure what, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey,” Aegon says, and waits for you to turn to him. “Maybe I’m not that bad.”

“Maybe,” you agree thoughtfully.

Just before you hurry upstairs, you steal a glimpse of Aegon in the bathroom, the door kicked only half-closed. He has turned on the water, but he’s not using it yet. Aegon is staring down at the blood on his hand, half-dried scarlet impermanent ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hi, it’s me again. I’m in solitary confinement. There’s a guy in the cell next to mine; we talk to each other with a modified version of Morse code. Tap tap tap on the wall, he taps back, etcetera etcetera, you get the idea. You’re not going to believe this, but he says his name is John McCain. Well, actually, he told me his name is Jobm McCbin, but I think that’s because I translated the taps wrong. I might be in the Hanoi Hilton, but at least they have me in the VIP section! Hahaha.

Every few hours the guards show up to do a very impressive magic trick: they wave their batons like wands, I turn black and blue. Sometimes one of my teeth even disappears. Isn’t that something? Houdini would love it. There’s a rat that I’m making friends with. I give her nibbles of my stale bread, she gives me someone to talk to. She’s good company. I’ve named her Tessarion.

Allow me to make something absolutely fucking clear.

I would very much like to be rescued.

[newstfionline]

Friday, December 23, 2022

Renters (Bloomberg) Only about half of households in a city actually own their homes, with much of the rest renting. Across 190 municipalities studied, the citywide homeownership rate is about 50 percent. That said, renters lack representation at all levels of government; an analysis of 10,800 representatives across municipalities, statehouses and federal government found that 93 percent definitely or likely owned their home, including 83 percent of mayors. This means that systematically, members of government in the United States lack a connection to the housing needs of about half their constituency.

Eggs (Vox) A dozen large eggs in the American Midwest is now going for around $5 at wholesale, up from $1.60 at the same time last year. That’s owing to a bird flu that is absolutely ripping through the poultry population of the United States, the worst bird flu outbreak ever. So far 57.5 million birds have died as a result of outbreaks, most of which are egg-laying hens. Last week 4.3 million birds died, and the flu is expected to continue for the rest of the winter, meaning that prices will likely remain high. It��s already past the previous worst flu on record, which claimed 50.5 million birds in 2015.

Migrants at US-Mexico border await ruling on asylum limits (AP) Francisco Palacios waited for four hours with his wife and 3-year-old daughter at a border crossing between Tijuana and San Diego early Wednesday before going to a nearby hotel for a three-hour nap. They came back, bags packed, only to be disappointed again. But the family from the western Mexican city of Morelia is prepared to wait for the U.S. Supreme Court to decide whether and when to lift pandemic-era restrictions that have prevented many from seeking asylum, said Palacios. “We don’t have a choice,” Palacios said in Spanish, explaining that his family arrived in Tijuana two weeks ago to escape violence and gangs that extorted them for years for a chunk of their income selling fruit from a street cart. They’re among thousands of migrants gathered along the Mexican side of the border, camping outside or packing into shelters as the weather grows colder. Nighttime temperatures have been in the 30s and will be even colder in coming days. The Roman Catholic Diocese of El Paso, where nighttime temperatures could drop into the 20s this week, planned to open two more shelters for up to 1,000 people at area churches.

Cubans Spend Thousands to Flee to the U.S. Through Nicaragua (Bloomberg) Ferrying Cubans to the U.S. in the past year has become a billion-dollar business involving airlines, charter operators and travel agents across Central America and the Caribbean. Immigration figures show a quarter of a million Cubans have arrived in the U.S. in the past year. Many of them paid thousands of dollars each to get away from the communist island and its crumbling economy, flying to Nicaragua and then paying smugglers to guide them across Mexico to the U.S. border.

Don’t get drunk: UK govt urges caution amid ambulance strike (AP) Thousands of ambulance workers in Britain began a one-day strike on Wednesday, with unions and the government swapping accusations of blame for putting lives at risk. The government advised people not to play contact sports, take unnecessary car trips or get drunk in order to reduce their risk of needing an ambulance, as paramedics, call-handlers and technicians across England and Wales staged their biggest walkout in three decades. Three ambulance unions were striking for either 12 or 24 hours. They have pledged to respond to life-threatening calls, but officials said they couldn’t guarantee everyone who needed an ambulance would get one.

Russians hunt down Ukrainians on lists (AP) Three days after the first Russian bombs struck Ukraine, Andrii Kuprash, the head of a village north of Kyiv, walked into a forest near his home and began to dig. He didn’t stop until he had carved out a shallow pit, big enough for a man like him. It was his just-in-case, a place to lie low if he needed. A week later, Kuprash got a call around 8 a.m. from an unknown number. A man speaking Russian asked if he was the village head. Kuprash grabbed some camping kit and his warmest coat and headed for his hole in the woods. Kuprash—and others The Associated Press spoke with—had been quietly warned that they were targets for advancing Russian forces. In a deliberate, widespread campaign, Russian forces systematically targeted influential Ukrainians, nationally and locally, to neutralize resistance through detention, torture and executions, an Associated Press investigation has found. The strategy appears to violate the laws of war and could help build a case for genocide. The AP documented a sample of 61 cases across Ukraine, drawing on Russian lists of names obtained by Ukrainian authorities, photographic evidence of abuse, Russian media accounts and interviews with dozens of victims, family and friends.

Russia scrubs Mariupol’s Ukraine identity (AP) Throughout Mariupol, Russian workers are tearing down bombed-out buildings at a rate of at least one a day. Russian military convoys are rumbling down the broad avenues of what is swiftly becoming a garrison city, and Russian soldiers, builders, administrators and doctors are replacing the thousands of Ukrainians who have died or left. Many of the city’s Ukrainian street names are reverting to Soviet ones, with the Avenue of Peace that cuts through Mariupol to be labeled Lenin Avenue. Even the large sign that announces the name of the city at its entrance has been Russified, repainted with the red, white and blue of the Russian flag and the Russian spelling. Eight months after Mariupol fell into Russian hands, Russia is eradicating all vestiges of Ukraine from it. The few open schools teach a Russian curriculum, phone and television networks are Russian, the Ukrainian currency is dying out, and Mariupol is now in the Moscow time zone. On the ruins of the old Mariupol, a new Russian city is rising.

India reinforces border with China (London Times) India has moved an “unprecedented” number of troops to the disputed border with China after a clash between soldiers of the two nuclear-armed rivals. Indian foreign minister Subrahmanyam Jaishankar revealed that Delhi was mobilizing thousands of troops along the mountainous 2,100-mile border, following an “encroachment” by Chinese forces that triggered a skirmish with Indian troops 12 days ago. The powers have been locked in a standoff along the border for more than two years, since China crossed the border to seize strategic positions in the disputed region of Ladakh in 2020, sparking a pitched battle that left 20 Indian troops and at least four Chinese soldiers dead. “Today we have a deployment of the Indian army on the China border that we have never had. It is done in order to counter Chinese deployment, which has which has been scaled up massively since 2020,” Jaishankar said in Delhi on Monday.

China sends 39 warplanes, 3 ships toward Taiwan in 24 hours (AP) China’s military sent 39 planes and three ships toward Taiwan in a 24-hour display of force directed at the island, Taiwan’s defense ministry said Thursday. China’s military harassment of self-ruled Taiwan, which it claims is its own territory, has intensified in recent years, and the Communist Party’s People’s Liberation Army has sent planes or ships toward the island on a near-daily basis.

Japan adopts plan to maximize nuclear energy, in major shift (AP) Japan adopted a plan on Thursday to extend the lifespan of nuclear reactors, replace the old and even build new ones, a major shift in a country scarred by the Fukushima disaster that once planned to phase out atomic power. In the face of global fuel shortages, rising prices and pressure to reduce carbon emissions, Japan’s leaders have begun to turn back toward nuclear energy. Under the new policy, Japan will maximize the use of existing reactors by restarting as many of them as possible and prolonging the operating life of aging ones beyond a 60-year limit. The government also pledged to develop next-generation reactors.

Netanyahu announces new government with sweeping powers to far-right allies (Washington Post) Israel’s Benjamin Netanyahu announced the formation of the most far-right government in the country’s history Wednesday night, marking the imminent return of its longest-serving leader and granting an unprecedented portion of power to his far-right and ultra-Orthodox allies, who have vowed to make far-reaching legislative changes in the country. Netanyahu said the new coalition, which includes once-fringe ultranationalist and ultrareligious parties, would serve “all citizens of Israel.” He has said that he aims to swear in the new government in the coming week. Most of the agreements, made after 1½ months of marathon negotiations between Netanyahu and his six coalition partners, have not been finalized. But the new government has already sparked concern among Israelis and members of the international community over bills that seek to prioritize Israel’s Jewish character over its democratic one.

Long-cut phones ring again in Ethiopia’s Tigray (AP) For a year and a half, phone calls to people trying to survive one of the world’s worst wars didn’t go through. Now, as phone lines start to be restored to parts of Ethiopia’s Tigray region after a fragile peace deal, some Tigrayans are relieved while others grieve. “I have been dreading receiving phone calls,” said a Tigrayan living in Norway, who like others spoke with The Associated Press on condition of anonymity out of fear of reprisals against his relatives. “You want to speak to your family, but you don’t know what kind of stories you will hear, in terms of who is still alive.” The conflict between Ethiopian and allied forces against the Tigray side is estimated to have killed hundreds of thousands of people since late 2020, according to the United Nations and the United States, citing academic research. The U.N. secretary-general has said more people have died in this conflict than in Ukraine’s.

Pope warns Vatican staff an ‘elegant demon’ lurks among them (AP) Pope Francis warned Vatican bureaucrats on Thursday to beware the devil that lurks among them, saying it is an “elegant demon” that works in people who have a rigid, holier-than-thou way of living the Catholic faith. Francis used his annual Christmas greeting to the Roman Curia to again put the cardinals, bishops and priests who work in the Holy See on notice that they are by no means beyond reproach and are, in fact, particularly vulnerable to evil. Francis told them that by living in the heart of the Catholic Church, “we could easily fall into the temptation of thinking we are safe, better than others.” Francis has long used his Christmas address for an annual dressing down of Vatican bureaucrats. This year was similar in tone, and Francis reprised his critique of forms of abuse that even religious people use against one another. “There isn’t only the violence of weapons, there is verbal violence, psychological violence, the violence of abuse of power, the hidden violence of gossip,” Francis said.

[slothgiirl]

a rose by any other name xi

druig x reincarnating human! reader

prev. /// next.

brisbane australia 1924

“Druig!” He doesn’t know anyone in Brisbane. Gilgamesh is waiting for him in the land he has made a home for himself in Thena in the Australian outback, in a sparsely populated area. “Druig!” He sure doesn’t know anyone in the Port of Entry. The giant building had food stalls as people waited in immigration, as they waited for their ship. 

He turns.

You’re waving an arm, leaning over the barrier separating new arrivals from the rest. Hair bobbed to your chin like plenty of women wore it now, the latest trend. Your dress was a simple drop waist dress that wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of the moving pictures. 

The Raja Orked had just docked.

He hadn’t been expecting you here, not so soon. Druig knew better than to hold his breath and wait when it might take decades or centuries to see you again, and yet here you were, barely a quarter of a century later. He smiles uncaring if he was making a fool of himself over you. Seeing you again, it was akin to bathing in sunlight after a slew of rainy days.

Druig walks over to you, noting the passport in your hand, the satchel by your side. “Hello my beautiful lady,” he brings your hand to his mouth and kisses the back of your hand, “what brings you down under.”

You snort, casting your gaze around. It’s October and officials were looking over. “You actually.” 

Druig quirks an eyebrow. “Me?” 

“Lets go sit down somewhere. My feet are killing me. Coffee?”

“Anything you want my lady,” Druig says laying it on thick and sure enough, it makes you laugh. 

“Miss-,” one of the Port security calls out, “you have to stay here. You weren’t cleared by immigration.”

Druig takes care of that with ease.

***

“I think I prefered Malaya,” you crinkle your nose as the waitress’ gaze lingers on you from across the room. The diner is nearly empty and Druig doesn’t have to do more than focus on the waitress and hear her thoughts echoed throughout the room. “It was more interesting. . .,” you pitch your voice low, “less uniformly West European.” 

“Every country seems to love their xenophobic and racist immigration policies right now,” Druig points out. Mexico was also finding they didn’t want too much Asian immigration. 

“Ah,” you nod, adding some milk to your coffee. “So it’s not just here.”

“No,” he frowns. 

“What are you doing here? I thought you never left your village.”

“It’s not my village.” He protests, “it’s for everyone.”

“You’re just in charge,” you tease, “really, it’s very. . .communist utopia if you think about it. I bet you and Lenin would get on.”

“I doubt that.” Druig reaches for your hand, trying to remember if he’d seen any jewelry shops along the street. After two thousand years, he should probably get you a ring. 

“Whatever you say comrade,” you wink.

Druig chuckles, “Aye. I get it.” He intertwines his hand with yours, “And how did you end up here my lady? The full story,” he adds before you can say something along the lines of I already told you. 

“Well, I was trying to reach Mexico. Coming up with the money was the hardest part. From there it was Jakarta to Mexico. Brisbane was just a stop. Lucky me no?” You grin, “Lucky you.” Then you frown, “you never did answer my question.”

“Which?”

You lightly kick his leg, “you know! About why you’re here.”

“All right, all right,” he holds his hands up in surrender, stifling the laughter in his chest, “Gilgamesh asked me to come. Apparently he wants to visit Fiji but he can’t exactly leave Thena alone.” 

“Because she’s sick.” Your face falls at the reminder. 

“Yeah.” He squeezes your hand. 

“I’d like to see them again.” Your voice is wistful. Things would never be like before. Druig had gone four centuries without seeing Ajak. He no longer remembered everyone with perfect clarity. 

“I’m sure she’d be thrilled to see you.” He meant it. Thena wasn’t one to say so, but she had always cared for you as part of their dysfunctional family. 

“Are you,” you ask him with a smirk. 

“You really have to ask?”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Druig smiles down at his mug. The bubbly feeling of being in love with you never faded. Through thick and thin, it had only grown more layered with quarrels and disagreements but always at his core, he loved you. Your casted judgement on his village weighed on him, but he understood that you would stick to what you believed to be right. Both your actions and his were born from empathy. In that way, he could live with it. 

Ultimately, he bore the responsibility for everyone in the village. Like a parent leaving his children alone for the first time, there was a thread of anxiety every moment he was away. They were all his children. He’d known their great grandparents and so far back to that fateful day. 

Druig looked at you and wondered what it might be like to actually try to build a family now that he knew it was possible. 

But-

You came and went like the tides. He’d made his peace with that. But to watch his children. . .Druig didn’t have that in him.

“I missed you,” he finally says. “I missed you my love.”

You squeeze his hand, “I’m here now.” Then you smile mischievously, “if only I could get as good as Jesus and come back in three days.” 

Druig laughs. 

***

Gilgamesh explains the lay of the land, which rock formations were entirely off limits, “the Warlpiri have already been generous enough to allow us this area,” he elaborates, “so we respect their beliefs. Their rules. It is their land after all.”

“They really live out here,” you hold your hand over your eyes, trying to block out the sun. It wasn’t barren, Druig noted the scattered plant life around: scraggly bush and scattered trees spotting the horizon. 

Like you, he found no traces of where the people might live out here. Everywhere he looked, the landscape looked similar. It would be easy to get lost out here. 

“They know how,” Gilgamesh explains. 

Thena was- 

She was sitting under the fragile cover Gilgamesh had put up for her. The renowned warrior looked out into the desert, lost. 

Gone was the quiet assurance Druig had always associated with her. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been hoping she’d miraculously gotten better with time, but her condition was the same. At least it hadn’t worsened. 

“And they live,” he asks, reaching outwards with his mind, brushing against nocturnal animals that were sleeping the heat of the day away. Animals were much simpler than people. They didn’t get so caught up in morality, in power struggles, they just did. 

“Two days walks west of here,” Gilgamesh explains. He wore a sun hat that Druig was almost sure was older than Independent Mexico. “Now, Thena’s mostly fine. It’s just when she has hallucinations that she can get out of hand. I try and talk her down but well,” Gilgamesh looks over Druig and yeah. Druig wasn’t exactly going to be able to hold Thena down and talk reason into her. 

He was stronger than a human, but he couldn’t go hand to hand with Thena. No way. 

“I’ll be fine,” he assures the other Eternal. 

You ask the obvious question, “will your ability even work on another Eternal?”

“That’s-,” Gilgamesh raises his brow, “will it Druig?”

“Let’s do a test run,” he quirks a brow and reaches for Gilgamesh’s mind. 

It’s different. Both humans and Eternals were conscious beings, but their minds-their minds were so different, the way memories worked. People thought in images, in words, quickly jumping around making connections between what had happened and what they wanted, always coloured by their feelings. Gilgamesh didn’t. His mind read more like clear lead photographs. Calm, steady. Druig wondered if it was just Gilgamesh. What would Kingo’s mind look like? 

One was not a good sample size.

You elbow him, “point made.”

“Hug.” His concentration breaks and Gilgamesh blinks away the gold in his eyes. 

“That was,” the man rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I thought it would hurt.”

“Why would it hurt,” he asks rhetorically. 

Gilgamesh shrugs, “I didn’t know what to expect.” He hums in thought, “though no one’s ever complained? Or can you just make them okay with what happened?”

Druig supposes he could make it hurt. He could make someone believe anything he wanted, make it the worst pain in the world, but why would he? “Neither?” Given he didn’t make anyone do anything wrong, they had no real complaint other than annoyance. 

“Okay,” you nod, your hands on his shoulders. “Then everything’ll be okay. We won’t burn the house down,” you joke with Gilgamesh. 

The stocky Eternal laughs easily. Gilgamesh has always laughed from deep in his belly. “Don’t worry. I built the oven outside.”

“Darn it,” you snap your fingers, “there goes my evil plan.”

“There’s a lot of food in the pantry and Thena knows what to hunt and gather.”

Druig nods, letting the other man fret. It was obvious he worried about leaving Thena behind. They’d hardly separated in milenia. And now in her condition, Druig could easily see why Gilgamesh worried about her, wanted to be here if she had another episode. He’d witnessed the way Gilgamesh consoled her after, helped Thena work through the hallucinations. 

Druig would do his best but it would never be the same. 

Still, Gilgamesh deserved a break for his own health. 

“I don’t know how to shoot a gun,” you tell Gilgamesh.

“We have bows.”

You grin, looking down at your hands. They were soft. For once, Druig gathered you’d been born into a middling socioeconomic class. He was sure you couldn’t wait to build up your skills back up. 

Gilgamesh continues to go over the nooks and crannies of the home he’d built with Thena. 

***

druig writes to his village and they talk about how if u take the parent relationship further, druig eventually has to let them go, fly the coop. (pillow talk) 

Thena doesn’t so much farm as she does gather. 

It was the way of life for so much of his time on Earth. Druig thinks it would be easy to live in Mexico City, in Brisbane, and think life had always been like that, but no, Thena going out after midday and looking, knowing which plant roots held water, the tracks of the animal life that led to fruit or the animal itself. 

It was awful to be out in the afternoon. 

Thena took those hours to draw on big pieces of creamy white parchment, images that made him think of Goya. Sersi had some strange tastes in art. Druig was pretty sure she’d find something to appreciate in every museum in the world. 

She painted in the shade of the house. 

You’d thrown a worn cotton sheet over the dirt ground and laid down next to her. After spending most of the day following Thena like a duckling, asking her if it was quandong fruit or if it was some other toxic fruit that looked similar. You were exhausted. 

“What is that,” you ask Thena, pointing at a harshly drawn figure with splattered of blue around the figure. 

“I don’t know.”

“It looks like an alien.” You think aloud. “I guess not every alien can pass.”

“Then it’s an alien,” she shrugs, stuck on adding more details to the background. None of it cleared anything up for Druig. 

He tries to think about what to write back to Atzi and Juan. He’d tried to delegate, breaking up the village into sectors for each person to manage. Atzi and Juan should be able to handle it from there. Azti had experience and age to make decisions. The bonds she had cultivated with the other villagers meant her words would be taken seriously. Juan was younger, bright, and a teamplayer. He had the temperament to resolve discussions between opposing schools of thought. 

“What are you doing,” you ask Druig as his pen scratches paper. 

“Writing to the village.”

“So being a helicopter parent,” you tease without missing a beat. 

Thena snorts. 

“Aye,” he winks back at you shamelessly. There was nothing wrong with caring. 

“You know,” you note, closing your eyes and bathing in the warmth that surrounded everything out here in the outback. The ground was warm into the night. “You’ve got to let the kids fall flat on their face sooner or later.”

Thena’s brush stills. “Let them fly the coop.”

Druig groans, “I thought we were having a nice quiet afternoon?”

He forgot: Thena didn’t say much, but what she did say, she made count. 

***

“It’s so bloody hot,” you complain. The covers were tossed on the ground. You were laying nude on the mattress.

Less sexily, Druig could smell the turkey pen that was outside the window of the guest room that was mostly used to store Thena’s many paintings. January in Australia was hot. It wasn’t the wet rainy forest he had grown so accustomed to. The desert here was lush, the heat dry. 

Druig traces the expanse of your back with his eyes. “Is that the only reason,” he asks, unbuttoning his linen shirt. 

You turn, looking at him over your shoulder. 

It’s not that you're trying, that you’re doing anything particularly special, yet he feels the familiar welling of desire grow in him. 

Your eyes meet his. You bite your bottom lip as your gaze roams over him. “Should there be another reason?”

Druig snorts, sitting on the bed next to you.

You rest your head against the flat pillow. 

He caresses your back, down your spine before squeezing your ass, “I can think of a few.”

You laugh softly, sitting up and pressing your lips against his. Druig gives himself up to you completely. 

***

Thena carries the turkey all the way to the village. It’s thatched huts and an ancient way of life. Tear tracks run down her cheeks all the way there. 

She stares into the fire you made, lost. 

Druig wonders when he’s supposed to intervene. When she gets violent and becomes a danger to herself and others? That doesn’t seem right. This woman he has always known as the best of the best, a steady defender. . .he asks her, “do you need-,” lost for words. He didn’t know how to help her the way Gilgamesh did. 

She obviously isn’t fine. 

Druig doesn’t bother with, are you okay. What for. 

“No-,” Thena says, the slightest shake of her head. “I’ve. . .” she blinks away tears, “it’s nothing I cannot handle.”

“I’m here, for you.”

“I know,” her voice soft. 

Wood crackles as it burns. Sparks fly, but the rocks encircling the fire keep the desert from catching fire. You’re asleep. The closest people are those in the village. Druig can hear their wandering thoughts, a hum. If he focuses in, he could pick up on individuals. 

The peaceful night is deceiving. 

The animals are the most active in these small hours of the night. Like the forest he’s made his home, true darkness lies here. It’s not a city with their electricity that blots out the stars in the sky. 

“I know it is not real. . . ,” she finally says, long after Druig thought the conversation was over. “But it feels real.”

His eyelids are heavy. 

“Our reality, our thoughts,” he muses, “it’s all subjective. Doesn’t make any of it less true.”

Thena smiles, chuckling. “Then what is real? The molecular composition of water?”

He’d missed her. He’d missed her smile that made her practically glow. The Athenians should’ve named her the goddess of the sun. 

She was a fighter, but that wasn’t what Druig thought of when he spent time with Thena. 

“I don’t know.” He’s old. The older he grew, the less sure he was of anything. 

“अस्माकं कार्याणि अस्मान्सावधीकरिष्यंति.”

“Not our thoughts,” he quips.

“I think,” Thena says slowly, “if we think forever, and do nothing, it doesn’t matter how good our intentions are.” 

He snorts, “you would say that.” Warriors tended to be people of action. 

“I suppose I have done-maybe I did too much,” she sighs. She looks up at the sky. The milky way was bright, brighter and more stunning than any man made invention. “Too much. Not enough.” Thena closes her eyes. 

“Acted because of orders and not. . .यात्रायां सखा जीवने करुणा,” she repeats the saying like a mantra and Druig isn’t Gilgamesh, but he can keep her company for this night. 

***

Gilgamesh returns in 1925 with a calendar in hand. 

“Any trouble getting back,” you ask him as Thena runs her fingers over the barkcloth. The designs are complex geometric patterns in stark colors. 

Druig reads over the last letter from Juan. Things seemed fine if not perfect, but he’d rather know for sure, see with his own eyes. 

“A bit,” Gilgamesh replies, “nothing I couldn’t handle. My passport is Australian.” He bats the air like he’s batting away a particularly stubborn deviant. 

“Good.” Thena looks up, having finished inspecting the barkcloth for now. She locks eyes with Gilgamesh, looking unabashedly. 

Druig had never known much about the inner workings of their relationship, but the love they held for one another was clear as the river that ran down el cerro his village was on. Fucking hell, he had no clue how people had destroyed their environment to the point rivers caught fire. 

You and Thena would tease him and go on about letting go of the village he had nurtured for so long, and maybe there was a point there. Atzi, like her mother Cualtzin, was through writing back details about the weather and harvest; the plan to route the impending road onto the other side of el cerro away from the village. Juan focused on the relationships between his people, how the latest marriage celebration had gone. They were okay. 

But the rest of the world?

“I brought you these too,” Gilgamesh spreads an assortment of objects that were factory made for Thena, things she couldn’t make out here. “I know you make your own brushes and paint, but hopefully you’ll have fun playing around with these.” There were tubes of phosphorescent green and fire hydrant yellow paint, metal rods Druig was pretty sure were used in construction that Thena was already judging the tips of to paint fine detail. 

“They’re wonderful,” her tone held awe and wonder. Thena was looking at Gilgamesh, smiling with her entire being. 

Druig wondered if the letter would even get there before he did. The train back to Brisbane would take three days at least. The letter might end up travelling with them. 

He hadn’t really brought it up with you.

He should.

It was wrong to assume you would want to live in the village when Druig was aware of your feelings towards. Maybe-he sighed. There was more than one way to get to Mexico. 

Travel was so easy in the 20th century. 

***

reader and druig decide to take the long way to mexico, going west instead of just crossing the pacific. 

They serve you chai while you wait. 

“Entering your Versaille phase,” you joke, glancing at the ornate jewels on display. “Or maybe I should say the Mughal phase.”

“You missed the obvious Byzantienne joke my lady,” Druig sips at his tea. A nice part of going the long way back to Mexico was getting to visit all these places after centuries. Bombay was immense. He was dying to visit Nairobi and Rome. 

“You did look fetching with the necklace in Teotihuacan,” you grin.

“Of course I did,” he says smuggly, “my lady, you have seen me or do you need your eyesight checked.”

“I’ve always loved your modesty.”

“Ah, here we are Sir,” the shop clerk re-entered the room. He held a silver plated tray. “Our most exemplary rings. Made from the best gold and gemstones. If you do not find one to your liking, let me know and we can always design one for you.” The Indian man had a rhythmic twang as he spoke accented English. 

Your eyes grow wide with understanding. You turn to look at Druig, your lover, your husband. 

He smiles cheekily. “Well, pick your favorite out.”

“What about you?”

“Pick two out?”

You put your cup down, glancing at rings with diamonds the size of his thumbnail. They were on the more ostentatious side. Kingo would feel at home.

Maybe Druig should visit Kingo while he was at it. You had always gotten along with Sprite. 

“Aren’t wedding rings supposed to be boring gold bands?”

Druig smiles, quipping back, “isn’t marriage whatever works for each couple?”

“You have a point there,” you reach to look at a ring closer.

“Ah excellent choice Mrs.,” the man rattles off information, “it is 24 karot gold, like all our rings. The diamond comes all the way from South Africa, from the best mines in the world.”

You put it back. “Do you have anything blue?”

“Yes Mrs. We have plenty of sapphires.”

Poor man. 

You were very demanding it turned out, when searching for something with such symbolic meaning. 

Druig stuck to his chai. 

“Oh!” You tried a ring on. It was a square cut diamond framed by two sapphires. “They match the color of your eyes,” you tell him, “don’t you think?” 

“I think it’s a bit large for you,” Druig points out. 

“We can resize it for you Sir-” the Clerk is quick to add. He felt bad that he was about to walk off with so much money in jewels. But not bad enough to change his mind. 

Druig had helped rid Earth of the deviants. 

It evened out. 

“You don’t happen to have two,” you ask.

“We can make a second,” the man nods. 

“And how long will that take,” Druig asks.

Under your breath, you mutter, “you’d think an old man would have patience.”

“The kids my love,” he jokes, “the kids.”

You roll your eyes. 

“Not long. Maybe five days.”

“That works.” Days, Druig thinks, he could circumnavigate the world in 80 days without coming to the same end as Marco Polo. 

You hand the ring back. “Then we can keep stuffing our face with naan and gulab jamuns.”

“A woman after my own heart,” he laughs. 

“Are you barely realizing that!”

“Mr. Bhatt,” a woman with brown hair and a purple flapper dress sticks her head into the shop room, “oh! Am I early. I never would have guessed.” She was shameless. She was a witch. 

Druig wasn’t stupid. 

“It’s fine,” he waves off, offering you his arm, “we were just leaving.” 

He didn’t trust her smile. 

“Oh, don’t let me push you out,” she laughs the way title cards sound in his head. Ha Ha. Dead inside. 

Her magic wouldn’t hold up against him, but Druig would still rather not get into it when you might get caught in the crossfire. 

“It’s no problem.”

You could hold your own. He knew that. But just like he was aware he was no match for Thena, he knew you couldn’t fight a fully fledged witch. 

You glance from the woman to Druig, and he can see the questions in your eyes.

Later. 

He’d explain everything over lunch.

***

My love, 

The liberation of Burma is finally happening. Arakan has been hell, as you can imagine. Japan tried to invade as if the writing on the wall isn’t against them. 

Even as grim as it is out here, I do feel like I have been of most use here. There’s always someone who needs medical aid. My feet are swollen more days than not and I go days without sleep. But-as all the posters love to say, we all must do our part. Even when I can only hold someone’s hand in the end, that’s enough. Not letting them pass alone. Being there we do try to save everyone we can but these bombs…there never seems to be enough bandages. Our sheets are long gone. I didn’t think anything worse than the Great War would happen in this lifetime, but of course the depression and now this had to prove me wrong. 

At least the British Indian army kept Japan at bay, and with the war nearly over in Europe I’m sure it won’t be long before the full attention of the allies falls on Japan and they are defeated too. 

It’s awful. 

In my dreams I’m stitching up wounds, sewing up wounds, endless wounds. 

I’m sick of it all and have to admit it's hard to defend my point of view in these dark times. I often think your way is worth the cost if it would spare all these young men. Boys really. Some of the green boys from the USA still giggle when they see a pinup poster. BOYS. Not to mention the civilians. I’m glad Japan didn’t invade India. 

I’m glad you're far from the front. I’m so fucking glad you are safe. Everyone. Juan and his kids. Atzi’s grandchildren. Itzel must be so big now! To think I knew her great-grandmother! Knowing there’s still untouched corners in the world, wishing that the people here can one day know the peaceful monotony of life keeps me going. Knowing I will go home to you once more gets me through it all.

Leaving you was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, not knowing if I’d see you again in this life (I will!). I know it pained you as much as it did me, but I couldn’t sit by any more than you’ve been able to sit by and do nothing. Malaya is my home. Earth is my home, every inch of it, so of course I had to come out here and do something in this world war. And while Malaya remains lost for now, I’m certain that by the end of all this conflict, my birthplace this go-a-round will be free, and we can spend endless days swimming and with me ruining your meditation by splashing water on your face.

Must go now.

All my love! 

Forever yours, 

Your lady.

notes: Malaya was the British colonial name for what later became Malaysia (together with British Borneo and some other territories). Weird immigration in Australia because of the White Australia policy which was pursued by the government so of course when reader comes in with a Asian country of origin, eyebrows are raised, and Gilgamesh felt it as well. It was a lot of countries though at the time being exclusionary in their immigration policies. It sucks. But it happened. I think Aboriginal Australian practices are closed so I didn’t want to get into that and butcher anything, instead I just wanted to show that Thena and Gilgamesh have permission from the people’s whose land they live on to be there and that they are respectful of their beliefs and culture while in Australia.

the reader became a nurse in the British Army for ww2. so in the marvel timeline, shes alive as the same time as Captain America is also first becoming a superhero. i’ll admit i didn’t do too much reading into the pacific and Indian theater of ww2, just enough for the events that are talked about. the witch was agatha harkness. i just find how intertwined and the cameos in mcu fun, and felt like they would be fun to have in my fic.

the reader also didnt include her name or druigs because, you know, trying to keep the whole being immortal alien thing on the down low, and a convenient reason for me to exclude names lol

what everyone refers to as thena’s hallucinations are flashbacks, but since they all still think thena is sick, they don’t know she’s remembering past worlds/memories, they all think it’s just hallucinations.

[orionares]

BTHB: Ambush

BTHB: Ambush

NCIS: Los Angeles

@badthingshappenbingo

-------------------------------------------------

Deeks

Weakness.

That's the best way he can describe the feeling that's been permanently scarred in his psyche since he was a child. The feeling that's drowning him every passing moment Kessler isn't in jail or preferably dead, the same feeling on the twelve hour flight to rescue Kensi in Afghanistan or the times he hid under his bed during Gordon John Brandel's numerous abuse towards his mother.

It's also what he feels now, lying on his back bloodied and barely conscious under the low flapping of an approaching helicopter . As Investigator Marty Deeks takes painful, sharp breaths , he recounts the four bodies scattered throughout the cabin around him who had ambushed him on a drive back from a surf and kidnapped him.

Two by the door, downed by two shots from the Smith & Wesson semi automatic Deeks had wrestled away from a third figure, laying in a heap near the door.

The fourth, laying at Deeks' feet with the ghost of the greedy, smug smile on his face.

"H'lp," He chokes through the blood and spit he can't bring himself to swallow. He can feel his eye swelling by the second along with the burning sharp pain with every inhale and exhale.

"....Federal agents!"

Relief at rescue should be the emotion he feels. Relief should annihilate the weakness he feels after being kicked, punched and dragged, dragged , like a worthless doll across the floor to be tortured further.

Relief at the recognition of Sam's commanding voice and the cabin door flying open doesn't erase being clobbered by shared hits across the face from his kidnappers.

"Jesus Christ."

"Oh my God- Baby!"

Tears burn in the corner of his eyes and finally fall when his wife's hands gently pat a lock of blonde hair matted with dried blood. Kensi's face is blurry in the small slit of vision in his right and eye.

"I'm going to end Westfield. Deeks, can you hear me? We're here! You're safe."

Safe can't cover the dehumanizing snarl from the three humans he had fought tooth and nail to survive. It definitely cannot cover the smirk from the scruffy mid sixties man sitting handcuffed at the boatshed.

The leader of the small back of drug runners responsible for moving shipments across the state and killing two Petty officers.

The man with blue eyes that match his, although decades older.

His father.

---------------------------------------

Callen

"You do know," Admiral Killbride warns via video call,"that you will not go in and harm our suspect the moment Blye and Hanna check in."

He sighs as the team's lead continues to pace the length 9f the table in the boatshed like a hungry cheetah circling its prey. The lack of reaction doesn't bode well for the admiral sending Fatima to 'support' Callen, also known as preventing a possible murder.

A not entirely blameless murder based on Westfield's a.k.a Gordon John-back-from-the-dead Brandel, orchestration of Deeks' ambush and kidnapping.

On the other end of the call, Grisha Callen glares at the small hall leading to the interrogation room, protected by two agents. The leadership ingrained in him screams that assaulting two fellow agents to get to the 'father'- the man that's supposed to protect and care for his child- won't help Deeks.

His phone goes off with a loud chime that grabs his attention. A text from Sam arrives with short, brief statements- Got him. Hospital. It's bad. They beat him.

Callen shoves his phone across the table and plops down in his chair. His leg bounces violently as he scowls down the closed interrogation room once more.

He cannot go in there and beat the life out of that man for nearly killing Deeks, he cannot-

"Mr. Callen."

Hetty's voice appears on his right and he nearly jumps out of skin, a rarity for a season agent. She stands in the open space in front of the stairs in her trademark dark suit, hands crossed and an unreadable peer at her agent.

"They got Deeks but Sam said-" Callen spits out before Jetty finishes for him, " it appears that they beat him. Badly. "

"How are you so calm?" He snaps and then sighs. Henrietta Lange walks to his side and pats his shoulders in a comforting manner that neither comforts nor fuels the homicidal mood he's in towards Brandel. Her expressions remain stoic and a touch pensive as she states,"Things are never what they seem, Mr. Callen. Head to Providence Saint Joseph in Burbank and meet the others there. "

Callen's shoulders sag at Hetty's answer-intertwined on riddles, hidden message and on a suspicion fueled by his gut, a warning resembling the old spy game. He pushes himself from the table and forces the calculations needed to drive the thirty miles to Burbank.

And how to feign ignorance to whatever Hetty decides to do next.

-----------------------------------------

Kensi

Flying over Los Angeles is supposed to be beautiful.

Once, Deeks had rented a helicopter ride over the city at night ten months into their marriage to fly over the downtown area. There had been no rhyme or reason for the sudden trip until they had landed with an overly chatty pilot and Deeks had sighed and told her seeing the city without death hovering over them was a nice change.

Now, the twinkle of lights towering over the sea of travelers heading home on the interstate don't register for Kensi. Even over the loud chopping blades, all Kensi can hear is Deeks' painful, whistling breaths.

She's supposed to think when this is over and he's safe, she'll admit that running across a warehouse floor past and dropping to her knees at his battered, bloodied body rivaled Mexico.

But the shared conclusion amongst the pilot, the medic, Sam and herself is that his father hired three men to beat and torture his only child.

The child that shot him three decades ago.

And that alone brings the fear- did Brandel tell these men secrets about Deeks? Did they tear into him between the kicks to the ribs, the strikes to every part of his body?

Kensi looks up to the monitor hooked up above the hospital cot. Ten minutes out- the pilot had yelled sometime ago. Deeks' heart beats relatively steady considering the wheezing under the broken ribs and the undetermined tremors that pass every moment or so.

He's still alive, drifting in and out of consciousness , based on what she hopes to be movement from his cupped hand and not a hallucination.

It's the after- Deeks' support and love doesn't hide the fear of Kessler, the fear of not being able to provide her a family and the lingering self criticism from training at FLETC. After this is over and Brandel never sees the light of day, they will sit down and talk and truly check in.

And she'll wrap her arms around him and never let him go.

------------------------------------------------

Sam

“Move.”

“Agent Hanna, I can’t -” the young NCIS agent that stands in front of the interrogation room with both hands up in defense. The man is about six inches shorter than Sam, fresh faced and younger than Sam by at least a decade. Sam raises an eyebrow when the young man quickly scans him for anything in hand or waistband that could be used to ‘talk’ with the man handcuffed behind the door.

“I will move you,” Sam growls in a low voice, “ if I need to. That man needs to answer questions regarding kidnapping and torture of a federal agent-”

The young agent briefly straightens as if mustering a bit of strength before sighing, “I have my orders from Admiral Killbride.”

Approaching footsteps stop him from snapping at the young agent. A hand tugs at his bicep before Callen’s voice breaks the tension between the two. “Sam,” the lead agent directs, “Come on- we can’t.”

Sam scowls and backs away from the now wide-eyed agent. He follows Callen to the end of the hallway before snapping, “You okay with this?”

“You know damn well I’m not,” Callen replies exasperatedly. He scratches the back of his neck and glances back to the large video screen. “You strangling an agent isn’t going to help things.”

“If it gets me closer to Brandel, I don’t care!” Sam hisses. He eyes Callen’s impassive expression and recalls part of the creed he had taken to be a Navy SEAL.

I will draw on every remaining ounce of strength to protect my teammates.

“That man went after my little brother,” Sam admits in a softer voice. Westfield’s absolute disregard for his only child reignites the desire to ‘chat’ with the suspect. “They beat the hell out of him, G.”

Calllen’s jaw tightens but he manages to maintain a calm voice as he says, “I know. As much as I’d like...the best thing we can do right now is be at the hospital for Deeks. Sam, we will do everything to make sure that Brandel doesn’t get anywhere near Deeks again. Alright?”

He should agree and move forward, but until Brandel is behind bars, secured and suffering, he won't settle.

He can't.

------------------------------------

Brandel

Somehow, somehow, the brat is still alive.

Gordon John Brandel, now Westfield, scoffs at the innocent looking NCIS agents driving the transportation van that he's handcuffed in. The wooden bench in the back of the van reeks of wet dog, oddly reminding himself of the last time he'd been engaged in anything auto related with the police.

Car accident- Faking a death in a sparsely populated area is much easier than it should be.

The van lurches forward onto a gravel road, rocking the van slightly side to side. The rest of the drive lasts a minute before the vehicle jerks to a stop and both agents slide out of the driver and passenger door without a word.

"Is this supposed to be some sort of theatrics?" Brandel laughs. He is answered with silence for a long moment before the side door opens and a small, older woman with a leather purse over her shoulder peers up at him.

"Who the hell are you?" Brandel snaps. The woman's face is unreadable in an oddly eerie way.

"My name is Henrietta Lange, the operations manager at the Office of Special Projects," the woman replies. Brandel quickly glances beyond the small woman for the other agents and comes up empty.

Did they disappear like a ghost?

"You took one of my people," Hetty adds with a hint of anger in her voice. "You hurt one of my people."

"I took the little sh-"

"That's Investigator Deeks to you," Hetty cuts him off quickly. Brandel settles back against the side of the van. On any other day, he's sure he'd flick the tiny woman and go on his merry way.

Hetty steps closer to the van, enough for her purse to rest on the van floor. "I wanted to alert you that you lost. You tried to break him apart but Mr. Deeks is one of the strongest people I know. He is a husband, a brother, a future father and one of the many who protect this country. You, Mr. Brandel are nothing."

Brandel cocks his head to the right and growls," You don't get to speak to me like that."

"That requires respect, Mr. Brandel." Hetty slides the purse strap off of her shoulder and pulls out a red soft material wrapped by black string. "Which you lost the moment you first hurt your child.You are nothing and I want you to remember that during what happens next."

Brandel watches Hetty lift out a small vial from her bag. His stomach begins to tie into knots. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Henrietta Lange's expression finally changes into a calculated smile.

Oh. He is so dead.

-----------------------------------------

Hetty

Her little ones are all sleeping scattered in Deeks' hospital room .

Hetty Lange approaches the foot of the bed and sighs at the heaviness in her shoulder blades, metaphorically and realistically. Callen and Sam are sleeping side-by-side in chairs against the wall, both with arms crossed and chin tucked down into their chests.

Kensi sleeps soundly with her head resting on the edge of the bed with her hand extended out to her husband's side. Just as she had in Mexico, she keeps watch over her husband with the same vigil he had after Syria and Afghanistan.

Each protecting the other. For life.

Hetty walks to the opposite side of the bed in a small opening between Sam’s outstretched legs and the edge of the bed. Her view of her once detective now investigator is limited but enough to paint a picture of his injuries.

Bruises line the Investigator's jaw and across his shoulder blades. Above his left swollen eye, a large gash is covered by white bandage.

She can't even imagine the bruises and cuts on the rest of his body.

Hetty rests her hand on his and feels the anxiousness subside slightly when his finger twitches slightly in response. The operations manager chuckles softly," Oh, rest, Mr. Deeks. You've had a nightmare of a day. Rest.”

Hetty takes another glance around the room at her resting agents, inhales slowly before adding, “Your father has lost, Martin. Don’t forget that. And he will never, ever, lay a hand on you again. I should have made sure of that last time, but now, I’ve righted my wrongs. He won’t touch you- that’s a promise.”

[kuramirocket]

On July 10, 1520, Aztec forces vanquished the Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés and his men, driving them from Tenochtitlan, capital of the Aztec empire. The Spanish soldiers were wounded and killed as they fled, trying in vain to drag stolen gold and jewels with them.

By September, an unexpected ally of the would-be conquerors had reached the city: the variola virus, which causes smallpox.

How the Aztecs responded to this threat would prove critical.

The Aztecs were no strangers to plagues. Among the speeches recorded in their rhetoric and moral philosophy, we find a warning to new kings concerning their divinely ordained role in the event of contagion:

Sickness will arrive during your time. How will it be when the city becomes, is made, a place of desolation? Just how will it be when everything lies in darkness, despair? You will also go rushing to your death right then and there. In an instant, you will be over.

Facing a plague, it was vital that the king respond with grace. They warned:

Do not be a fool. Do not rush your words, do not interrupt or confuse people. Instead find, grasp, arrive at the truth. Make no one weep. Cause no sadness. Injure no one. Do not show rage or frighten folks. Do not create a scandal or speak with vanity. Do not ridicule. For vain words and mockery are no longer your office. Never, of your own will, make yourself less, diminished. Bring no scorn upon the nation, its leadership, the government.

Retract your teeth and claws. Gladden your people. Unite them, humor them, please them. Make your nation happy. Help each find their proper place. That way you’ll be esteemed, renowned. And when our Lord extinguishes you, the old ones will weep and sigh.

If a king did not follow this advice, if his rule caused more suffering than it abated, then the people prayed to Tezcatlipoca for any number of consequences, including his death:

May he be made an example of. Let him receive some reprimand, whatever you choose. Perhaps punishment. Disease. Perhaps you’ll let your honor and glory fall to another of your friends, those who weep in sorrow now. For they do exist. They live. You have no want of friends. They are sighing before you, humble. Choose one of them.

Perhaps he [the bad ruler] will experience what the common folk do: suffering, anguish, lack of food and clothing. And perhaps you will give him the greatest punishments: paralysis, blindness, rotting infection.

Or will he instead soon depart this world? Will you bring about his death? Will he get to know our future home, the place with no exits, no smoke holes? Maybe he will meet the Lord of Death, Mictlanteuctli, mother and father of us all.

Clearly, the Aztecs took the responsibilities of leadership very seriously. Beyond uplifting morale, a king’s principal duty in times of contagion was deploying his subjects to “their proper place” so that the kingdom could continue to function. This included mobilizing the titicih, doctor-healers with vast herbal knowledge, most of them women pledged to the primal mother goddess Teteoh Innan.

What about the rest of the people? As with our own modern call for “thoughts and prayers,” the Aztecs believed their principal collective tool for fending off epidemics was a humble appeal to Tezcatlipoca. The very first speech of their text of rhetoric and moral philosophy was a supplication to destroy plague. After admitting how much they might deserve this scourge and recognizing the divine right of Tezcatlipoca to punish them however he sees fit, the desperate Aztecs tried to get their powerful god to consider the worst-case outcome of his vengeance:

O Master, how in truth can your heart desire this? How can you wish it? Have you abandoned your subjects? Is this all? Is this how it is now? Will the common folk just go away, be destroyed? Will the governed perish? Will emptiness and darkness prevail? Will your cities become choked with trees and vines, filled with fallen stones? Will the pyramids in your sacred places crumble to the ground?

Will your anger never be reversed? Will you look no more upon the common folk? For—ah!—this plague is destroying them! Darkness has fallen! Let this be enough. Stop amusing yourself, O Master, O Lord. Let the earth be at rest! I fall before you. I throw myself before you, casting myself into the place from which no one rises, the place of terror and fear, crying out: O Master, perform your office … do your job!

Smallpox arrived in Mesoamerica with a second wave of Spaniards who joined forces with Cortés. According to one account, they had with them an enslaved African man known as Francisco Eguía, who was suffering from smallpox. He, like many others on the continent of his birth, had no immunity to the disease carried there by the slave traders.

Eguía died in the care of Totonac people near Veracruz, the port city established by the Spanish some 250 miles east of the Aztec capital. His caretakers became infected. Smallpox spreads easily: not only blood and saliva, but also skin-to-skin contact (handshakes, hugs) and airborne respiratory droplets. It raced through a population with no herd immunity at all: along the coast, over the mountains, across the waters of Lake Texcoco, into the very heart of the populous empire.

The epidemic lasted 70 days in the city of Tenochtitlan. It killed 40 percent of the inhabitants, including the emperor, Cuitlahuac. Had he found it increasingly difficult to keep his people’s spirits up as tradition commanded? Had his leadership faltered? Did his subjects pray for his death?

Whatever the case, the memory of that devastation would echo for centuries. Some Nahuas—mostly the sons and grandsons of Aztec nobility—described the devastation decades after the conquest.

Their account harrows the soul:

It started during Tepeilhuitl [the 13th month of the solar calendar], when a vast human devastation spread over everyone. Some were covered in pustules, which spread everywhere, on people’s faces, heads, chests, etc. There was great loss of life; many people died of it.

They could not walk anymore. They just lay in bed in their homes. They could not move anymore, could not shift themselves, could not sit up or stretch out on their sides. They could not lay flat on their backs or even face down. If they even stirred, they screamed out in pain.

Many died of hunger, too. They starved because no one was left to care for the others; no one could attend to anyone else. On some people, the pustules were few and far between. They caused little discomfort, and those folks did not die. Still others had their faces marred.

By Panquetzaliztli [the 15th month of the solar year], it began to fade. At that time the brave warriors of the Mexica managed to recover.

But a hard lesson had been learned. None of the old remedies had worked. Entire families were gone. Funeral pyres effaced the sun.

The epidemic was only the beginning of the unexpected forces working in tandem to bring down the Aztec empire. On May 22, 1521—just as Tenochtitlan was beginning to recover, trying to rebuild trade routes, restock its supplies, replant its fields and aquatic chinampa gardens—Cortés returned.

This time he commanded more Spanish troops, men from the same second wave that had brought the smallpox. With them marched tens of thousands of Tlaxcaltecah warriors, the sworn enemies of the Aztecs. Smallpox had reached Tlaxcallan first, but its people—not as densely packed in urban areas like the Mexica—had fared better and were now ready to finish off their rivals.

The massive military force laid siege to the Aztec capital. Even with more than half the population dead or disabled, with little food or water or supplies, the Mexica held the city for three months.

Then, on August 13, 1521, it fell. Emptiness and darkness indeed prevailed.

Lines from a song composed by an unknown Mexica not long afterward sums up the emotions of the survivors:

It is our God who brings down

His wrath, His awesome might

upon our heads.

So friends, weep at the realization—

we abandon the Mexica Way.

Now the water is bitter,

the food is bitter: that

is what the Giver of Life

has wrought.

Without the smallpox, it’s much less likely Cortés and his allies could have taken Tenochtitlan. 

The plague—cocoliztli—was the most devastating post-conquest epidemic in large parts of Mexico, wiping out somewhere around 80 percent of the native population.

“Somewhere around” because population estimates are difficult to come by, with extrapolations made from incomplete colonial sources that date back to precolonial times. For the ethnohistorian Charles Gibson, there is no “sure method for determining whether the later [colonial era] counts were more accurate or less accurate than the earlier ones,” so that “the magnitude of the unrecorded population seems unrecoverable.”

Nevertheless, Gibson’s best estimate is a population of 1,500,000 inhabitants of the Valley of Mexico at the time of first contact with Europeans. There was a sharp fall of about 325,000 by 1570; a drastic fall to about 70,000 by the mid-seventeenth century; followed by slow growth to about 275,000 by 1800. Gibson’s figures are simply staggering. They give us a rough impression, but tell us little about the suffering and massive social upheaval caused by these catastrophes.

Slavery, forced labor, wars, and large-scale resettlements all worked together to make indigenous communities more vulnerable to disease.

According to the “Virgin Soil” theory, the epidemics were so desctructive because “the populations at risk have had no previous contact with the diseases that strike them and are therefore immunologically… defenceless,” as the psychiatrist David Jones writes in the William & Mary Quarterly. The theory is still widespread, often devolving into vague claims that indigenous people had “no immunity” to the new epidemics. By now we know that the lack of immunity played a role, but mostly early on. Current research instead emphasizes an interplay of influences, for the most part triggered by Europeans: slavery, forced labor, wars, and large-scale resettlements all worked together to make indigenous communities more vulnerable to disease.

According to a group of scholars writing in the journal Latin American Antiquity, in colonial Mexico, “by the mid-17th century, many… communities had failed, victims of massive population decline, environmental degradation, and economic collapse.” This is why it’s crucial for today’s scholars to emphasize the influence of colonial policies—as opposed to the Virgin Soil theory, which shifts responsibility away from Europeans.

One peak of the epidemic occurred in the 1570s. The exact pathogen that caused that epidemic is not yet known. Some scholars have speculated that, since it struck mostly younger people, it might have been something unique to the New World and reminiscent of the Spanish Influenza outbreak, possibly a tropical hemorrhagic fever. Other recent theories include Salmonella, or a combination of diseases. Native communities were the main victims of this epidemic due to their poverty, malnourishment, and harsh working conditions compared to the Spanish population.

Three Circles in the Sun

Aztec authors from central Mexico noted their reactions to the epidemics in fascinating detail. Writing 100 years after the Spanish military takeover, they were painfully aware of the consequences of epidemics and colonization: epidemics had taken place before, but the unprecedented scale of the disasters caused widespread incomprehension, sadness, and anger.

Much of the extant writing by Aztec authors dates to the turn of the seventeenth century. Many of the authors had experienced the plague themselves, its effects still fresh in their memories. I want to focus on two pieces of writing: a report by the well-known historian Diego Muñoz Camargo from Tlaxcala, written in Spanish; and an anonymous text in the indigenous language, Nahuatl, from the Puebla region.

As Diego Muñoz Camargo, the famous historian from the era, wrote:

In 1576, another great pestilence struck this land, bringing death and destruction to the native population. It lasted over a year and brought ruin and decay to most of New Spain [the Spanish Viceroyalty covering today’s Mexico], as the native population was then almost extinct. One month before the outbreak of the disease, an obvious sign had been seen in the sky: three circles in the sun, resembling bleeding or exploding suns, in which the colours merged. The colours of those three circles were those of the rainbow and could be seen from eight o’clock until almost one o’clock at noon.

This passage demonstrates the great importance of omens for the Aztecs. 

It is not surprising that the second report, from the smaller community of Tecamachalco, also links diseases with the appearance of a comet. Probably written by the native noble Don Mateo Sánchez, the text shows the extent of the catastrophe in words quite similar to Diego Muñoz Camargo’s:

On the first day of August [of 1576] the great sickness began here in Techamachalco. It was really strong; there was no resisting. At the end of August began the processions because of the sickness. They finished on the ninth day. Because of it, many people died, young men and women, those who were old men and women, or children… When the month of October began, thirty people had been buried. In just two or three days they would die… They lost their senses. They thought of just anything and would die.

Several of Don Mateo’s family members also died, including his wife and the alcalde (mayor) of his quarter. Don Mateo then took over the post of alcalde. One can sense his incomprehension and anguish. The decimation of the indigenous elites is evident throughout his account.

This decimation contributed to the transformation of native societies well into the seventeenth century, including forced native labor and resettlements, the introduction of hierarchical Spanish laws and government, Christianity, and the alphabet. Together with increasing European immigration, the epidemic led to a massive upheaval of indigenous sociopolitical organization and ways of life, especially in the Valley of Mexico.

Don Mateo’s is not the only surviving account of the epidemic from an indigenous perspective. Other anonymous annals from Puebla and Tlaxcala from the era discuss earlier waves of disease, which remained firmly rooted in collective memory more than 100 years after the events. Like Mateo, these sources do not try to account for the origin of the disease, but they provide an idea of the scale and horror of the epidemic and the personal tragedies involved, the uprooting of families, of whole towns.

Meanwhile, the Spaniards’ narratives tried to explain the catastrophic effect the disease had on the indigenous population by pointing to difficult living conditions. But they also interpreted it as divine punishment for paganism and a sign of the native peoples’ alleged inferiority to Europeans. Of course, European remedies such as bloodletting, used in hospitals to treat indigenous patients, worsened conditions instead of healing them. Ultimately, the Spanish Crown feared above all a further loss of cheap or unpaid labour; the priests a loss of souls to be converted.

Holding Off Oblivion

Despite the harsh conditions, the descendants of the Aztecs did not give up—as has long been claimed in traditional scholarship. As the historian Camilla Townsend has argued, the demographic collapse lent urgency to the projects of major native historians—including the authors I’ve cited in this essay. Nearly all pre-Hispanic sources were destroyed by the Spanish, with some lost over time. The Chalca scholar Domingo de Chimalpahin commented on this confluence of factors: the destruction of sources and abandonment of communities strengthened his sense of responsibility to future generations. By writing history, he attempted to save his ancestors’ past from looming oblivion. Drawing on pre-Hispanic faith, continuing political participation, and recording the histories of their people: these are some of the ways in which Aztecs proactively shaped their lives following colonial devastation.

Centuries of colonial exploitation and violence have made the indigenous peoples of both Americas disproportionately vulnerable to current epidemics. This makes the resilience of indigenous peoples and cultures all the more incredible. Such resilience has developed over more than 500 years, in the face of continual adversity and disregard. Native American peoples provide varied and remarkable testimonies on weathering existential crises. The least we can do, in the midst of the current pandemic, is listen.

Other Source

[hankwritten]

Keep in a Cool Dry Place

Demoman/Soldier, 3k

A couple of old, past their prime mercs live out their days, but at least they’re slowly breaking down together.

Oftentimes, Jane would go out onto the deck to find Tavish fixed in place, chin tilted skywards, soaking up the stars for all they were worth. He could be like that, sometimes for hours, eye glossy against the Milky Way as he stood so still he could make a statue proud.

“You’re up awful late,” he said to Jane, unmoving. Probably had realized Jane had been watching for a while now.

“Could say the same to you,” Jane said, pulling himself into a deck chair with a great cascade of air from his smoker’s lungs, the grunt of an old man he always thought was an exaggerated affectation until it started happening to him.

“I don’t get up at five in the morning,” Tavish reminded him.

“You could. Good for the health, Tavish.”

“I don’t think anything’s good for the health these days. Just bad, and slightly worse.” He drummed his fingers on the deck’s railing. “C’mere, look at this.”

“I can see the damn stars just fine from here,” Jane sniffed.

Tavish broke from his surveying to shoot a grin Jane’s way, features cut sharp in the porch light. “Come on you old fart, get over here.”

Jane grumbled, pushing out of the chair with more effort than he would have liked to admit. He made his way to Tavish, joining him at the railing, their shoulders brushing just briefly until Tavish swung an arm around Jane’s waist.

His voice took on a fading quality all of the sudden, as though far away winds were dragging him skyward. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

Jane watched him. In the past few years his good eye had grown white in the center, a fuzzy film growing out from the pupil that would one day take the whole cornea. It was irreversible, Tavish had explained, years of buildup from stromnium or strotenium or something like that, Jane could never remember. Tavish wasn’t surprised, had told Jane that he was shocked he’d still had the thing this long, but that didn’t mean there was no mourning within the man. It was just different than how most people would have gone about it.

“Sure is,” Jane said. “Real beautiful.”

“Aye. And you ‘n me, we’re not seeing the half of it. Those telescopes, the ones the size of whole buildings, all they have is a bunch of different magnifying glasses and yet when they put ‘em all together you can see whole galaxies that weren’t there before. Same sky, just some folks can see it, some folks can’t.”

“You can still see it,” Jane reminded him, a gentle bump to the shoulder.

“For now,” Tavish agreed. He turned, smiling with just the corner of his mouth, a testament that was gone before Jane could fully appreciate how much he loved the small, sad ways he chose to be happy. A hand came up to brush the side of Jane’s cheek. “I just keep thinking about how one of these days will be the last day I see you.”

Their foreheads came together. Jane’s hand rose to cover the one across his cheek, thumb rubbing the small band of gold on Tavish’s finger. Sometimes he still couldn’t believe this; despite the decades, despite the promises made on cold desert nights, despite watching the grey hairs spring in Tavish’s beard and knowing the same was happening to him, it was still hard to fathom that someone had chosen to spend the rest of their life with him. Even though the years with Tavish came close to outnumbering the years without, that time in Jane’s life of infinite loneliness, of stubborn self sufficiency, made him question how he was ever lucky enough that someone had hung on their sense and decided he was worth it.

Jane pulled Tavish closer. “Yeah. Well. If you’re going to keep a last image of me in your head, I really wish it was back when I was still handsome.”

Tavish laughed, swaying them both slightly in the unusually still air. Normally winds rattled the badlands, stirring up loose sand and seething through plants too hardy to notice. It felt like, for once, the world had chosen to be kind this night, just for them.

“You get handsomer every day Jane,” Tavish said, and hidden behind the words were each day I love you more. “I just…miss.”

“Miss how things used to be?”

“More than that. I’ve got the ‘ole yearning, I suppose, the eater of men.” Tavish chewed his words, looking up at the sky again. “I miss places. I miss how everything used to feel, even if it wasn’t terribly good.”

“Not talking about going back to your home planet, are you?” Jane joked, jerking his thumb at the now witnessed stars.

“No,” Tavish snorted. “Not exactly. But I…” He trailed off.

Now it was Jane’s turn to bring his hands to the sides of Tavish’s face, his own ring warm from where he’d been cradling it inside his fist. “What is it, Tav? You can tell me.”

Tavish looked not at the stars nor the horizon, but the ground, kicking the wooden deck neither of them had ever gotten around to re-staining. “I feel…I feel the hills always calling out to me. Like there’s something in my bones that just wants to rest, to go back where it’s green, to where it isn’t so bloody dry. Every time we visit I think ‘is this the last time I’ll ever see it? The very last time? Am I going to be too old or too tired the next time around, and never feel like I’m home again?’”

Jane watched the worry lines in Tavish’s forehead. “You want to go back to Scotland.”

“I dunno. Just the more my eye goes the more I…I dunno.”

They hung in silence for a while longer, just breathing. Jane hadn’t felt the need to wear his helmet for a long time, not at home, not at this mansion that was their private oasis from the rest of the world. Were money made their problems—if not vanish—then kept far back beyond the fence where they never had to think about them unless they ventured beyond. Where, even with BLU’s protection no longer keeping the various chapters of local and federal law enforcement trying to wrangle some comeuppance out of the soldier for sins past, he still had a place of refuge.

“Let’s go,” Jane said.

Tavish looked away. “I don’t mean for a visit Jane, I mean…”

“I know,” Jane insisted. Tavish’s milky eye fixed him with disbelief. “You want to go home. I get it. We should go.”

Tavish stared at him, still uncomprehending. “Jane you know that would mean…”

“I know,” Jane repeated.

A warm, subtle smile filled Tavish’s face, and neither of them had to say any more. Tavish drew Jane in closer, and the two of them rocked in the wind that had just picked up again.

***

“Jane,” Tavish frowned as he examined the box Jane had dropped thunderously at the bottom of the stairs, “do you really need to bring all of these?”

“Hey, I’m not trying to make you get rid of your treasured possessions,” Jane pointed out, depositing a second box filled entirely with Guns & Haircuts net to the first.

“We’re not going to have space for these,” Tavish retorted. “It’s going to be a tiny little thing, remember? They don’t build mansions in Ullapool.”

Moving had left the New Mexico mansion barren and faded where pictures had hung on the wall since Tavish had first moved in. Now they were all gone, sold off as their attempts to downsize left only what was necessary and a few DeGroot family heirlooms.

It twisted something in Jane to see their home of three decades slowly dismantled into carpet scuffs and cardboard boxes. This had been his dwelling longer than any other, a turning point from when the Gravel Wars had folded in on themselves and left Jane with an odd freedom he had no idea if he was allowed to act on. Even before that, when Tavish’s mother had still been alive and the halls were filled with her vigor, this place was safe haven for Jane, where he’d come to meet with his forbidden friend and get wasted in his living room.

Now it was mostly empty. Ready for the last goodbyes.

“These are important,” Jane declared of the boxes.

“You haven’t read them in ages,” Tavish pointed out.

“So? They are valuable. Scout sold his whole Bonk! Boy collection for a fortune, and I’ve got twice as many as that little squirt does!” Jane cleared his throat suddenly. “Did.”

It was hard to remember sometimes. He thought his old teammates would want nothing to do with him after the end, but to his surprise they actually kept in contact better than when they’d actually worked together. Maybe owing to the fact he now had an actual address they could send letters to.

Neither Spy nor Sniper had ever actually retired, and over time the tepid, passably courteous correspondences with Sniper had stopped a few years after Spy disappeared entirely. Jane assumed something similar had happened to them both. Occupational hazard.

Engie had complications with his diabetes. The remaining team had shown up for the funeral, except for Pyro, who everyone politely wouldn’t mention, even when Jane asked.

The one person Jane hadn’t expected to outlive was Scout. Scout didn’t write, but he could talk anyone’s ear off, and when coming home from the second funeral in as many years it hit Jane hard that he’d never hear the kitchen phone ringing off its holder again, practically trembling as the other line was just dying to tell him about whatever exactly Scout was so wound up about today.

Tavish noticed Jane’s slipup, and kindly ignored it. Nearly ten years, and Jane still found himself forgetting. “That’s because they were comics,” Tavish explained. “They were collectors items. The only person collecting Guns & Haircuts is you.”

“And don’t I know it!”

Tavish sighed. “Are you even planning on selling them, or are you just going to do the same thing you’ve done with them here and leave them in a big box to gather dust?”

“Of course I’m going to leave them in a big box!” Jane huffed proudly. “What other purpose is there in life other than to gather material objects and then have them accumulate in piles in your living room? You do not see me complaining about the giant, wall mounted family crest, do you?”

Tavish rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighed as an old argument became even older. “Ach, fine. I suppose we’ll fine the space.” When he opened his eye, he saw the third giant box Jane was hauling out for the movers. “Jane! We don’t need to be taking that.”

“Yes we do, sonny!” Jane said, slapping a hand on the trumpet of the old record player he hadn’t been able to properly fit in the box. “I do not trust those cassette tapes! The snakes that live in them always try to come out and strangle me!”

“We’ve got some CDs now-” Tavish tried.

“Even worse!” Jane declared. “Australian mind control devices!”

Tavish could see he wasn’t winning, which was just fine by Jane. The magazines were one thing, but the record player he wasn’t leaving without.

“Well,” Tavish said, looking around their house, stripped bare. “I suppose that’s everything.”

Jane couldn’t find a reason to object. He glanced around, looking for one last missing detail, one more reason to stall, but found none. Gently, he took Tavish’s hand and squeezed. “Everything we need.”

***

Scotland was even wetter than the last time they’d visited.

Mud, the most distantly remembered and ancient of substances, clung to Jane’s pant leg all the way up to the knee as they made their way down hundred-year old paths someone really should’ve figured out how to weather-proof by now. But, where Jane was grumbling, Tavish looked about as happy as a clam in water. (Or, Jane supposed was more fitting, a pig in mud.)

“Aha! Look, there it is,” Tavish said, tugging on Jane’s arm and pointing at the glimpse of water creeping around the bend. “Still there.”

“I don’t think they would have up and moved a whole lake while you were gone,” Jane mumbled, but Tavish didn’t seem to hear as he moved with surprising speed down the hill. It was times like this Jane actually envied the cane.

When he finally caught up, Tavish was breathing in the thick air, his chest rising and then collapsing with a satisfied sigh. “Used to play down here as lad. Sometimes there’s a beach, far as the eye can see.”

“Thought you were done with sand,” Jane said, stomping up next to him on damp boots.

Tavish just breamed broadly at him, drinking in the sweep of the land and the crash of the lake. Jane could remember the stories, ones from Tavish’s childhood much better than his own, told and retold so many times that he could flip open the memories like a scrapbook and find exactly where every place in Ullapool fit. An old pub, a crumbling church. The house where the DeGroots used to live, the field where Merasmus’s castle had once briefly towered. So vivid were they, they superimposed themselves over Jane’s (admittedly more insubstantial) memories until he felt he had lived here himself.

“…Gettin’ dark, Tav,” Jane pointed out.

Tavish frowned, and squinted at the horizon. “Aye, I suppose it is.”

“Think the movers are done?” Jane didn’t approve of hiring other people to life heavy things when lifting heavy things had once been one of Jane’s favorite pastimes, but Tavish convinced him that if he threw out his back again, it’d be a lot harder to get him to a doctor.

“Probably,” Tavish nodded. “Let’s go see.”

“Do you think they dropped my magazines?”

“I’m sure they’re fine, love.”

They made the long, much more slippery journey back to their new home. It overlooked Ullapool and the coast, but was nevertheless removed enough that Jane could revel in the privacy he had grown used to. Privacy was not on Tavish’s mind when they’d walked through town that first time, however, as he’d greeted nearly everyone who came their way. It had shocked Jane how many people knew him, or at least recognized the DeGroot name, and greeted Tavish as familiarly as they would have had he been gone for only a few weeks rather than years.

It was good, to see Tavish like this. Even now, as they climbed slowly back up the hill, Jane watched him out the corner of his eye, smiling at the look of serenity that hadn’t been on his husband’s face so naturally in years.

“Isn’t this cozy,” Tavish said lovingly as they crossed the threshold of their new home.

That it was. Jane had worried he had grown soft living in luxury, that his years of being rich and retied would make him forgot that he’d once loved his little apartment, had cherished the security its simplicity had given him. But now that he was back inside four walls, surrounded by the items that had come to mean things beyond their purpose, a swell of pleasant familiarity welled up in him. The curtains blocked out the last of the fading light through soft yellow. There was a fireplace (modern and gas powered) but one ready to fill the house with a warm glow.

Tavish made the motions to begin unpacking, but Jane’s pretense of rooting though the boxes had a different goal in mind. Preoccupied, Tavish didn’t turn around until Jane finally slipped the record into place.

Perking, Tavish looked over his shoulder to see Jane offering his hand as the music bubbled slowly to life. “Been a long time since we danced,” Jane said.

Tavish’s smile fit well in this homey, quiet room. He took Jane’s hand, and let Jane pull him up off his knees until they were chest to chest, resting his chin on Jane’s shoulder.

“Too long,” he agreed.

They began sway rhythmlessly to music in the middle of the tiny living room, caring little where they put their feet as long as it wasn’t one top of one another. Jane loved the record player, needed it more these days, as it was one of the only things that made the horrid, incessant ringing in his ears quiet for just a short while. Leaving the fan on at night might help him get to sleep, but the was no denying the scratching notes out of the player were a world more enjoyable.

It was piano piece, one he’d heard Tavish play now and again. There was no space for a grand piano here in this little cottage on the hill, but maybe they could get a smaller one, and Tavish could try teaching him again. Like he’d promised so long ago.

So many promises that’d slipped through the cracks, both to each other and themselves. Things they simply couldn’t do anymore. Ever since the scare with Jane’s lung cancer, they had tried to do better, had realized what they had built meant something and they couldn’t go piddling away with their complacent recklessness. Jane had quit smoking, Tavish had quit drinking as part of the deal.

But still, there were other things, other mistakes that had compounded over the years. Jane always kept thinking he should have been over it by now, that for how many gentle touches Tavish had placed against him, he should forget the violence those same hands had once brought him. The times they’d shoved a sword into Jane’s gut. The bombs from nowhere. The individual atrocities. It was duller now, the years had been good enough to do that, but if Tavish’s memories were anything like Jane’s, he understood why the ex-demoman sometimes woke screaming in the middle of the night, needing to be reminded—soothed, assured, sometimes begged—that the Jane beside him wasn’t the monster from his dreams.

That was the real tragedy of the War. Officially, all they had been paid to do was kill each other—the horrors they chose to inflict on one another had been their own doing, their own wills brought to fruition. RED had never asked Tavish to shove Jane’s shovel down its owner's throat, laughing vengefully all the while. Jane was sure he’d done equally as cruel things to Tavish during those hell times, but had trouble recalling exactly what. It’s much easier to remember the sins committed against you, than those you have unleashed yourself.

Those hands, those bloodstained, gentle, perfect hands, rubbed circles and Jane’s back, and he sighed. He’d listened to this record enough to know it was getting to the end of this side, but he found he didn’t want to move. He wanted to keep standing here, swaying with the man he loved in their home in the mountains, remembering that they had earned this.

“I cherish these moments we spend together,” he said resolutely into Tavish’s chest.

“Every one of them,” Tavish agreed.

Eventually they would lay down, rest their old bones in their new bed, but for now they held each other in the slowly encroaching night, the sound of rain playing its first patter on the roof.

[emerald-studies]

Diverse Perspectives | Discussion 3

I sent some questions to @jasperwhitcock​ for her perspective as a POC woman and daughter of an immigrant.

[ It is required to participate and watch/read these discussions, in order to follow me. Participate or get tf out. We aren’t performative in my lil’ area on Tumblr.

This discussion isn’t representative of an entire population or meant to be super professional. It’s to share different perspectives and also is an opportunity for me to practice what I preach: intersectionality. If you’d like to participate in this series please send me a pm or an ask and I’ll get back to you ASAP. We can do a written, audio, or video interview.]

As a mixed person, do you feel isolated from your community?

J: If you mean community as in the community I currently live in, I’m fortunate enough to live in a very diverse place. Surrounding the city of Houston, there’s a lot of prejudice integrated into a lot of the suburban neighborhoods, but in terms of the city itself, I think the POC communities really uplift and support each other. I’m a concert photographer when there’s not a pandemic, and I’ve always appreciated the way latinos and black artists are respected in the indie community. Houston’s a very rap/hip hop/R&B city, so black artists are especially celebrated. There’s also great latinx bands that I know, latinx venue owners/employees, and latinx brands connected to the indie community. We’re very well represented in this area.

If you mean community as in the latinx community, I wouldn’t say isolated, but depending on the day, I might say that I can feel distanced at times. This isn’t particularly due to the latinx community itself, so much as it may be a distance that I create in my head. As a mixed person, I think there are times where you can feel confused on where you belong. I’ve brought up the quote before from the Selena movie, where Selena’s father Abraham is speaking on the potential difficulty of Selena being accepted in Mexico because of the fact she is Mexican American: “We have to be more Mexican than the Mexicans and more American than the Americans, both at the same time! It's exhausting!” It can be difficult at times to navigate your sense of belonging when you are in between two cultures because you want to recognize that you may have privileges someone of full Mexican descent may not have, but at the same time, your life is still very much defined by being Mexican and having Mexican blood while living in America too. You’re definitely not absolved from having latin experiences. Latina stand up comedian Anjelah Johnson made a joke in her stand up about there being a Latinx hierarchy. She said that Spanish speaking latinos are better than the rest of us who are not fluent in Spanish (such as herself), and it was funny because sometimes you do feel that that can be true. My tías will always ask me why I’m not fluent in Spanish, and my mom will be like “yeah, why don’t you?” and I’m always like… because y’all didn’t teach me! My parents speak Spanish to each other at home. My father is not only fluent in Spanish, but his Spanish is oftentimes superior to a lot of Spanish speakers according to my mom and my tíos. He used to teach English in Mexico, so there is no reason that my sister and I shouldn’t have been perfectly bilingual. The reason they didn’t teach us as children is because they didn’t want us to be speaking Spanglish. (Spoiler: it happened anyways). Around white people, I definitely feel that I am not a white person. I feel very much latina in a group of white people. But then around latin people, I sometimes feel white enough to feel a sense of shyness. I definitely feel more at home with latinx people, but overall in both groups, I definitely feel that I am mixed.

It doesn’t happen often, because I think although the majority of latinx people have pride in their background, the hyperawareness of our identities right now is relatively new, but there have been instances of latinx gatekeeping the latin identity. Growing up, I didn’t think about what I was labelled as or think about how my family structure is different to other families. I didn’t consider how in some areas, it is an abnormality to have an immigrant parent or a parent with an accent. I definitely noticed that my family was different, but I didn’t understand why until much later. My mom, her sisters and brothers, and my primos… They don’t live their lives with the awareness of being defined as Mexican immigrants. Of course, they again have pride in where they came from. They live as Mexicans and engage in Mexican culture, but overall, the way the youth today has really grasped onto the labelling of our identity is kind of a new thing. There are some young latinx people who do try to quantify and measure whether or not your experience is valid. I know it comes from a place of protectiveness of their own experience, but it’s ridiculous to gate keep because something that really characterizes latin culture is our warmth, our sense of family, our willingness to embrace other people as part of that. If you’re of latin american descent, you have a place in the latinx community.

Since your parents don’t have college degrees, do you believe college is important and/or necessary?

J: I think it depends! I think a lot of immigrant parents really push for their children to get a college education because they see that as opportunity, particularly when they did not earn college degrees themselves. I think college can be important depending on what you want to accomplish, but I also think it’s not completely necessary. For my career path as a photographer/videographer, I chose not to do college. I do think I would have enjoyed college because I like learning, but because it was something unnecessary for my job, I couldn’t justify the time invested or putting my parents into a difficult financial situation. Especially because my college education would have overlapped with my sister, and I saw how difficult it was to juggle handling my sister’s student loans. For my sister’s career path (she is studying to be a nutritionist/therapist to help teenagers with eating disorders), college was necessary.

Your Mom has been stuck in the US, unable to return to Mexico for awhile, has your Mom’s experience with immigration changed your views in some way?

J: As context, my father lived in Mexico for a decade and married my mom in Mexicali. They hadn’t planned to move to the United States, but when they came to the US to marry here so that she could have citizenship and be able to visit his family, there were complications that made it to where she couldn’t leave the country. Luckily, the time she was unexpectedly stuck in the United States didn’t last super long! Long enough to become comfortable enough to decide to settle down in California, but we have been able to travel to Mexico often. I think it really highlights how unnecessarily complicated a lot of the processes regarding immigration are. The people in the country who are very malicious about undocumented immigrants love to jump to saying, “well, why can’t they just become an American citizen?” when the reality is that every process in place has a lot of complications. Not everyone has access to the resources to be able to make these transitions happen smoothly. Also, the time it takes to acquire your visa is not an overnight thing. People severely underestimate the difficulty involved.

What do you think about the “hard-working immigrant” stereotype?

J: I hate the idea that immigrants work hard because they’re low-skilled, but I do love that there is a lot of pride in how motivated immigrants are. It’s always been a ridiculous claim that immigrants are taking American jobs. Immigrants work the jobs that the majority of Americans have no interest in doing, especially the people that make this complaint. For a country that prides itself on working to make your dreams come true, Americans neglect to recognize that immigrants have a drive that most Americans don’t have.

Which parent do you feel more connected to? Your Mother who’s an immigrant or your Father who was born in America?

J: I really do feel that I am a coalescence of both my parents, so I think I feel equally connected to each of them. I feel a very strong emotional connection and concern for my dad because his mental health suffers a lot. His mother had bipolar depression at a time where mental health was even more stigmatized, and she endured a lot of ridiculous, merciless treatments that are no longer utilized today. When he was nine years old, his mom committed suicide, and this was an event that really defined his life forever. I think that kind of heaviness passes down through your family. When my dad is not doing well, I feel really imbalanced and emotionally impacted even if I’m not home to witness it. It’s kind of like that idea of an invisible string tethering you to someone, and it’s a weight that I carry always. However, overall, he’s a very positive person. When he is going through his kind of manic highs, he’s a lot more of what I recognize of who my dad is. He’s creative, a musician, and deeply caring for other people. His mother’s death has empowered him to really try to make a difference and “paint a picture of a better tomorrow.” I’m a lot like my dad in personality, but in disposition, I’m so much like my mom. She’s tough and outspoken at home, but in public, it takes awhile for her to open up. My mom’s very selfless, kind, and very much shy and quiet. She definitely exemplifies a lot of the sacrifice that you see many immigrants make. I do like both sides of my family, but I definitely feel more at home with the Mexican side. My dad’s side is loud, vivacious, and very much funny, but I feel extremely shy around them. My sister and I have always felt a tiny bit left out. I think they’d be hurt to know we feel this way, but I definitely don’t think they do anything to intentionally enforce this division. But I think it developed because there is a bit of a cultural disconnect between my aunts and my mom. It’s also very interesting to me that when they first met my mom, my mom didn’t speak any English. It’s fascinating to consider how it might change your perception of someone to go from not being able to communicate with them to watching them learn your language. My mom enjoys the time that we do spend with my dad’s family, but she’s kind of the odd one out in that her humor isn’t the same and her experiences are so different. I think that my dad’s sister and brother’s families were able to connect in a stronger way, so sometimes my mom, my sister, and I feel just a little isolated. In those moments, I feel the most aware of my Mexican background. With my mom’s side of the family, it’s a lot more comfortable. My dad’s able to develop his humor in a way that translates well into Spanish, so he fits in very easily.

You’ve lived in a “Blue/more liberal” state and a “Red/more conservative” state, which state has affected you more?

J: Definitely the red state. Seeing how intensely and ridiculously conservative some southern people are has really radicalized me in a way. I feel overwhelmingly liberal because there’s a defensiveness that develops when you’re in a space like this where you have this intense disbelief that people hold the ideas that they do. Especially because in Texas, black and latinx culture is a major contributor to southern culture. There’s a lot to be said about how black culture shapes the south, but because I’m latina, I’m focusing on latinx culture with this question. White conservatives want our food, they want our work, but they don’t want us. I don’t understand how anyone can be all #TacoTuesday one day, and then the next, be anti-immigrant. If you really want Mexicans out of your country, then maybe you should start living your life without any Mexican influence. Stop eating Mexican food. Clean your own pool and mow your own lawn. It’s ignorant to speak down on immigrants when their life would be so altered to be rid of immigrants. They rely on immigrants. Their lives are shaped by immigrants and built by immigrants.

(I had to chime in here: )

 Are you proud of your parents?

J: Absolutely. As a young teenager, I had a lot of problems with my parents. I think I still have issues I’m working through as a result, but now that I’m older, I really do feel a deep sense of admiration and respect for them. Growing up really makes you view your parents differently and understand them as people rather than just as parents. I held onto a lot of anger and resentment, but I’ve come to truly see how they really did do their best. They’ve worked very hard, and I think not having everything that kids around me did really helped me grow into a more grateful person.

Have you faced discrimination for your race?

J: Of course, but in all honesty, it really rolls off my back. I think hate that is personally directed at me doesn’t bother me, but the discrimination that does affect me is anything directed or related to my mom. I remember my parents had a customer who made a really ugly complaint to my father about my mom’s english. My mom essentially handles most of the written communication with their business, and she still speaks and types in broken english often. The majority of my parents’ clients are latinx, so it’s typically not an issue, but it’s unbelievably offensive and ridiculous the assumptions people will make about your intelligence based on your english. The customer had no idea that the woman she’d been communicating with was my father’s wife rather than just an employee. It’s really sad how someone can see someone as unworthy of respect until they’re tied to a white man, and then they’re suddenly apologetic. This is another extremely mild example, but I’ll get a few laughs when I mispronounce something or don’t know how to say certain words. People always find it funny as though it’s embarrassing –– and it definitely can be –– but people forget I learned english from a woman who speaks two languages.

As the child of an immigrant, how has the anti immigrant talking point affected your mental health?

J: I think the toll the anti-immigrant bias in the United States has on immigrant children is a relevant conversation to have, but I think I’m very lucky in that I feel very tough in the face of that ignorance (which is not to say anyone whose mental health suffers as a result is not tough!) If anything, I feel pity for the people who are so hateful that they see other human beings in such a derogatory and entitled way. Similar to what I said before, my outrage really comes from a place of defensiveness for others. The talking point doesn’t hurt me, but it hurts me that people can speak about my family and my community the way they do. It hurts me that there are other immigrant children who have to work as hard as their parents to make their sacrifices worth it, and people are so insensitive as to not respect that. I’m pretty strong, but it does break my heart when my people are disrespected. If someone were to say something to me, that’s fine, but if i saw someone mistreating a little mexican lady in the store… I may be 5’3 but that don’t mean I won’t come for your ass. Okay, in all honesty, I’m really not a violent person. I’m more of a rise above kind of person because the hate someone has in their heart is not worth our time, but some people do need a chancla thrown at them to learn some respect.

In your opinion, in what ways does the Latinx community need more support?

J: I think because the latinx community is so much so composed of hard workers, people really need to support latin businesses more. That’s a direct way to impact latin lives. There’s an abundance of latin small business owners in every category. So many white kids love going to Cozumel for Spring Break and love wearing sombreros on Cinco De Mayo, but then the rest of the year, they have no care or respect for the authentic culture. For every dollar a white man makes, hispanic women still make statistically less than white women, asian women, black women, and native women. We gotta back up these businesses. Choose local taco shops or restaurants over chains. Choose online shops and Mexican boutiques over fast fashion. And this applies to everybody. We can always support black business or asian businesses over large competitors. It really does make an impact. I also think a lot of latinx children need access to better mental health resources. I’m lucky in that because my father struggles with mental health issues, mental health in my family wasn’t exactly a taboo, but in a lot of latin families, mental health is something that is hard for older parents to validate. Latin children need those resources. A simple google search of “latin mental health resources,” bring up a bunch of organizations that you can support. I think every POC community needs to be boosted right now because although we’ve been under attack, conversations about minority communities are being had by white people right now. We have their attention, and we do need their support to enact change because they have the power as the oppressor. We need to be going to bat protecting black people right now because of the insane damage the community has been enduring at the hands of police, and we need to be protecting immigrant children from what’s happening to them at the border. I know the election is extremely controversial right now, but I would urge anyone who has the ability to vote to really consider the importance of doing so. People love to be cynical about how our votes don’t matter, and I understand that cynicism, but a lot of immigrants don’t have the luxury of voting when the results of the election will directly impact their lives. I hate that there is no option of a president that will perfectly support POC communities, but there are options whose party is far more aligned with supporting and protecting POC communities than Trump is. Trump spews hate and fuels racism and prejudice. He calls Mexicans rapists and black protestors thugs. He encourages the blaming of the coronavirus on the asians in our country. He does not need any help winning the election. We need to get this hateful man out, and I strongly encourage anyone who can vote to do so.

--

Let’s have a discussion! Did you learn anything new from this conversation?

Let me know here.

-

To close out each post, I’d like to write a lil’ paragraph about the person I talk with:

I’m so lucky to have you as a friend darling. You always bring a smile to my face when we chat. You’re funny and so smart. I admire you deeply for being able to share your perspective in a clear way. Thank you for putting up with my 2 am messages lol 🖤🖤🖤🖤Your continued support makes me feel safe and very, very, loved. I hope I encourage the same feeling with you. 

You’re the best babe,

-Faithxx

[chayacat]

Devil’s Sweet Star (9)

Fandom: Dead by Daylight

Ghostface x Female Reader  

Rated M for Violence, Language and Smut  

***

The rain... both beautiful and sad to look at. A real inspiration for some, a moment of relaxation for others. But for you it's mostly the day when people will flock to your café to protect themselves, sipping a good hot chocolate, tea or a good coffee.  

Today you only open in the morning, the weekend is approaching and you want to take a little more time for yourself. There were not many people at the moment, Melina, Jed's colleague and friend, was among the first clients. Decidedly you will attract all the Roseville gazette to your café... You were sitting with her at the table right next to the counter, both with a coffee in her hand, Melina having taken a share of Neptune's cake with her coffee.

Melina Catalina Da silva was born in Las cruces, New Mexico, to a Spanish father and a Mexican mother. They moved to Missouri when she was 4 years old, to live the "American Dream" and, although the early days were difficult, her parents gave her access to education. If her physique and her voice opened the doors of cinema and music, it was to journalism that Melina turned. However, do not rely on appearances, she knows very well to fight and some ended up in the hospital.

“I can't believe, he really told you that?” you said laughing.

“Hell yeah! He thought I was going to shut up after that, instead I blew him a few teeth! You had to see his head with less teeth. Frankly leave me like that... for a bimbo with three tons of paint as make-up, because I was not the easy girl he wanted.” Melina responds proudly.

“Ah Boys... They always want sexy girlfriends who have three neurons. And then we are surprised that some complexes on their bodies. When you love, the body doesn't matter. Only inner beauty matters.”

“Few boys have the same thought. The only ones I've met are Mattew... And Jed.”

“Tell me, you and Jed... Are you already...?”

“Me and Jed?” Starts Melina before laughing. “Hahahaha! You’re so cute! No, we never dated, I consider him as the little brother I never had. That's why I call him Jeddy. And sometimes I'll kick his ass, so he can focus more on his personal life than his professional life.”  

“Oh... Could you tell me more about him? I admit I don't know him as well as you do.” you ask shyly.  

“Well, Jed is... He's a real nerd. He thinks about work all the time and even on days off, he works at home. But... He's a lovely boy when you know him. And when you know what he went through with his parents... sometimes I think that, if I had been in his shoes, I would have killed myself. But he... He got up and fought. He has learned to fend for himself, and he has an almost frightening patience.” Said Melina.

“That's what he told me. And I think I would have ended my life too.” you said looking down to your coffee.

“And yet he didn't tell you everything about his childhood. His parents beat him and treated him like a dog, often leading him to the hospital. And of course, they said it was accidents, like falling off stairs and everything that goes with it. As he must have told you, he was an unwanted kid. But the worst part is that the whole family knew, and no one, absolutely no one helped him. So, he cut ties with his family, all he keeps from them is his last name. He deserved better than that. And when I see what he is today... if I didn't know all this, I'd say he's a lovely boy who was raised like any boys should be. Kind and respectful, but not to be annoyed.” Replied Melina before looking at you, a big smile on her face. “Why do you want to know all this? Do you love him?”

“W-What??? N-no! It's only... curiosity. Just curiosity...” you respond blushing like a tomato.

“Hey. There is no marked "dumb" on my forehead. I saw the little looks you were giving him. And then your face when he gave you his number, I saw it too.”  replied Melina with a smirk.  

“It's embarrassing.” you answer by looking elsewhere.

“Why??? I think it's so cute coming from you! In addition to what you told me about you, I don't understand why no one wanted to go out with a face as adorable as yours! You know, my grandmother used to tell me that sooner or later we'd find her soul mate. That when we born, the bonds were already woven to guide us to him or her. And nothing could stop it. Maybe you and Jed have that bond that brought you together. Now it's up to you to see what you're going to do.” Said Melina before eating her slice of Neptune’s pie.  

“If you say so...”

“My grandma never gets it wrong about this kind of thing. She has... a gift for this mystical stuff. She knew from an early age that she would meet my grandpa. And she knows that my mother will be my father's first and only wife. She even knew that Mattew would go out with Chris.��

“She’s really amazing. But I don't want to force things. I will let things come on their own and I will act on them. I’ll see what happens.”

Melina nod, then you go back to the counter to take care of the customers for the rest of the morning. For once, Jed didn't come and you're a little worried about that. Considering what happened to him yesterday, you can imagine the worst. What if Mike had gone after him again?

You and Melina were the last to leave the café at closing, and even though she assured you that Mike didn't know his address, your concern for Jed didn't go away. You go home with some unsold cakes, give some to Mrs. Lawson before heading to your apartment.  

Your gaze rested for a few seconds on Jed's door and, biting your lips, you decide to check by yourself if everything was okay. You knock on his door. No noise. There's no answer. This is not a good sign. You knock a second time, praying that he's answering.

“One minute, I'm on my way!” he said from the other side of the door, which made you sigh with relief. Thank god he’s alive... “Yes? Oh! It's you.” he said with his angelic smile.

“Hi. I... I was just here to hear from you. With what happened... I confess that I imagined the worst.” you said shyly.  

“Oh... That's very kind of you, thank you. Don't worry Mike doesn't know where I live. It does not risk ... to come and finish the job. I was focused for tomorrow night. We have a scandal to uncover. And a few more researches don't hurt.”

“You're reassuring me. I mean half, I hope you didn't sleepless for this research! I brought you some cakes, at least what Mrs. Lawson left. I thought it would do you good.”

“All the cakes you give me will always be a real sweet moment for me. Do you want to come in? I'm offering coffee for once.” He replied with a wink.  

You nod and he let you in. His apartment was neat and had all the comfort Jed needed. Despite the coat rack at the entrance, Jed had the tendency to put his jackets and coats on chairs or sofa. The kitchen was tidy and clean, some small green plants hanging around the corners.

A few films were on the tv cabinet, a reminder of the days when streaming didn't yet exist, as well as some CDs. Paintings decorated the walls of the living room and hallway, and a library full of books, next to the window. A real journalist's apartment, in short.

“Surprisingly, I expected to see this style of decoration. Simple but comfortable. And... Do you work in your living room?” you ask with a smile.

“Ha ha no, I have an office right next to my bedroom. Locked, in order to keep my job... Safe. I hope... You understand that.”

“Of course. So... Ready for tomorrow night? I must admit that this is the first time I go to this kind of event, and especially to play spies. I feel a little uncomfortable.”  

“As long as you stay with me, you'll be peaceful. But once we have what we are looking for, we will have to leave the place without raising suspicions. And I think I have an idea of what to look for.” He said before getting up and fetching something from his office, locking the door. “I think that... Hoggins will try to double his profits by sinking the last trade he just signed. I made some research about him and discovered that he had signed 4 more partnerships with former competitors, and that these 4 partnerships all flowed because of Mckellan.”

“You think, Hoggins is planning all this with McKellan, with the goal of eliminating his competitors all over the country, and thus being the only one on the market?” you ask looking at the papers.

“I'm sure. By removing his competitors, he recovers the shares that are due to him, if it’s not the whole. And so, he becomes more influential. The goal is to be, with McKellan, the only big fortunes, in the American market. We need to find proof of all this. An e-mail, a written record, between Hoggins and McKellan. And the only place you can find all of this is in his office. And if we succeed, one of the biggest scandals of this decade will come to light.”

“It looks risky. But I'm up for it! if we can put that bastard in jail, I'm ready for anything!” you said determined which made Jed smiles and Danny smiles bigger.  

You chat with him for a long time, laughing heartily and, in the early evening, you leave his apartment with a big smile on your face. It's really nice to talk to a boy as nice as him. Maybe Melina was right, maybe you and Jed were destined to meet? It is said that things never happen through chance, but there is no question of forcing fate either. If something has to happen between you, it will come naturally.

You open the door to your fridge to see what you're going to devour tonight. Homemade nems will be perfect! plus you have everything you need so no need to go out. You want to prepare everything while singing, you love to sing whether in the kitchen or in the shower, washing dishes or cleaning. You have a voice worthy of a bird song. You could have been a singer! But if it was to end up alcolic or drugged ... it wasn't worth it.

Tonight, a horror movie goes on TV, it will change you from those rotten action movies you've seen recently, with a budget as big as the best movies made so far. All with a homemade peach iced tea. Even the drinks, you make them yourself. You don't like industrial products too much, too much fat, too many conservators, too many sugars. Just horrible.  

Once your nems are ready, you prepare your meal tray, and you'll land in front of your TV, right in time for the start of the movie. it was a classic slasher, but it was always having its effect ... especially with a chainsaw. In the middle of the film, you get up to clean your plate and glass before wiping and storing them.  You start yawning while stretching, but you don't want to sleep. You turn off the living room lights and sit back on your couch to see the rest of the movie.

As sleep made you feel carried away, a noise startled you. You get up, slightly trembling and start heading towards the source of the noise. Steps were heard and you rushed to the kitchen to take something to defend yourself.

“I don't recommend it; you could hurt yourself with that little knife.” said a man voice who caught your arm and turned you in front of him, blocking your arms. And the only thing visible in the dark was this mask... “Glad to see you again...My sweet little star.” He said with a soft voice.

“It's not reciprocal.” you respond coldly.

“Ouch, you hurt me so hard. You should be kinder to me. After all, I let you live because my curiosity, about you, took over my desire to bleed that pretty neck.” He replied caressing your neck with his fingertips.

“How did you get in? And if you're not here to kill me, what do you want?”

“It’s a secret. I wanted to see you... face to face. And also, to speak like good friends. You seem to get along well with the little nerd... to play little spies. All this to bring down men I could kill... If you ask me.” he said, chuckling a little.

“Certainly not! I will never kill anyone with my own hands, Even less ask someone to do it!” you respond trying to get you out a little bit, in vain.

“Oh come on. Don't tell me you're a little naive girl who thinks solve all her problems legally. Sometimes you have to use radical means to overcome certain problems... Thorny. Deep down, you want to. You'd like me to shove that knife deep down his throat, to mutilate him for threatening you like this. I know everything he's trying to do to you... absolutely everything.” he replied, gently passing his knife along your face, without hurting you.

“Stop it! Let me go!” you said wiggling before he takes off his hands laughing and backing up. “You’re just a f***ing psycho!”  

“ouch you hurt me again. But I get used to it. Anyway... This guy will die sooner or later by my hands. We can talk about what you owe me at that point. But until we meet again... Pay attention to yourself and your sweet angel face, my sweet little star. You sing divinely well by the way.”  

He stroked your cheek before leaving through the window. You catch your breath, trying to relax your muscles. You close all the shutters and windows of your apartment before turning off the TV and going to bed.  

You look at the roof, thinking back to his words. Deep down, he was right. Solving all problems peacefully is not always the solution, but killing someone is worse. You have always been raised so as to use diplomacy more often than force. And that's not going to change. Even if McKellan deserves to be slaughtered for everything he's done? You sigh and turn off the lamp before covering up.

Tomorrow night will be the big night. And you won't have the right to make mistakes.

***

(Done! It was hard but I've made it! in fact I'm so excited to start the next chapter because I’ve got a lot of ideas in my mind! I'll hope you'll enjoyed it like the others! and don't forget if you have questions or you want to talk or if you have pages to recommend me just do!  See ya!)  

[tabloidtoc]

Us, January 11

You can buy a copy of this issue for your very own at my eBay store: https://www.ebay.com/str/bradentonbooks

Cover: Diets That Work -- Julianne Hough

Page 2: Red Carpet -- Stars flex their right to bare leg in high-slit dresses -- Dua Lipa, Cynthia Erivo, Kristin Cavallari, Bebe Rexha, Sydney Sweeney 

Page 3: Nicole Kidman, Jennifer Lopez, Ariel Winter, Hailey Bieber, Shay Mitchell 

Page 4: Who Wore It Best? Olivia Wilde vs. Natalie Portman, Ashley Greene vs. Rachel Zoe 

Page 6: Loose Talk -- Barack Obama joking about quarantining with his daughter Malia’s boyfriend, Pink revealing she broke her ankle and had a staph infection in addition to testing positive for coronavirus, Amal Clooney joking to husband George Clooney about the time and effort she put into her new 1000-page legal book, Miley Cyrus on feeling like she really made it after Cher slammed her 2013 VMAs performance, Anderson Cooper on being a dad to 8-month-old Wyatt 

Page 8: Contents 

Page 10: Hot Pics -- Blake Shelton and Gwen Stefani stopped at the music studio together in Pasadena 

Page 11: Tiger Woods and son Charlie teamed up for the PNC Championship in Orlando, Vivica A. Fox during a tropical getaway in Tulum in Mexico, Joe Jonas and Sophie Turner took a stroll around the village and did some shopping in Mammoth Lakes, California 

Page 12: Paris Hilton and Carter Reum in Sherman Oaks, Niecy Nash showed support for Regina King at a drive-in event for her film One Night in Miami in Malibu, Candice Swanepoel in a white bathing suit in Miami 

Page 13: Duchess Camilla held a virtual royal engagement in London, Dancing With the Stars couple Sasha Farber and Emma Slater were in a great mood while out and about just days after becoming American citizens in L.A. 

Page 14: Stars They’re Just Like Us -- Matt James hit the golf course in Jupiter in Florida, Renee Zellweger with an armload of packages in L.A., pregnant Emily Ratajkowski sipped on a beverage during a beach day in L.A. 

Page 15: Molly Shannon hopped on her bike after withdrawing cash from the ATM in L.A., Sandra Lee taking out the trash at her new place just days after moving out of the N.Y. home she shared with her ex Gov. Andrew Cuomo in Malibu

Page 16: Seeing Double -- mom match with their mini-me’s -- Serena Williams and daughter Alexis Olympia Jr., Sutton Foster and daughter Emily, Gabrielle Union and daughter Kaavia, Kylie Jenner and daughter Stormi, Cardi B and daughter Kulture 

Page 17: Kourtney Kardashian and daughter Penelope, Tamera Mowry-Housley and daughter Ariah, Eva Longoria and son Santiago, pregnant Kelly Rowland and son Titan 

Page 18: Lady Gaga’s hair looks great in all hues 

Page 20: Love Lives -- Lauren Burnham and Arie Luyendyk Jr. welcoming twins 

Page 21: Kevin Jonas commemorated his 11th wedding anniversary with wife Danielle by sharing a photo of the two posing at the very spot they met, Chrishell Stause is defending her new romance with Keo Motsepe against all of the conspiracy theories, Jamie Lee Curtis and Christopher Guest’s love was built to last 

Page 22: Just days after Shia LaBeouf was sued by his ex FKA Twigs for sexual battery and assault and emotional distress Shia was spotted making out with Margaret Qualley at LAX airport -- they’re very much in the honeymoon phase and Margaret’s totally smitten and she trusts he’s not the bad guy people say he is but Margaret’s loved ones are concerned about her new beau especially her mother Andie MacDowell who’s keeping an extremely close watch on the situation and if Shia so much puts a foot out of line she’ll come down on him like a ton of bricks -- Shia insists he’s a changed man and that he’ll never go back to those dark days ever again 

Page 23: Life behind bars hasn’t been easy for Mossimo Giannulli and he’s having a rough time -- he’s in Covid-19-related protective custody and spending almost all of his time in his cell has been very mentally taxing but he’s doing his best to stay positive by reading, writing letters to his family and planning future business ventures and turning to prayer when he feels weak 

* After relapsing in December John Mulaney is hoping to make 2021 a better year and he’s committed to a total change of lifestyle -- John who has been vocal about his decades-long substance abuse struggles and he had been on a really long run of bad habits that had turned his life upside down but his family and friends are standing by his side and they’re proud that he’s finally getting the help he so desperately needed for quite some time 

* Keeping Up With Us -- Maren Morris has officially cancelled her upcoming tour due to the ongoing coronavirus pandemic and is in the midst of working on her third album, Rachel Zoe was scarred for life after her 9-year-old son Skyler fell 40 feet from a ski lift, TikTok star Charli D’Amerlio and her family are getting their own reality series, Wilmer Valderrama and his fiancee Amanda Pacheco are expecting their first child, six months after The Weeknd put his Hidden Hills mansion on the market for $25 million his asking price has been slashed to just under under $22 million 

Page 24: A Day in Our Life -- Sistine and Sophia Stallone 

Page 25: Ariana Grande and Dalton Gomez are engaged -- she’s beyond excited and they are so in love and committed to spend the rest of their lives together and her loved ones approve of the real estate agent

Page 26: What Leah Remini Knows -- actress and Scientology critic Leah is calling out Tom Cruise for his on-set freak-out 

Page 28: Reality Bites -- these stars got their first moments in the spotlight appearing on unscripted TV shows -- Lady Gaga, Cardi B, Laverne Cox, Kesha 

Page 29: Aaron Paul, Josh Henderson, Emma Stone, Jamie Chung 

Page 31: Cover Story -- Survival of the Fittest -- how the hottest stars get and stay in shape -- Halle Berry 

Page 32: Julianne Hough, Jessica Simpson, Carrie Underwood 

Page 33: Weight Loss Winners -- Rebel Wilson, Tiffany Haddish, Adele 

Page 34: Jennifer Aniston, Gal Gadot 

Page 36: Kaley Cuoco, Jennifer Lopez 

Page 37: Power Couples -- Thom Evans and Nicole Scherzinger, Gabrielle Union and Dwyane Wade, Mark Consuelos and Kelly Ripa, Camila Cabello and Shawn Mendes 

Page 38: My Healthy Routine -- Kristin Cavallari, Miranda Kerr 

Page 39: Reese Witherspoon, Vanessa Hudgens 

Page 40: Style -- shades of glory -- Pantone’s Color of the Year for 2021 is actually two defining hues -- wear Illuminating Yellow and Ultimate Gray in myriad ways 

Page 42: Entertainment -- Gina Torres on her role on 9-1-1: Lone Star 

Page 43: 2021 movie preview 

Page 46: Fashion Police -- Gwen Stefani, Ashley Roberts, Lily Collins 

Page 47: Saweetie, Gavin Rossdale, Bella Thorne 

Page 48: 25 Things You Don’t Know About Me -- Brian Austin Green 

[x--daughters-of-darkness--x]

Jinjer overcome a decade of war, trauma and uncertainty with Wallflowers

Jinjer were forced from their home in the Russo-Ukraine war, but new album Wallflowers sees them forging a bright future as metal's hottest up-and-coming stars

At least once a day, when I’m home in my apartment, I catch myself thinking, ‘I wish I could go home.’ But I have no idea what that actually means.”

For Jinjer frontwoman Tatiana Shmayluk, home is a nebulous concept. Having spent the better part of a decade on the road, her Kiev apartment – the setting for today’s Zoom chat – has been little more than a glorified storage space. Case in point: when COVID hit, rather than rushing back, she decided to stay in the US, waiting with terminal optimism for everything to blow over so they could continue their tour of the Americas.

But then, neither Tatiana nor her bandmates are actually from Kiev. Growing up, ‘home’ was Gorlovka, a small city in Ukraine’s Donetsk Oblast region. But in 2014 they were forced to leave their childhood homes and families behind, when war broke out between Ukrainian armed forces and Russian-backed separatists. For the next 18 months, home was a run-down apartment near the Polish border, often living without basic amenities such as heating, electricity or water, and facing discrimination from locals due to their origins in the Eastern part of Ukraine.

Little wonder, then, that this was when the band began to play shows internationally, opting to fill their calendars rather than bemoan their lot. It paid off – when Hammer last met with Jinjer, in Germany in October 2019, they were riding high on a summer of sold-out shows and packed festival performances, the enormous crowds at Wacken and Download testament to the band’s breakout appeal. Poised to release their third record, Macro, Jinjer envisioned a chance to replicate their European success on an intercontinental scale, and booked headline dates in the US, Australia and South America.

In a case of pathetic fallacy, the weather was uncharacteristically gloomy as Jinjer prepared to take the stage at Mexico’s Hell & Heaven Metal Fest on March 15, 2020. The band already knew it would be their last show of the tour – all other immediate dates were pulled as COVID-19 began ravaging the planet. “We had hopes that it would all blow over in a few months or so, but soon all hope was gone,” admits bassist Eugene Abdukhanov.

“It felt like a lot of people were just in shock, like they knew nothing would happen for a while,” Tatiana adds. “It was a really depressing way to end the tour, but the show itself was great.”

While Tatiana waited things out in California, Eugene and the rest of the band headed home to their families in Ukraine. “At that point, I was almost happy to stop and be in the same place for longer than a couple of days!” he admits. “But after three or four months I was getting tour-sick – I craved that feeling of playing live onstage, of seeing my bandmates every day.”

Having spent years cooped up together in buses, studios and backstage areas, it’s unsurprising that separation anxiety set in. But it also gave Jinjer a chance to regroup and reflect, recognising that across three records and innumerable shows they had developed into a genuine metal sensation, capable of selling out venues internationally and pulling enormous numbers on streaming platforms. A big part of that success is due to the charismatic Tatiana, her voice ranging from soaring 90s alt-metal cleans to death metal growls and snarls. It’s exactly the kind of thing Youtube reaction videos are made for, Tatiana inspiring a host of wide-eyed ‘Wait, WHAT?’ moments.

“[Before lockdown], we couldn’t really see what we had achieved, because we were always running from one place to another,” Eugene says. “After we stopped we could look back and see all this road we’d covered.”

“It’s crazy how much we needed that,” agrees Tatiana. “It gave us a kind of time and perspective that no money could buy.”

Unfortunately, this personal development came at the cost of their ambitions for Macro. A steady stream of music videos and a live DVD release (last November’s Alive In Melbourne) kept the band’s profile up while touring was on pause, and they even managed to undertake a short international tour in September 2020, playing shows in Germany and Switzerland (“It felt really weird – almost like we were playing a food festival or something,” Tatiana says). But they knew they couldn’t wait in a state of arrested development forever.

Reconvening in the studio in early 2021, Jinjer found that the music flowed immediately. For Tatiana, however, the process wasn’t quite so simple. “We were already well into recording the album and I hadn’t written a word!” she admits. “I pulled Eugene aside and said, ‘I don’t have any idea of what to write about! I only have the darkest and saddest feelings in my mind and I don’t feel free to express them, because if I do the whole album is going to just be, ‘Wahhhh, I’m so depressed.’”

“I think you were afraid,” Eugene points out.

“I was afraid!” Tatiana agrees. “How long would people tolerate me whining? But he just said, ‘Fuck it! Write what’s on your mind!’”

“I told her to be herself,” Eugene says. “From there, the ideas burst forth. It’s like she was bottling it all up, but once some of it escaped it just kept coming and coming. I saw the lyrics to one song and almost started crying because they were so powerful.”

If Macro was Jinjer holding a spotlight up to the ugliest parts of the world – covering everything from abuse of power and mental fragility, to direct references to the war and their displacement – Wallflowers largely turns that spotlight inwards, allowing Tatiana to vocalise feelings of isolation, depression and dissociation that have long plagued her. In the title track, she sings the lines:

‘Your castle is your fortress where you can lick your wounds’, ‘Avoiding people/Fall in love with solitude’ and ‘I’m a guest in my own skin.’

“I decided to dedicate this record to my personal, psychological state,” Tatiana explains. “Even if people have related to broader issues I’ve sung about in the past, you don’t always need to hear that motivational ‘be strong’ stuff; sometimes it helps to just have someone say, ‘Hey dude, I feel the same way.’ I do care about what is happening in the world, but I needed to put my thoughts in order.”

“Did you manage?” Eugene asks.

“Nope, I’m still totally [makes cuckoo noise],” Tatiana laughs.

Sitting beside Eugene in an apartment she would usually barely spend time in, in a city she can’t truly call home, it’s understandable that Tatiana might retain some sense of disassociation.

“I had a nightmare recently, that I’d been excluded from Jinjer and nobody would tell me why,” Tatiana recalls. “It was like, ‘You don’t fit anymore.’ And I cried, grabbing people by the scruff of their neck and bashing them against the walls, screaming, ‘How could you?!’ Then I woke up so relieved it was a nightmare! I often say, ‘I’m going to quit this band, I can’t do this anymore!’ but that dream made me realise that I couldn’t imagine my life without Jinjer.”

If Macro was Jinjer’s breakthrough as international artists, Wallflowers is the creative breakthrough that puts them in the upper echelons of progressive heavy music. The sheer blistering extremity on display in tracks such as Call Me A Symbol and Copycat still sits perfectly alongside the mesmeric prog metal of Colossus or the album’s lead single, Vortex. Chuck in decidedly anthemic vocal melodies on the likes of Wallflower or Disclosure! – a song that positively oozes Alice in Chains worship – and the elements are there for Jinjer’s most ambitious and emotionally moving record to date.

“We could have sat and cried about not getting to properly tour Macro, but that wouldn’t be us,” Eugene explains. “It was a bitter pill, but we swallowed it! We’re not the people that made Macro anymore – we’ve grown up a lot and gained more confidence. Now we’re ready to take risks and break boundaries.”

In 2019, Jinjer were a band thrust into the spotlight, still coming to terms with extraordinary events in their recent past. Time may not have healed all their wounds, but it has certainly given them enough space to reflect and regroup. And now, in 2021, they are tighter and more determined than ever.

“Over these years we really became a family – we love each other no matter what,” Eugene tells us. “We can be horrible to each other, even violent, but we’ve learned to move past all of that. I’m lucky to have three homes – where my parents live, where my kids are and wherever my band goes.”

Tatiana is slightly more hesitant. “I think my home is… first, maybe where my childhood was spent,” she admits. “I want to see my parents; I haven’t seen them for two years and I really miss them. I dream about the scenery and scenarios from my childhood every night. But then you realise that you bring home to every place you go; home is a feeling of inner peace.”

Taken from Metal Hammer issue 353. Wallflowers is out now via Napalm Records

[newstfionline]

Saturday, August 21, 2021

Landlords look for an exit amid federal eviction moratorium (AP) When Ryan David bought three rental properties back in 2017, he expected the $1,000-a-month he was pocketing after expenses would be regular sources of income well into his retirement years. But then the pandemic hit and federal and state authorities imposed moratoriums on evictions. The unpaid rent began to mount. Then, just when he thought the worst was over, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention announced a new moratorium, lasting until Oct. 3. David, the father of a 2 1/2-year-old who is expecting another child, fears the $2,000 he’s owed in back rent will quickly climb to thousands more. The latest moratorium “was the final gut punch,” said the 39-year-old, adding that he now plans to sell the apartments. Most evictions for unpaid rent have been halted since the early days of the pandemic and there are now more than 15 million people living in households that owe as much as $20 billion in back rent, according to the Aspen Institute. A majority of single-family rental home owners have been impacted, according to a survey from the National Rental Home Council, and 50% say they have tenants who have missed rent during the pandemic. Landlords, big and small, are most angry about the moratoriums, which they consider illegal. Many believe some tenants could have paid rent, if not for the moratorium. And the $47 billion in federal rental assistance that was supposed to make landlords whole has been slow to materialize. By July, only $3 billion of the first tranche of $25 billion had been distributed.

Student loans (WSJ) The Biden administration announced it will wipe out $5.8 billion in student loans held by 323,000 people who are permanently disabled. This means the Education Department will discharge loans for borrowers with total and permanent disabilities per Social Security Administration records. Currently there is $1.6 trillion held in student loan debt, much of which could be eliminated through executive action.

New England preps for 1st hurricane in 30 years with Henri (AP) New Englanders bracing for their first direct hit by a hurricane in 30 years began hauling boats out of the water and taking other precautions Friday as Tropical Storm Henri barreled toward the Northeast coast. Henri was expected to intensify into a hurricane by Saturday, the U.S. National Hurricane Center said. Impacts could be felt in New England states by Sunday, including on Cape Cod, which is teeming with tens of thousands of summer tourists. “This storm is extremely worrisome,” said Michael Finkelstein, police chief and emergency management director in East Lyme, Connecticut. “We haven’t been down this road in quite a while and there’s no doubt that we and the rest of New England would have some real difficulties with a direct hit from a hurricane.”

Booming Colo. town asks, ‘Where will water come from?’ (AP) “Go West, young man,″ Horace Greeley famously urged. The problem for the northern Colorado town that bears the 19th-century newspaper editor’s name: Too many people have heeded his advice. By the tens of thousands newcomers have been streaming into Greeley—so much so that the city and surrounding Weld County grew by more than 30% from 2010 to 2020, according to the U.S. Census Bureau, making it one of the fastest-growing regions in the country. And it’s not just Greeley. Figures released this month show that population growth continues unabated in the South and West, even as temperatures rise and droughts become more common. That in turn has set off a scramble of growing intensity in places like Greeley to find water for the current population, let alone those expected to arrive in coming years. “Everybody looks at the population growth and says, ‘Where is the water going to come from?’” [one local professor] said.

Everything’s Getting Bigger In Texas (AP, CNBC, Forbes) Texas has long been a popular destination for newcomers, thanks to cheaper land and housing, more job opportunities, lower taxes, and fewer regulations. There’s also the great weather, food, schools, and medical facilities, the abundant resources and year-round recreation and outdoor activities, artistic and cultural events, fairs, festivals, music venues, and the diverse and friendly people—you know, just to name a few. Texas has always been a business-friendly environment, which has certainly not been lost on tech and financial companies headquartered in strictly-regulated and high-priced states like California and New York. There are 237 corporate relocation and expansion projects in the works in Texas just since the pandemic hit. Tech giant Oracle moved its headquarters to Austin in late 2020; Tesla is building its new Gigafactory there, and Apple will have its second-largest campus there as well. Both Google and Facebook have satellite offices in Austin, and the file hosting services company Dropbox will be leaving San Francisco for Austin. Recently, the global real estate services firm CBRE and multinational financial services behemoth Charles Schwab moved their headquarters from California to the Dallas area. Hewlett Packard’s cofounders were two of the original grandfathers of Silicon Valley, who started their company in a Palo Alto garage in 1939. Now, the corporation is moving its headquarters from San Jose to Houston. And the number of mega-wealthy individuals who’ve moved to Texas are too numerous to mention. It’s not just big cities like Dallas, Houston, Austin, and San Antonio that are seeing an influx of people—bedroom communities are growing by leaps and bounds as well—places like New Braunfels, located in the Texas Hill Country, Conroe, 40 miles north of Houston, and McKinney, just 30 minutes up U.S. 75 from Dallas.

‘Bracing for the worst’ in Florida’s COVID-19 hot zone (AP) As quickly as one COVID patient is discharged, another waits for a bed in northeast Florida, the hot zone of the state’s latest surge. But the patients at Baptist Health’s five hospitals across Jacksonville are younger and getting sick from the virus faster than people did last summer. Baptist has over 500 COVID patients, more than twice the number they had at the peak of Florida’s July 2020 surge, and the onslaught isn’t letting up. Hospital officials are anxiously monitoring 10 forecast models, converting empty spaces, adding over 100 beds and “bracing for the worst,” said Dr. Timothy Groover, the hospitals’ interim chief medical officer.

Grace heads for a second hurricane hit on Mexican coast (AP) Hurricane Grace—temporarily knocked back to tropical storm force—headed Friday for a second landfall in Mexico, this time taking aim at the mainland’s Gulf coast after crashing through the country’s main tourist strip. The storm lost punch as it zipped across the Yucatan Peninsula, but it emerged late Thursday over the relatively warm Gulf of Mexico and was gaining energy. The U.S. National Hurricane Center said Grace’s winds were back up to 70 mph (110 kph) early Friday and were expected to soon regain hurricane force. It was centered about 265 miles (425 kilometers) east of Tuxpan and was heading west at 16 mph (26 kph). The forecast track would take it toward a coastal region of small fishing towns and beach resorts between Tuxpan and Veracruz, likely Friday night or early Saturday, then over a mountain range toward the heart of the country and the greater Mexico City region. Forecasters said it could drop 6 to 12 inches (15 to 30 centimeters) of rain, with more in a few isolated areas—bringing the threat of flash floods, mudslide and urban flooding.

“Self-determination 1, Human Rights 0” (Foreign Policy) Most Latin American governments offered little official support to the U.S. War in Afghanistan when it began in 2001. At the time, Venezuela put forward a blistering critique of meeting “terror with more terror,” and then-Cuban leader Fidel Castro said U.S. opponents’ irregular warfare abilities could draw out the conflict for 20 years. Over the weekend, as the Afghan government collapsed and chaos engulfed Kabul’s airport, today’s leaders of Cuba and Venezuela echoed their critiques while foreign ministers of other Latin American countries diplomatically issued statements of concern about Afghanistan’s humanitarian needs. Chile and Mexico made plans to accept Afghan refugees, and several countries signed on to a joint international statement protecting Afghan women’s rights. To many in Latin America’s diplomatic and foreign-policy communities, the dark events in Afghanistan confirmed the importance of the principle of non-interference in other countries’ internal affairs. The extended U.S. presence in Afghanistan was “the same mistake as always: trying to build democratic states through the use of force,” Colombian political scientist Sandra Guzmán wrote in El Tiempo. Many Latin Americans stressed that methods other than military interventions should be used to work toward human rights, even as they acknowledged how challenging it can be to make progress. “Self-determination 1, human rights 0 #Afghanistan,” tweeted Uruguayan political scientist Andrés Malamud after Kabul fell.

Afghanistan war unpopular amid chaotic pullout (AP) A significant majority of Americans doubt that the war in Afghanistan was worthwhile, even as the United States is more divided over President Joe Biden’s handling of foreign policy and national security, according to a poll from The Associated Press-NORC Center for Public Affairs Research. Roughly two-thirds said they did not think America’s longest war was worth fighting, the poll shows. Meanwhile, 47% approve of Biden’s management of international affairs, while 52% approve of Biden on national security. The poll was conducted Aug. 12-16 as the two-decade war in Afghanistan ended with the Taliban returning to power and capturing the capital of Kabul. Biden has faced bipartisan condemnation in Washington for sparking a humanitarian crisis by being ill-prepared for the speed of the Taliban’s advance.

The U.S. Blew Billions in Afghanistan (Bloomberg) The rapid collapse of Afghanistan’s government to the Taliban fueled fears of a humanitarian disaster, sparked a political crisis for President Joe Biden and caused scenes of desperation at Kabul’s airport. It’s also raised questions about what happened to more than $1 trillion the U.S. spent trying to bring peace and stability to a country wracked by decades of war. While most of that money went to the U.S. military, billions of dollars got wasted along the way, in some cases aggravating efforts to build ties with the Afghan people Americans meant to be helping. A special watchdog set up by Congress spent the past 13 years documenting the successes and failures of America’s efforts in Afghanistan. While wars are always wasteful, the misspent American funds stand out because the U.S. had 20 years to shift course.

Western groups desperate to save Afghan workers left behind (AP) The Italian charity Pangea helped tens of thousands of Afghan women become self-supporting in the last 20 years. Now, dozens of its staff in Afghanistan are in hiding with their families amid reports that Taliban are going door-to-door in search of citizens who worked with Westerners. Pangea founder Luca Lo Presti has asked that 30 Afghan charity workers and their families be included on Italian flights that have carried 500 people to safety this week, but the requests were flatly refused. On Thursday, the military coordinator told him: “Not today.” Dozens of flights already have brought hundreds of Western nationals and Afghan workers to safety in Europe since the Taliban captured the capital of Kabul. Those lucky enough to be rescued from feared reprisals have mostly been Afghans who worked directly with foreign missions, along with their families. European countries also have pledged to evacuate people at special risk from the Taliban—feminists, political activists and journalists—but it is unclear exactly where the line is being drawn and how many Afghan nationals Western nations will be able to evacuate.

[dansedan]

I had a real shit time of things and listened to a lot of old mountain goats and then proceeded to draft an overly-ambitious multi year plotline for buddy cops wherein I just skipped to the end and wrote it because I wanted to write a bitterweet/romantic/repressed/familial car ride because that’s what old Mountain Goats makes me wanna do!!! So. Halia and Conolly driving home from the hospital two years and over 1500km after their first meeting in that hotel room. Under the cut.

They were going 50 on a hillside highway, and Halia was a surprisingly bad driver. Unsure, stressed out- he was clenching his jaw and his shoulders something awful, like that car was no machine and instead some feral animal he had to handle like a rowdy stallion, with a sure and even hand. If the car had been an animal, it might’ve smelt his fear- Jay practically could.

The view outside was bright and muted, the sopped-up greens of the far-from-finest North Dakota flora and the mid-autumn sky in the afternoon. Hazy, warm-hot-chilly wind blowing outside the heated leather of the car. Halia was unsurprisingly bad at handling the winter, even after years in the Midwest. Made for finer weather, that hidden expanse of real, living skin he so loved the fleeting glimpses of- dark, sure. He felt like he could reach over the console and kiss the tension out of the thin knuckles of his hands- supposed he was still mostly delirious from the medicine and the long, long sleep, and even in a more normal circumstance he would’ve been just as impolite about the staring.

“-did it feel? Did you hear anything, or something-- Jay?”

Distracted, he’d missed most of his question. But he caught the tone- soft, hoarse, uncomfortable. Jay supposed this was just about status quo with him, maybe even more so now.

“sorry, what’d you say?”

Halia didn’t look away from the road (the empty road, not even half-deserving of that title, almost a mud-paved streak of hilly land) but his eyes creased in forbidding concern. The edges of them were dark, sunken in somehow. There was a dark bruise on the underside of his jaw, too, under the thin layer of un-styled stubble.

“are you feeling drowsy? Try to keep awake, the doctor said-“

“no, no,” he reassured him. “was just distracted.”

The concern didn’t leave his face. Neither did the bruise- half-brown by now, almost a scar.

“I was asking what it felt like. The coma.”

Halia said he had a terrible bedside manner. Jay always thought it suited him just fine like this.

“like a real bad sleep, doctor. Like a real bad, sticky sleep with crappy noises.”

“So you could hear at times?”

He paused to contemplate it. The whole experience was difficult to recall, right now, maybe everything was.

“not anything exciting. Just grating noises and no meaning,” he smiled a little, tired, optimistic. “certainly no ‘Jacques, I love you please wake up, oh please do’ “

Halia didn’t grace him with an answer to that. “did it feel like a long time?” it was alright though. That had been what he’d expected- a bit less tooth-gritting from the poor kid, a small assurance he was well enough to joke about it.

“not really. Did It for you?”

Heaven help us—that strained expression of his right back on his face, not new but unfamiliar. Two years of deaths and somehow this sleep was what brought the grief out.

“very,” he said, even softer. “For a lot of reasons, very.”

“long enough that Ernst can’t possibly want to kill me anymore about it?”

And Halia breathes out and that’s close enough to almost a laugh from him. He can breathe again- fifty years of misery and somehow these scowls are what bring the reconciliation out.

“no, he absolutely fucking wants to kill you—why else would we be on a drive right now?”

“ah, so it’s a getaway? You’re gonna whisk me off to some tax haven under a secret identity, doc? Cause I want a say in just where we’re eloping.”

“Of course. How about Indonesia?”

“…they do tax haven-ing down there?”

“god if I know.”

“I thought you had a doctorate, Halia, what the hell do you mean you don’t know?”

“I have an MD, not a PhD. Didn’t you study history?”

“American history, Halia. Union army shit.”

“so no Indonesian tax havens, huh,” he whistles lightly. His knuckles are looser now, rolled like claws on the steering wheel. “Suppose we’ll just have to go get the groceries instead.”

Even smiling, even joking, their voices stay down, soft. They were alone for miles and almost whispering, like kids. Like they were sneaking off with something holy under the junkheap cover of the tin-can car making its shivery way through the alders.

Even the silence, now, was just a touch sparkling. Overheated, cramped into a crappy car and half-high on some cocktail of painkillers and five months’ sobriety, somehow he still felt something glowing from his gut about this, about a road in some nowhere state and the kid deadpanning next to him, no-one’s lives or murders resting in his hands for the first time in three decades.

“what’s the first thing you thought about,” not a question- hardly a statement. Nervy and too-quick and quiet. “when you woke up, I mean.”

I’d wanted to kiss you-

I’d wanted to die- I thought I had, somehow-

I didn’t think of anything-

It was so bright, loud too, white walls and-

Schaffer, if he’d made it, if he hated me- if he’d tried to-

About my daughter, in a plot in Tallahassee under a gravestone with one year on it alone, I never told you of her-

What the weather might’ve been the last few days, the guys at the logging company, my new job-

New like your wrinkles, when I saw them, new like nameless flowers undiscovered- god I wanted- god- god help us- maybe I should’ve stayed an altar boy, a priest-

“I thought about the herons.”

Halia barely nodded. He wanted to hear this- he would hear this for him.

“Down in Texas, Tiger-herons, when I was a kid,” he’s breathing too hard. He almost doesn’t feel sober- he hasn’t lied in months, maybe a year, he’s always hated lying. “god, I mean, they’re beautiful- they are, they’ve got these giant wingspans, gray and striped and almost garish, for a sea bird- but they’re classified as, vagrants, right? Vagrants- animals- are like, hmm, when they appear real far away from where they’re s’possed to be, you know?” he’s skipping into the accent now, god he is bad at this. “they’re actually from Mexico, but they get everywhere- they get all over the place in America. Not just America like, well here but like, y’know—America.” He could almost not hear over the beating of his heart right now. He couldn’t look at Halia. He couldn’t decide if he feared or desired the heart attack he thought was coming on with it. He didn’t stop. “I was wondering- when I woke up I was thinking if they’ve ever been in North Dakota. If I’d ever see one again, living here, at some point, you know? After moving. I never saw one in Missouri, but Dakota… Before- Before dying in Dakota I could…”

Halia’s hand was on his. It was shaking- he was still trying to drive with his left hand, he was still looking forward, too scared not to look forward, too scared to stop- but his hand was on top of his. Warm brown on creased, pallid white, thrown over each other, warm and wet and trembling.

He doesn’t dare to hold it, but he prays. He prays a thank you, prays a silent thank you. To the vagrant Herons in the mountains and the U-Haul company and crystal meth and the State Traffic Accident Reporting System and his useless degree and his taste for smooth jazz in his second year of college for getting him to this moment. To Halia, for almost letting him kill himself in the line of action, and to Ernst for letting him give it a second try as a civilian once that plan fell through, and to both of them making him live long enough to regret it. To the smell of fear and the taste of lies and Indonesia, whether or not it was a tax haven.

And to the winter sun two years ago, for such an accurate prognosis. To heaven, from its worst creation and its favorite child.

Amen, Amen, and thank you.

[goldeneyedgirl]

JaliceWeek2020 Day 7

JaliceWeek2020 Day 7: Yeehaw/Western/Sheriff

Love & Duty

Notes: Okay, I’m pretty sure this isn’t nearly ‘cowboy’ enough, and I’ve already started an alternative piece, but I found an old tumblr post about how cowboys were just daytime witches, and I frickin’ loved it (I’ll link it in the morning) and my excitement got out of hand again. There’s definitely going to be more to this story, but separately. 

I also just wanted to prove to myself I could smash out two prompts in one day, honestly. I opted for quantity over quality, and I currently only have some regrets - 4.5 down, 3.5 to go. 

--

The old farmhouse sits outside Laredo, Texas. The wood has blackened from decades underneath the sun and seems to sink in on itself; the ground cracked and dry. The barn roof has caved in, obviously years before if the elaborate nest tucked at the edge is any indication. At the end of the drive, the sign once bore the name of the owners, but that name has long since faded into the wood.

It is an unwelcoming place, for any passerby or stranger - a house that actively discourages anyone from crossing the boundary, even if they never notice it.

But for those that sought it out, and for those few that lived there, it was very different.

—

It was a sacred duty, once upon a time - the Guardians of the Border, sent to protect and prevent the Southern Wars from spilling over from Mexico into America proper. For decades, girls from all the old families across the country were sent to Texas to run the Guard Houses, to protect and shield those. Back then, there were so many daughters that only the very best were accepted at the Border Guard Houses, most of them settled in the city houses, mixing the potions and preparing the weapons. Some girls were even sent home - there were only so many beds, after all.

And Texas remained well-guarded.

But time marches on. Vampire wars, human wars, they all have a death toll, and entire family lines died out. It became less of an honour, more of an obligation, and one that fell to the oldest daughter, or the oddest daughter, or the ugliest daughter. It became more important to keep the bloodlines strong than to protect the South from the never-ending Wars.

Mary-Alice Brandon was never surprised to be banished to Texas on her sixteenth birthday; she’d known her entire life she’d don the blacks and take up the mantle as six generations of Brandon witches had done before her. She was not good breeding stock, with her ‘visions’ and her temper and her complete disinclination to conform to her parents’ social obligations. Cynthia was a much better heiress, and so off to Texas Alice was sent, to three ancient ‘aunts’ who would train her in all she would need to know, having lived their entire lives defending the Laredo house.

The house wasn’t so bad, if you looked past the glamour. The house was in good repair, and the aunts maintained a lush garden out the back, of herbs and flowers. They had two strong horses - Hallow and Haven - and half a dozen well-pleased cats. Her own bedroom looked over the road, hidden only by the branches of an ancient willow tree. Of course, the aunts were strict teachers that expected impossible standards, and third-rate cooks. But no place was perfect, and at least here no one cared about manners or propriety.

But she missed the sunshine. That was one thing the aunts never budged on. “Day is for sleep.” And hell was raged over her head if she wasn’t tucked up tight in bed every morning before dawn, the curtains drawn tight and refusing to budge. Once every moon cycle, her aunts would have a dawn meeting with someone but she wasn’t allowed to join those until she was twenty one, when she formally became a Witch Guardian. Until then, she was just a handmaid and dogsbody.

Which is why she was up to her ankles in mud, trying to pry an overzealous hemlock plant from the ground because it was smothering the chamomile again, with nothing to light her work except the lanterns on the porch. And this was just the first of the positively irritating chores she had been assigned that night.

It was her own fault, really. She should have kept her nose out of the books, and maybe there’d be more lessons for her to finish.

Shoving her hair out of her eyes, Alice glared viciously at the hemlock plant, and wondered if the aunts would consider it ‘inappropriate behaviour’ to curse the damn thing to burn.

“Mary-Alice!”

One of the aunts came dashing out of the backdoor - all three were fairly interchangeable, which felt like an uncharitable thought, but it was the  honest truth - looking more agitated than Alice had ever seen her.

“Yes, Auntie?”

“Get out of the mud, and go and fetch one of the horse,” the older woman said, buckling an over-stuffed messenger bag. “Be quick, girl. Change your boots, don’t worry about your dress.”

Struggling out of the garden and into the house to find her riding boots, Alice knotted her hair back before hurrying to the barn, where all three aunts were gathered, Hallow already saddled - she would have thought Haven a better choice, since Hallow was so big and she was not the strongest rider.

“You’re going to Del Rio, girl,” one of the aunts said, shoving over a mounting block with surprising strength. “One of our allies has suffered an injury and cannot be moved. Hallow should have you there by dawn.”

“Del Rio?” Alice couldn’t remember the last time she’d been into Laredo, let alone more than a hundred miles up the border.

“Yes. Now, they’re expecting you,” the second aunt said, taking her hand and half shoving her up and into Hallow’s saddle. “Everything you need is in the bag; there’s food and water for you, but you’ll need them to provide more for your return journey. Hallow knows the way; if you hit the yellow farmhouse, you’ve gone too far. There should be a scout waiting for you anyway, don’t worry. It’s a long trip, but it’s a good practice for you, and you’re a good, clean healer.”

“The boy’s in a bad way, so you best be off,” the final aunt said, looking grim. “Let us know how long you’ll be staying and when you set off home.”

“Okay,” Alice managed, a bit dazed from the amount of information she’d just been given.

“Blessed and safe journey, my dear,” the first aunt said, looking worried before Hallow decided they had lingered long enough, and moved out of the barn.

Alice suddenly regretted cursing the hemlock.

—

The ride was long and hard. She honestly regretted not getting changed into something more sensible - she’d learnt to ride as a girl English style, side-saddle, but the aunts had laughed at that particular pretension, and Western saddles and long skirts were not a winning combination.

The bag wasn’t heavy enough for any of them to have thought to pack her a clean dress, either, and she was truly wretched at cleaning spells. Perhaps the Del Rio coven could loan her a dress.

Hallow stopped some time after midnight, and she took that opportunity to eat - a floury apple, some dry bread, and cold chicken that was so well cooked it might as well have been ash. But it was food, and the urgency that she been sent off - alone - implied she didn’t have more than a few minutes to rest.

The rest of the trip felt long, and as pink and gold streaks began to hover at the horizon, Alice wondered if she’d taken too long - if the poor boy (boy? she’d never heard of a coven accepting a boy, but maybe the Guard Houses had decided to modernise) had already succumbed. But it wasn’t like she was provided with a map or proper direction…

It was dawn when Hallow began to slow, and she saw a man leaning against a signpost with an indecipherable sign, the road behind him leading to a fire-decimated house on a hill in the distance.

“Miss Brandon?” the man said, looking at her with suspicion before his eyes softened. “Ah, Hallow.” The horse clearly recognised him, nickering affectionately at the man.

“Yes, I am Miss Brandon. You are the scout from Del Rio?” she asked primly, as if she didn’t have mud on her face and dress and sleeves, and no hat.

“Yup. Come on, he’s in the house. I’m Peter,” the man said. “Budge up.”

Within seconds, Peter had swung himself onto Hallow behind her, and Alice gasped at the impropriety, but didn’t get a moment to say a word as Peter clicked and Hallow took off like a bullet.

As Hallow passed another sign that couldn’t be read, the fire-ruins shimmered before reforming into an expansive and well-lived farmhouse, with a large barn. Out the back, she could see pristine fields full of horses and cattle. It was like chalk and cheese from home, and for a moment, she was jealous.

As they stopped in front of the house, Peter slid off, and tied off Hallow’s bridle to the porch railing, reaching up to help her down.

“Quick now, one of the boys will come take care of Hallow, we need you to tend to Jasper now,” Peter said, half dragging her up the front stairs and into the house.

It felt like a bustle of activity, and was so bright and airy. The smell of fresh bread filtered through the house, and Alice couldn’t help but snatch a look as she was dragged deeper into the house.

“Char! The witching’s here!” Peter bellowed, and suddenly Alice was presented with a drawn-looking woman with strawberry-blonde hair.

“Oh, thank gods,” she said. “I’m Charlotte. Come with me. His fever keeps getting higher, and I’ve tried everything I know. We called out to everyone, but your aunt was the only one who got back to us.”

She was lead into a backroom, where a mattress was laid out on the floor, and the curtains were drawn. And in the middle of the room, moaning in pain and sweaty, was a tall man covered in scars.

Alice tried not to gasp. The scars were quite clearly vampire bites, healed ones. Covens had some natural immunity to vampire venom, but it only slowed down the process and allowed it to be reversed. There were dozens of stories of girls who couldn’t be saved, and had been burnt before the change could be completed. It was, unfortunately, one of the risks of their duty.

“He got ambushed,” Charlotte said, kneeling beside the man. “The harpy practically gutted him, but he got away okay.” She pulled back the sheet, to reveal an enormous wound that had been clumsily stitched, from the middle of his chest, slashing downward over his stomach to his hip. “It needs cauterising I think, but I’m no healer.”

Alice came back to herself then. Whatever was going on here - male Guardians, this untrained woman, all the bite marks - could be questioned after this poor man - Jasper, had Peter called him? - was treated.

Dropping to her knees, Alice quickly inspected Charlotte’s stitching of the wound. “It will need cauterising, it’s too deep,” she determined quickly. “And treatment for infection, but stitching it was a smart thing to do.” Charlotte looked relieved. “Did he get bitten?”

“His arms,” Peter said, and Charlotte quickly pulled off bandages, already blackening from the venom. Three bites on one arm, four on the other. Bad, bad business.

“Okay. Do you have a smock, and a place I can wash up?” she said, standing quickly. Walking into a sick room in her filthy clothes and boots had been a stupid thing to do, but nothing for it now.

“Of course - show her the bathroom, Peter,” Charlotte darted out.

Within moments, Alice had a smock over her underthings and a pair of borrowed slippers - Charlotte promising to wash her dress immediately - and she’d scrubbed every visible inch of her skin as fast as she could, her hair pinned under a kerchief.

It was a very, very long day. The bites had to be purified, cleaned, and bandaged to draw out as much venom as possible; the bandages had to be changed four times every day, to prevent the venom lingering against the skin. Jasper had to be fed the tonic that the aunts had sent every two hours to flush any venom that had already ended his system. Then she had to treat the fever, to lesson his evident discomfort, and treat the infection that had clearly set into the wound Charlotte had stitched, whilst reassuring Charlotte that it was nothing actively wrong that she’d done, just the unlucky result of riding home with an open wound.

But by the time night fell, Jasper was somewhat more comfortable - the moaning had stopped, and with a generous dose of pain and sleep tonic, he seemed to actually be sleeping.

Alice wished she could.

Instead, she changed his bandages again before finding herself in the kitchen, with Charlotte piling plates with food.

“We heard from the others,” she said, taking her own seat. “Days away, Carlisle is furious. Emmett’s already on his way back with Rosalie, but they won’t make it here for at least a week.” Charlotte looked exhausted. “At least they’ll bring supplies.”

“What’s done is done,” Peter said smartly, watching Alice as she began to eat, exhaustion in every one of her motions. “Jasper will be okay now, yes?”

Alice looked up. “Well,” she began, and sighed. “There were so many bites,” she managed, trying to be kind. “And he’s been bitten before - even one previous bite decreases the effectiveness of treatment. I swear I am doing everything I can possibly do.”

“You’re young, yes?” Peter shot back. “Not even a full Guardian yet?”

“Peter!” Charlotte scolded.

“No, I’m not of age yet. My title does not affect my ability - I have been trained. I have completed my lessons. There is nothing I can think of that I am not already doing,” Alice retorted.

“And we are grateful,” Charlotte broke in.

“Yup, I’m positive Jasper would be thrilled that his life is in the hands of a schoolgirl,” Peter muttered before getting up from the table and storming away.

Alice was too tired to be angry, and just sighed and went back to her food - Charlotte was far and away a better cook than the aunts; perhaps a week of edible food, and she’d be filling out her dresses properly.

“I’m sorry, Peter and Jasper… they’re like brothers. They’ve been together for years,” Charlotte said, looking at her plate. “…Please, please don’t let Peter’s rudeness dissuade you from helping Jasper…”

Alice looked up in shock. “No. No, of course not. I understand his frustration, I do. And there’s nothing he could say to me that would make me treat Jasper any less, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte smiled, and began to clear the table. “The guest room is at the top of the stairs, I’ve laid out a nightgown for you, and some towels. Peter’s taken care of your horse, and I’m sure…”

“That’s very kind of you,” Alice said gently, “but I’ll sit up with Jasper tonight; he’ll need watching.”

“Could I help at all? Watch him in shifts?” Charlotte asked, but Alice could see the exhaustion and worry in every line of the woman’s face. If they weren’t careful, Charlotte would fall ill too and she’d have two patients.

“No, it has to be me, to make sure the bites are clean and the tonic takes. We’ll have a better idea of how he is tomorrow, though,” Alice offered. “I would like to bathe, though, if you could watch him?”

“Oh, of course - there’s a washroom in the guest room,” Charlotte said, gesturing to the stairs. “Thank you, Alice. I mean it. Thank you for coming, I feel like everything is going to be okay now that you’re here.”

—

It was a long night, with exhaustion setting in for Alice - she hadn’t slept in over a day, had ridden half-way up the border… she felt like an old woman. But it was her duty. And she would do it to the best of her ability.

Charlotte had leant her several dresses, and it was quite strange to wear a colour that wasn’t black or grey, but a welcome novelty, even if the dresses were a size too big.

Settling beside the sickbed, Alice administered the tonic every two hours, and found herself changing the bandages obsessively, as soon as she saw or smelt the venom. She flushed out the bite wounds - one would need stitching. She’d have to cauterise the chest wound first thing in the morning; his fever still lingered, but the tonics and potions seemed to have had a powerful effect on the infection, with the red veins having already retreated.

Though, she might have to teach Charlotte how to administer stitches whilst she was here. The woman was clearly unfamiliar with stitching flesh. Maybe some rudimentary treatments so that they didn’t have to wait twelve hours for help.

The aunts had packed her two new books to read - purely educational, histories of the coven, that were not even a little bit relevant in her current situation, or interesting. But they did keep her awake.

Morning came, and Jasper’s fever had broken. She nearly cheered at that, and when Peter and Charlotte burst in at dawn, she gave them the good news. She thought that Peter was going to cry - Charlotte certainly did. But then she required the couple hold him down as she cauterised the chest wound.

Charlotte ended up vomiting at the smell, and Peter looked at little woozy, but at least he was held together with more than embroidery thread now. She quickly applied a fresh layer of ointment that smelt like mint and tea leaves to the raw wound and bound up his chest up in fresh bandages. At least Charlotte had the practicality of preparing an immense quantity of fresh, sterile bandages that looked like they been cut from good quality bed linens or petticoats.

The day moved slowly; Charlotte brought her meals in on a tray, and sat with Jasper whilst she changed her dress again, and sent a message to the aunts. Peter was very respectful around her, and brought her anything she asked for - purified water, feverfew, lavender, aloe vera. Jasper seemed to sleep more comfortably each day, as she fed him cold tea laced with every possible tonic and potion she had in her bag and could create from scratch. His bite marks were cleared every day, settling into fresh scar tissue. She was genuinely sorry that they had scarred, but there was nothing for it.

But only time would tell if the venom had made it to his heart.

—

Seven days. She had been at the Del Rio house for seven days and seven nights. Jasper had passed out of danger, and was now just healing, though he hadn’t regained consciousness. But Alice continued to nurse him, as was her duty and purpose here. She fed him careful sips of tea and then herbal broth, to build up his strength and hopefully reinforce his immunity; she rubbed ointments into his new wounds to keep the skin supple and preveshe lnt thick scar tissue and ease any discomfort. She helped Charlotte wash and dress him as soon as she deemed it safe.

That she had not been expecting. She hoped her poker face was good, because she’d really never seen a man’s body before. Not like that - she was only nineteen, had lived with the aunts since she was sixteen and had never been courted. Even her lessons had been done on whatever animals they could hunt or trade for from the market, not really humans. And this man, he was… handsome. He was tall and just the right amount of muscular and tan and, she shouldn’t be having these thoughts.

She couldn’t even imagine her embarrassment if this Jasper had seen her in such a way.

Oh, she was definitely sleep deprived. She had yet to sleep a single second in the guest room, snatching cat naps in the corner of Jasper’s sick room when she couldn’t hold her eyes open a single moment longer.

Which was what she was doing now. She twisted her neck uncomfortably; she’d been sleeping at a funny angle, she’d be feeling that all day. Stretching out, she looked over at her patient, only to see Jasper staring back at her curiously.

“Oh my gods!” Alice gasped, scrambling over. “You’re awake? How are you feeling? How long have you been awake?”

She quickly helped him sit up, reading for the water cup on the beside table. He took two deep swallows before coughing.

“Oh, it’s got lemon and mint in it, for healing,” she explained. “It’s helped, I promise. Hopefully we can get you back to normal drinking water and food tomorrow.”

“Who are you?” croaked Jasper, looking up at her with glazed eyes.

“Oh. Um, I’m Alice Brandon. From the Laredo Guard House,” she said, embarrassed. She was acting like a bumbling sixteen year old trainee, not a proper Guardian. “I was summoned when you were wounded.”

“Alice Brandon from Laredo,” Jasper repeated, a quirk of his lips. “Thank you.” His energy seemed to drain out of him all at once - totally normal for the severity of his wounds and his recovery.

“It was nothing,” she said. “Sleep now. It’s a great healer. Charlotte and Peter will be awake in a few hours.”

He nodded half-heartedly before he closed his eyes again, and Alice sat backwards. He was okay. Two blue eyes without a hint of red, talking and lucid, and drinking easily. She did it.

He lived.

—

Both Peter and Charlotte had wept when they realised that Jasper was conscious again, and Peter had nearly tackled the man when he saw Jasper sitting up, drinking water and talking to Alice, trying to piece together what had happened to him, and to learn how she had treated him - the Del Rio Guard House had fallen to the Whitlock-Hales several generations ago, and many of the old skills - like healing - had been lost.

In fact, it was only him, Peter, and Charlotte who were at the house full-time now - they hired local boys to help out on the ranch that funded the Del Rio clan. Jasper’s own sister and brother-in-law visited regularly, as did various other friends and allies, “but none of us are witchlings,” he coughed. “We were raised in the sun, not in the night.”

She smiled at reference to the old rhyme. “Even your sister?” she asked; girls were kept to the night, boys to the day. Old attitudes that had held true - girls were protected and cloistered (and much less likely to be caught poisoning or cursing) in the darkness. Their herbs and plants bloomed and grew so much harder under the moon than the sun. But boys, they were the fighters, the warriors, and battle against vampires and other dark creatures was best done when there was no darkness to escape into.

“Even my sister,” Jasper had smiled. “Rose would have made a horrible healer - punched me in the arm and told me to ‘man up’ the first time I fell off a horse; my arm was broken. She’s not nearly as committed as I am, but she helps. Her husband’s good at it too, he just married into the madness.” He spoke about his family with such affection, Alice felt a little jealous, but before she could ask any other questions, Charlotte and Peter were there, Jasper just as pleased to see them as they were to see him.

Alice slipped out to give them privacy - a bath and a clean dress sounded heavenly right now, and she ought to send another message to the aunts. She’d help Jasper wash and change afterwards, and hopefully be able to move him from the sick room to his usual quarters with fresh sheets. He’d sleep more comfortably in his own bed.

By lunchtime, Jasper was safely ensconced in his own bed, in a room that overlooked the a paddock of horses. He’d eaten some broth and drunk as many cups of herbal tea as Alice could press on him, as she fussed around. Peter had headed off to get ranch work done, and Charlotte had taken up a vigil at Jasper’s bedside with some sewing.

“Alice, please, you don’t have to do anything of that,” Charlotte laughed as Alice began folding clothing. “You should rest - you must be exhausted.” Turning to Jasper, she continued, “I don’t think she’s rested this entire time - she sat with you every night, didn’t even wake us to help change your bandages. She insisted Peter and I sleep.”

“Oh, I’m up at night anyway,” Alice laughed. “And I’m here to help.”

Jasper was watching her carefully now.

“She hasn’t stopped at all. I cannot imagine how efficient the Laredo House is,” Charlotte shook her head. “Though, I’m sure having proper recruits makes a difference.”

Alice shook her head, as she reached out to plump a pillow behind Jasper’s head. “Oh, it’s just me and the aunts,” she said airily. “All the old families are dying out, and, well, it’s not exactly a glamorous position. I knew I’d be sent to Laredo since I was very small, so I suppose my mother and father prepared me for it.”

“It sounds lonely,” Jasper said quietly.

And it was. She always tried to think of the positives, that she had her own bedroom, and she got to learn so quickly and do hands on practice much more quickly, and there were practically no chores but she had still been alone there for three and a half years. No companions, just duty. It hadn’t felt quite as bad until she’d come here, to this bright, happy place with sweet Charlotte and practical Peter and handsome Jasper…

“It’s home,” she finally said, honestly. “But I will take you up on that offer for a rest. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to wake me.”

“I’ll be fine, I promise,” Jasper said.

“See that you do - you’re my first official patient, and it would look terrible if you died when I was napping,” Alice teased, before slipping out of the room. She could sleep, finally.

—

The next week and a half fell into a routine. Jasper regained his strength surprisingly quickly, and went from being bedridden to eating meals in the kitchen with them all, to back on his horse - an enormous brown beast named Duke - within the week, though he did seem to tire quickly.

He took to showing her their operation - the wall of blessed weapons in the barn and in the house, the modified saddles to carry the weapons, the horses carefully trained to protect their rider and be desensitised to the presence of vampires.

It turned out that Charlotte was a newcomer, a local girl raised as a kitchen-witch whose brother had worked on the ranch. Charlotte had fallen quite hard for Peter, to hear Jasper tell it, and hadn’t flinched when she realised she’d married into a quasi-family of cowboy vampire hunters. She had started a small greenhouse with many common herbs that was a good start, but Alice knew that they needed something a little more robust for their ‘business’. She immediately promised Jasper to write them a list of additions they needed - and send them seeds and samples - and their purpose as soon as she was back in Laredo.

It was all very pleasant, but Alice realised quickly that Jasper was, for all intents and purposes, healed. She had no place here any longer; his sister would arrive soon, and he had no use of a nurse or witching now. She needed to leave.

She announced those plans at dinner that night, as Charlotte presented another one of her delightful spreads.

“I’m going to miss this,” she said ruefully, as they all dug in. “The aunts cannot cook at all.”

“Miss this?” Charlotte asked innocently, passing out hot rolls.

“Jasper is healed,” Alice smiled, trying to keep her voice upbeat. “Your recovery will continue, and you should be conservative about what you take on for a months or two, but you have no need for me any longer. I should return home first thing tomorrow.”

Everyone froze.

“So soon?” Jasper managed, almost looking… hurt?

“The aunts need me. They’re elderly,” Alice explained, “and it’s where I belong.”

Silence.

“Well, we’re mighty grateful you came all the way out here for us,” Peter said. “We’d all be happy to see you around here again.”

“Ah, but that would mean one of you was hurt, and that would be acceptable,” Alice teased. “You’ve been very kind to me. If I could trouble you for some food for the trip home, Charlotte…”

“Oh, of course,” Charlotte nodded. Jasper was focused on his potatoes and not looking at anyone. “You must stay in touch, yes? It’s been so nice having another woman here.”

“Of course,” Alice gushed, trying to ignore the reaction she knew the aunts would have if she started using the messaging system for socialising. “I’m going to be lost without you!”

“You’re not the only one,” Peter murmured, and Alice chose not to pull at that thread, and instead turned the conversation to Jasper’s sister’s arrival and tried not to dread the next morning.

—

It was a moment of weakness when she waited til Jasper was downstairs helping Peter wash up, when she slipped the medallion into his cowboy boots. He’d never feel the tiny silver charm, blessed with protection and a long life, but it would keep him safe.

She tried to convince herself it was because he probably wouldn’t survive another bite, but it didn’t work.

—

She left just before dawn, once again clad in her blacks - freshly washed and mended by Charlotte - and Jasper was waiting there, holding Hallow’s bridle as she walked out, Charlotte’s food tucked into her bag.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” she said, realising Hallow was saddled and ready to leave.

“I wanted to.” He looked her up and down. “You look beautiful.”

Alice smiled - her black lace dress, from ankle to wrist to throat - was practically her uniform; she had four more just like it hanging in her wardrobe at home. Any particular beauty in the garment had faded the one hundredth time she wore it.

Jasper stepped closer to her; standing on the second step of the porch, they were nearly eye-to-eye.

“I never truly thank you for what you did for me - Peter and Charlotte filled me in,” he continued.

“It was truly nothing, it was what I was born for,” she said, wondering if it was Jasper’s proximity that was making her so warm, or if summer was coming early.

Jasper just stared at her and all of a sudden his lips were on hers.

She had never been kissed before, not even once, and it was… unexpected. Within a moment, Jasper deepened it, and she was properly clinging to his strong shoulders and oh, how could he do such a thing to her when she was about to leave?

Pulling back slowly, Jasper ducked his head. “I just wanted to do that once,” he murmured. “I couldn’t let you walk away without…”

“I can’t,” Alice whispered, somehow unable to pull away. “I… I’m not allowed. I would have to recant my vows, and the aunts have no one else to take on the Laredo house… I just can’t.”

Jasper looked at her. “That seems cruel,” he said in a low voice. “Looking after some old ladies until they die, then being left alone without being allowed anything more.”

“It’s how things are done,” Alice took a shaking breath. “I’m sorry. Please thank Charlotte and Peter for their hospitality.”

And with that, Alice took Hallow’s bridle from Jasper and mounted her horse, leaving for the Laredo house, trying to drag her mind away from what was behind her, from the first (and likely the only) kiss she had ever been given. From the way he looked at her, like she hung the moon.

She was, in all probability, never going to see him again. And that was how it was supposed to be.

[beforetheflowers]

Poinsettia

SPNAdventCalendar2020 prompt: day 13, poinsettia

Read complete on AO3!

Ok, I’m a little late with this, but here we go. Read the first half below the cut!

Hunters might not get paid for doing their jobs, but it was not uncommon to receive gifts of appreciation. These gifts ranged from invitations to sit down for a home-cooked meal, boxes of snacks and drinks, a good bottle of scotch, gift cards to restaurants… actually, the gifts took the form of food quite often. 

It was curious, this human impulse to show their love by feeding each other. Taking care of each other’s most basic need, giving the blessing of not needing to worry about where the next meal was coming from. 

Though angels did not, as a rule, feel hunger, Castiel understood it intimately. He’d been human quite a few times in the last decade, and he knew the dull ache that could only be filled by sinking his teeth into something delicious.   

Of course, Castiel made a point of breaking heaven’s rules. He never told Dean this, but occasionally he would fly out into a field or forest and let his grace drain into the Earth, depleting his own power so that he could become something close to human. It wasn’t easy to do in winter; someone would probably get suspicious if a grove of trees suddenly sprouted greenery under their blankets of snow, but he made it work. 

Let’s just say that a particular river in Kansas was full of incredibly vigorous fish, and leave it at that.

Draining his power in that way allowed Castiel to experience mortality with Dean. His vessel aged, so subtly that Dean hadn’t even noticed yet, but Cas was determined to grow old with him. They had their eternal youth to look forward to in the afterlife. 

It also allowed him to feel human drives; hunger, thirst, desire, pain. All the risks and rewards of freedom.  

Castiel also felt that taking care of the Earth was a proper angelic duty. He wasn’t interested in being an agent of fate, or a tool in Chuck’s arsenal. But blessing the Earth with life gave him great joy and contentment in his role as an angel. His grace was a gift he could give to wild things. 

So, although Castiel understood humanity’s gift-giving impulse on a personal level, he found it quaint and charming nevertheless. In times of hardship, humans reached out for each other instead of turning away, they gave more generously instead of less. Despite the flaws of their species, Castiel believed they were good at their core. He wasn’t sure he could say the same about angels.

The winter holidays seemed to motivate humans to give more than any other season. Perhaps it was simply the darkness and lack of plant growth in winter that pushed them to share resources, but… they took care of each other.

Cas was, however, sometimes baffled at their choice of gifts. 

One day in late November, he had gone grocery shopping while Dean was at work and had seen rows and rows of tiny replicas of popular fictional characters, stuffed animals in unnatural colors, pink models of kitchens, and even boxes of toys that weren’t assembled yet. How any of these objects helped humans survive winter, Cas didn’t know. 

Musing about the nature of humanity along the ends of the toy aisles, he had walked past a little red creature that started singing at him. He finished his shopping quickly after that. 

Also in November, Cas had received another bewildering gift from a family he had saved from a poltergeist. Dean had been at work again when Cas heard a strange report on the police scanner; officers had responded to a call about a strange man smashing up the neighbor’s house while everyone was out. 

When they had arrived, they found all the doors and windows closed and locked. Inside was indeed smashed up; the dining table was broken down the middle, stuffing was ripped from the couches, glass littered the floor from shattered picture frames and ceramic decorations. There was nobody in the house.

The mom left work right away after the cops notified her, and - Cas perused the subsequent report - she had mentioned instances of paintings falling off the walls, doors slamming, furniture being moved, but nothing close to the destruction of that day. The police had chalked it up to a very clever home invader and told the family to invest in a better security system. 

A security system wouldn’t work against a poltergeist, if indeed that was what the family was dealing with. 

Cas packed a duffle bag with ghost-hunting paraphernalia and teleported to the end of the family’s driveway. The family had been unwilling to trust him at first - apparently, they didn’t appreciate blunt honesty - but when the sun went down and the poltergeist started hurling knives around the kitchen, they welcomed Cas back inside, where he made quick work of the poltergeist. 

As it turned out, they had recently purchased a painting of a sunset from a charity auction. All seemed normal until Cas tore off the paper backing, revealing the signature of the painter; it was not created by some local artist as the family had assumed, but by someone who went down in history as a serial killer. The alizarin crimson was fortified with actual human blood, and the victim had become a restless spirit, tethered to the painting and unable to rest. 

Cas burned the painting and the spirit finally moved on. In their gratitude, the family had insisted he take home the apple pie that had been cooling on the counter and shoved a plant into his hands. Arms full of ghost-hunting equipment and the family’s generous gifts, Cas left, waiting until he reached the cover of shadows before teleporting home. 

The pie was a good gift because it made sense. Food. And a dessert at that, a delectable treat. Dean especially would like it. But the plant?

It had broad red leaves with tiny yellow blooms in the center. The lower leaves were dark green. A poinsettia. 

The Aztecs had cultivated this plant for its usefulness as medication and dye, but surely the family didn’t expect him to use it for those purposes. Of course, Cas knew about its association with Christ. Legend held that an angel encouraged a girl in Mexico to give a gift, no matter how plain, for Christ’s birthday. She gathered a bouquet of roadside weeds, but when she placed them on the altar, they became the blazing red, star-shaped leaves of the poinsettia. 

Cas had no idea which angel had performed that particular miracle, but it sounded on-brand for the heavenly host. Most angels only helped humanity when it served the glory of the Lord. Or maybe Cas was just a cynic. 

Either way, it didn’t explain why the family had given him one. They didn’t know he was an angel, right? The plant symbolized sacrifice, success, happiness, or purity; was it perhaps a wish that he would experience one of these? He’d take success or happiness, but he’d sacrificed far too much already, and he was so far beyond purity that it was almost a joke. 

Dean was already home when Cas, bypassing the struggle of opening the door with his hands full, teleported into the kitchen. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Flinching mightily, Dean nearly flipped the contents of the pan straight onto the floor. He chuckled weakly when he saw who it was. “Jesus Christ, man. Could you try knocking first, or something?”

“My hands were full,” Cas explained, finally setting everything down. He put the pie and the plant on the table and returned the duffle bag back to its place in the basement before returning to Dean. 

The smell that pervaded the house was wonderful; garlic and rosemary under the scent of sizzling steak. Cas’s stomach growled, and he realized he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. It was easy for an angel to lose track of such things, but Dean always took care of him. 

“Have a glass of wine,” Dean said, handing him a cab sauv. He leaned his back against the counter, watching Cas and his cooking at the same time. “Tell me about your day, baby.” 

Cas told him about the poltergeist and the gratitude of the family. “I don’t understand why they gave me this plant,” he ended the story, brushing one soft, red leaf between his fingertips.  

“What do you mean? It’s a poinsettia.” 

“Yes. It’s a holy symbol that often represents the crucifixion in the Western, Christian tradition. Why would they want to remind me of that? It was a horrible event, really. A man died.”    

Dean gave him that look, half exasperation, half amusement, that usually meant Cas had failed to understand some social norm. “People always give each other poinsettias around Christmas. It doesn’t really have any deep symbolic meaning these days, it’s just pretty to look at.”

Well, that was certainly true. It was a vibrant little thing, with plush crimson leaves and yellow center, like it was both reaching out for the sun and reflecting it deep within. Cas could feel the life buzzing inside it, drawing water and nutrients from the soil and exhaling oxygen through its broad leaves. 

It was a good gift, he decided with a little smile. 

But that wasn’t the end of it... 

[sarcastically-defensive17]

Can you write a Max Evans one shot where the reader is hopelessly in love with Max but he's still pinning over Liz even though she hasn't came back in ten years and they get into an arguement over it and she accidently tells him shes been in love with him for the past ten years?

Ten years...

Hello lovie! So sorry this took so long! My hiatus is over! I love Max, and writing this was fun (and painful) but I hope you enjoy!

Original story by sarcastically-defensive17

Max Evans. Strapping, young, brave, handsome. He and Y/N had known each other for many years. They attended the same middle school, the same high school, the same college, the same police academy.

Assigned as partners as they traversed the ranks of the department. They were inseparable. Best of friends, connected at the hip. They shared secrets, interests, inside jokes, binging sessions. Y/N knew everything about Max. Well, everything except his super secret species revelation.

Anybody on the outside could clearly see that Y/N near worshipped the grass as it folded beneath his feet. When she looked at him, it was as if he were a being far superior for their little town in New Mexico. Michael, who was Y/N’s self declared ‘other best-friend’ often joked that Y/N treated Max like a god, and herself as his lowly disciple.

Her crush in middle school had developed into infatuation in high school, to which she realized at the school Prom that what she felt was far too deep. She only knew because she couldn’t stand to see him so hung up on another, and experienced an epiphany as she hid in her parked car to cry after seeing Max with his high school crush: Liz Ortecho.

Liz was an amazing person. Kind, intelligent, beautiful. She lit up a room when she walked inside, yet she had always overshadowed Y/N in the eyes of Max. To say the woman was bitter would be an understatement, but Y/N was far too strong willed to let her jealousy rule her.

She no longer shed tears in jealousy, even when she had stumbled upon Max and Liz dancing and kissing as Y/N traversed the desert with her camera in hand. She didn’t even feel relieved when Liz took off one day, following the death of her sister. Instead, she comforted the girl at the funeral, and helped her family out at the diner they owned: The Crashdown.

She even still volunteers her time to help the patriarch Ortecho when she has time off of work.

Nearly 10 years on, and she was sure that the feelings she had for Max were far deeper than they were in their youth. She loved the man, and had told him so many times; yet it was understood in a platonic way, much to Y/N’s dismay.

“All I’m saying is, Prom was a mediocre attempt at parading the popular kids around in front of the entire student body and making the rest of us feel bad about ourselves.”

“How would you even know, Guerin? You were off with Alex!” Y/N made a kissy face across the room at her friend. They weren’t sure how they got stuck on the topic of Prom, but Y/N and Michael had been locked in a debate about the purpose of the event for over an hour. All while Y/N sat on the floor in front of Max, the mans fingers weaving through her hair to tie the strands into various braids.

“I know enough, Deputy,” the brunet winked, rubbing his hands along his jean clad thighs. “You just liked it because you were a cheerleader, okay? The student body either wanted to be you or be with you.”

“Oh yee of little faith,” Y/N made a tutting sound. “I hated the prom. Everybody knows that.”

“Yeah because of your unspoken vendetta against Liz Ortecho,” Guerin grumbled, paling at the sight of Y/N’s panicked face. And the confused look plastered on Max’s face. “I mean-“

“What do you mean? Y/N and Liz were great friends!” Max chuckled, brows furrowed. Y/N could feel the tension of the impending conversation. It was almost a crime to speak ill of Liz Ortecho, or to even mention her name since she left Roswell.

Michael was many things, but stupid was not one of them. He knew when he had misspoken. And when he needed to get the he’ll out of dodge before Deputy Y/N threw her shoe at him. Y/N didn’t hate liz. She didn’t even dislike her. But she did want what Liz had, but Y/N also could have spoken up many times. She just didn’t.

“I-Uh, I’m gonna go. Need to meet Alex,” Guerin cleared his throat. Y/N was glaring at him, her eyes boring into his brown ones and he knew that the conversation between the two after his departure would be full of tension. Yet - being the kind person he is - he still took his leave, exiting the house with his large palm rubbing along the back of his neck and no further words.

The door closed and it was silent, Max’s hands still in her hair and the air thick with tension.

It was a few beats before Max spoke up. “You... didn’t like Liz?”

Her hand rubbed along her bare knees, a nervous scoff leaving Y/N’s lips. “What? No, Liz is great! Her and I were great friends.”

“You know I can tell when you’re lying, right Y/L/N?”

“No you can’t, Evans.”

“Yes I can.” He huffed, she could practically see the small smile on his face as his fingers still worked on her hair. He had learned to braid from Isabelle, and Y/N was glad because she was a novice at the task. “I don’t know why your keep something like this a secret from me, Y/N. I don’t mind. You have your own feelings for people-“

Y/N scoffed, mind going back to every argument Max and his sister had over Isabelle’s disliking of the Ortecho girl.

If Max couldn’t accept his own sisters feelings about the woman he loved, then Y/N was a long shot. Her presence was little compared to Isabelle, and Isabelle’s was little compared to Liz. That much was obvious and it caused a pang in her heart to think of it.

“Scoffing? Really?” He asked, and Y/N could see his patience slowly wearing thin. A common theme when anybody spoke ill of Liz in the past, and something he had not grown out of in the decade.

Y/N sighed, pulling her hair from his fingers and letting the braided hair fall into a tangled mess. “Look, Max, I didn’t hate Liz. Her and I were somewhat of friends. We weren’t close but we weren’t strangers either, just, I don’t know,” she shrugged, standing up and facing him. She was mentally preparing herself for the truth that would eventually come out. Michael had set it in motion, and she would burn his cowboy hat for it. “Why is it such a big deal?”

“It’s not a big deal, I just don’t see why you would keep this from me. I can see on your face how much you hate her. You get a crinkle between your eyebrows whenever I mention her name,” he huffed. He was still seated, but body full of tension. “You don’t need to keep things from me.”

“Well I couldn’t tell you that I didn’t like her, Max-“

“Yes you could have!” His voice raised slightly. They were both defensive. “I’m your best friend, you can tell me anything. I just don’t see how you could hate somebody like Liz.”

Y/N had enough. She was getting angrier by the second. Max wasn’t listening to her. He could have dropped it and left the conversation at a misunderstanding. He could have backed down.

“You were at Rosa’s funeral, you worked at the diner, you and her worked on so many projects together. I just don’t understand it. Liz is-“

“Liz is practically perfect, Max!” Y/N clasped her hands over her eyes. She was fed up. “Liz Ortecho will always be perfect to you. I spent all of high school competing with her to get even a speck of your attention and I’m still competing with her after 10 years!”

The words flew from her mouth in a fit of rage, her temper barely calming to realise the meaning but Max furrowed his brow, squinting his nicely tinted eyes he with confusion.

“How... how are you competing with her? You’ve been my best friend for years, Y/N. How I feel - how I felt for Liz is nothing like how I feel for you,” Max couldn’t find a connection between his speech at the hurt expression taking over his best friends face. She hadn’t said another word, instead darting over to the door and snatching her keys from hook she had put in his house. A symbol of her to be with him, she had said.

He followed her. He walked behind her in the thick Mexico air. She was panting. Her shoulders were heaving with a mix of anger and exertion from the ferocity of her stomps.

“Y/N!” He called. She did not answer. He had practically told her that he hasn’t ever seen her in the way she has seen him. Her mind was revolving around one thing: even after a decade of her absence, Liz was incomparable. Y/N could never be that to Max. “Y/N, please stop! Talk to me!” He caught up with her, wrapping his large hand around her wrist. His touch near burned.

“I don’t want to talk to you, Max!” He could see the tears stinging in her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Liz. I don’t want to talk about how you feel about her, and I definitely don’t want to talk about how I can never compare to her. You will never see me how you see her, and I am wasting my time chasing after you! I have been for the past damn decade!”

She didn’t realise she was screaming. She didn’t realise the sobs that started wracking her chest when she stopped. She also didn’t pay any mind to the pain in Max’s eyes with the way she unloaded on him.

It took her a minute to calm herself, wrapping her arm from Max’s grip and aggressively pushing her palms into her eyes as if to force the tears back. She was a mess and she knew it. The situation escalated much faster than she ever intended for it to, but the truth will always come out. She had always been able to go from 0-100 very fast, never usually with Max, but she had grown far too tired of hearing the name ‘Liz’ echo through her life reminding her of her insignificance.

Max stood with his mouth gaping like a fish, furthering Y/N’s frustration. She didn’t expect him to say anything, and if she did, she knew it would be negative.

“Y/N,” he trailed off, attempting to understand. “What do you mean? You’ve been chasing after me for what?” He was never the best at understanding obvious queues and she knew it. She had only one thing left to do.

Their friendship would be over the minute the words came.

Her shoulders squared, chin set. The tears kept flowing but her voice was strong. She was an officer. She was a woman. She would no longer be affected by this. Max would never feel the same way, and it was time she accepted it.

Her posture changed so dramatically from a minute before as she regained herself and looked Max straight in the eyes. Now or never, the truth always comes out. “I never wanted to be your best friend, Max.” Pain washed over his face but she pushed down the guilt. “I have been in love with you since middle school. At the prom, I couldn’t handle seeing Liz with you. I saw you two together in the desert and it broke my heart. I kept out of the way for so long because you were happy chasing her, and then she left. She left and I stayed. I stayed with you and kept loving you.” A sigh pushed through her lungs, deflating her chest and pushing her anger out with it. “I thought after 10 years you would maybe be over her, but you aren’t. I have lived for too long wanting you but never being able to step out from under the shadow of Liz Ortecho. She doesn’t deserve my hate, and neither do you, but I can’t stay here and deal with the pain.”

“But- but you never said anything. You don’t need to leave because of this.” He tried to grab for her again as she turned to face her car. “Y/N please, don’t let this ruin us.” His voice was sad as she paused with her hand on the handle for her car door. “You’re my partner. I need you.”

She wanted to nod and hug him, pull him into her arms and apologize but she couldn’t. She couldn’t continue living a lie and living in constant competition. She needed to accept that she could never have him. He would always belong to liz.

She closed her eyes, letting s few more tears fall, thankful for he facing away from him but she knew he could see the reflection in her car window. “You don’t need me, Max. You want me to stay to pretend like nothing happened but I am done pretending. I’ve been pretending for so long that you’re all I know.” A sad smile was on her face. His eyes were full to the brim with tears in the reflection. “You won’t love me the way I love you. You never will.”

“Y/N, wait-“

She pulled the door open, sliding in and securing it closed behind her.

The last he saw of her was the sight of her truck pulling away from his house. But the next day, a ghost in the form of Liz Ortecho stepped back into Roswell.

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