#them going to school is kind of like emerging from a long hibernation

[lightandwinged]

Haven’t posted the bobbins in a hot minute!

The twins turn three tomorrow! I legitimately cannot believe that I’ve been doing the fulltime mom thing to twins for three whole ass years. And I have to brag a little bit about their birthday stuff because last year, Covid suddenly happening two days before their birthday derailed everything--we’d been planning to go to the aquarium in Boston and take them to a special ice cream place and just have a great time, but then plague. 

And they had a good time, but I felt bad. 

So maybe this year I went overboard JUST a bit, both (a) because we could afford it (Kyle’s new job is pretty sweet like that), and (b) because I wanted this year to make up for last year being meh. I know they’re too young to really remember but on the off chance that they do, I don’t want them to remember two miserable Covid birthdays. One is enough.

I made cupcakes, because they are tiny, and cupcakes are easier to individually theme than bigger cakes. Carrie loves unicorns, Isaac loves Mickey and Minnie, it was a fun thing to do. 

But kiddos overall. 

Sam is inching closer to SEVEN YEARS OLD WHAT, is on his third lost tooth (my favorite tooth when kids lose it because it’s the one that really makes him look like a little jack o lantern), and speaks mostly in Pokemon these days. I understand none of it, but he is OBSESSED and keeps coming up with creative ways to bring them into his day-to-day life (he’s beaten Sword about three times and is currently working his way through whatever the previous title was on the DS; his favorite vacillates day to day, but he tends to go for fire types). I’m still homeschooling him until the end of the year because everyone keeps changing their mind about when people are going back and doing what. And he’s kicking ass. Currently whizzing through very basic geometry (e.g., finding simple perimeter and area) as part of his third grade math curriculum and working on recognizing patterns in science. 

We also suspect that he’s either autistic or has ADHD (per his in-home therapists as well), but wait times for official testing are L O N G. We’re having him evaluated through the school, though, so that if he doesn’t get a diagnosis before he heads back in the fall (because I love him, but I do not love teaching him), he’ll at least have an IEP already in place and be able to get any assistance he needs. And that will most likely take the form of someone breaking tasks into smaller steps, maybe giving him fidget opportunities while he’s learning (he absorbs a LOT when he’s playing with Legos), maybe taking tests separately so that he can have someone read the questions aloud to him so that he absorbs them (because he can read, but unless he also HEARS things, he absorbs nothing). 

He’s a terrifyingly smart kid still, and I have no doubt that he’ll be on par with his fellow second graders next year academically. I just want him to not feel overwhelmed while working. 

*

Isaac is slowly slowly slowly gaining spoken language. I’ve said before and stand by that I don’t care if he never speaks completely fluently, but I do want him to be able to communicate his wants and needs so that he doesn’t get frustrated so much. And he does get frustrated, but his meltdowns remain rare--they usually only happen if something he loved doing ends or if someone takes his toy or won’t give him their toy or just other typical toddler stuff (which inclines me to classify them more as tantrums than meltdowns, but eh). BUT he also communicates, not just by taking someone’s hand and putting it on something he wants, but by using words. He LOVES to talk about the cats (which are his favorite thing--cats of all types, including those in the musical) (but NOT THE MOVIE DEAR JESUS), and the other day, he very meticulously directed me to draw a picture of the three cats happily sleeping on his bed, based on his memory of seeing them happily sleeping on his bed at naptime. 

He’s definitely got his drilled down special interests--cats, cars, Mickey Mouse, Daniel Tiger, and Celtic Woman (we call them his “ladies”). And he is just such an absolute sweetie. He still has the smile that basically convinces you that you would both kill and die for him (shown above), and the way he relaxes against me when he’s tired just makes me sigh and love him to absolute pieces. He’s 110% a momma’s boy, and although I hope he grows out of it when the time is right, it’s really sweet right now. 

He easily qualified for special ed preschool, which I’ll talk about more in a second. 

*

And then Miss Carrie, who basically read the rhyme about little girls being made of sugar and spice and all things nice and took it as gospel but ALSO realized that you can do all of those things while being a monster, beating up everyone who treats you wrong, and covering yourself in tattoos. I say of her that she’s too much, but in the best possible way: I want her to keep being too much forever, because it is absolutely delightful. She’s always giggling or twirling, singing or commanding her brothers in a game of pretend. She never just walks anywhere, she always prances or skips or dances or hops or jumps. She can be a screechy little spitfire one second and then brush away her angry tears and transform into a little cherub the next, and it’s hilarious. Everything ever must be pink and glittery (I promise, I did not try and force pink on her, she jumped to it on her own), must flounce out correctly when she twirls, must make her feel like a fairy tale princess. 

She merrily adopts all the stereotypical “girly” things in life--Barbies, princesses, My Little Pony (yep, we’re back in that phase), unicorns, mermaids, “cute” things, etc. At the same time, she’s always game for a lightsaber fight, playing “bug” with Sammy (I don’t know what “bug” is as a game, but the kids have established rules for it and play it whenever they’re not too tired after dinner), and wrestling with her dad and brothers. It’s wonderful. 

And SHE qualified for special ed preschool because her muscle tone is hilariously low (read: she flops). 

*

The twins are starting preschool Monday because they are turning three and thus losing early intervention services. I worry somewhat about them being in school with Covid still raging (even though I’m 50% of the way to fully vaccinated--going back for Pfizer #2 on Saturday!), but it’s a huge relief that their therapies (speech, occupational, physical) are being coordinated by the school and not by me. I’m the most organized person in this house, and anyone who’s ever seen my house knows what a statement that is (it’s gotten worse since my sciatica has settled in, because bending over is just not a thing I can do without suffering), so having that burden lifted from my shoulders? Heavenly. 

And I’m just overall proud as fuck of all three kids. They’re so resilient, and I know that the pandemic has been hard on them in a lot of ways, but they’re still kicking ass, still smiling and laughing and having fun, and that’s been a bright spot for the entire last year.

[sunmoonandeddie]

don’t forget to sing

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 4,973

summary: You meet someone new in the most unlikely of ways during the quarantine in New York City.  An alley is six feet apart, right?

chapter warnings: swearing, mention of sickness

masterlist

a/n: Let me know what you think!

This was just fucking perfect.

Of course.  Of course you’d move to New York City three weeks before a fucking pandemic.  Cities were a cesspool for illness, and the Big Apple was no exception.

Your dreams of going out and exploring the city and finding little spots that you could call your own now that you were a real New Yorker and not just a tourist anymore were gone.  You’d been so busy unpacking and getting set up at your new job that you’d only gotten to go out for groceries.

And now all of New York City was shut down.  Broadway was closed, for heaven’s sake.  You couldn’t remember a time when that had ever happened in your lifetime.

It was mildly terrifying.  And by mildly, you meant extremely.

Thankfully, your job was primarily online anyway.  You were a playwright and you were basically an intern and assistant for Tony Kushner, possibly one of the greatest playwrights of all time.

But you were lonely.  At least before you were ordered to stay home, you could go out and get a little human interaction at the grocery store, even if the cashier was just telling you your total.  But now, everyone at the grocery store eyed each other warily.  Like you’d infect them with the virus at any second.

Which, it was possible.  It was why you only went late at night in order to avoid most of the crowds.  And also why you’d sewn a mask out of an old t-shirt in order to protect yourself.  And also why you’d stocked up on groceries so you wouldn’t have to go for about two weeks.

“I don’t know,” you said as you held the phone to your ear, wandering back and forth in your tiny little apartment.  Your best friend was on the other side, a thousand miles away.  “It’s getting really bad here.”

And, of course, she could try to understand, but Hope was all the way across the country.  She’d gotten a job in her hometown in California after graduation.  “I think we’re starting to head that way, too.  Are you going to be okay?”

“I think so,” you said, trying to be cheerful as you sat at your desk, pulling your knees up to your chest.  “I’m used to being alone, remember?  I’m a writer.  All I need is coffee and my laptop and I’m ready to hibernate.”

Hope let out a sigh, and you could hear the creak of her bed as she laid down.  “I don’t know.  I just think that maybe you should come out here.”

“I can’t.  I don’t have that kind of money.  And I just got here.  I don’t want to run away at the first sign of trouble,” you said as you opened up your laptop.  “Besides, I’m probably safer here locked away in my apartment by myself than I would be in your big house with you, your parents, and Scott.  Your parents work in a lab with hundreds of other people.  They have no idea if any of them have it.  It’d probably be safer for you to come stay here with me.”

“Me in that shoe box?” She scoffed.  “As if.”

Your laptop whirred to life as you ran your finger back and forth over the mouse pad.  “We talked about this.  You’re a California girl.  I’m New York.”  A smirk settled over your face as you cradled the phone between your ear and your shoulder, typing in your password.  “Two households, both alike in dignity—”

“Jesus, theatre kids are the worst,” she muttered.

You barked out a laugh as you pulled up your latest word document.  “I’m a grown woman, you know.”  You reached over your desk and opened up the curtains, figuring you could use a little change of scenery, even if it was just the apartment building across the alley.  The red brick was illuminated by the setting sun, the sky painted in shades of orange and gold.

There’s a tense pause between the two of you.  There’s a lot of unspoken words.

The both of you know that this is serious.  People are dying and there’s nothing the two of you can really do except hope and stay inside as much as possible and wash your hands.  And this is the first time the two of you have lived apart since your sophomore year of university.  It’s a big change and of course, all this happens right when you’re on your own.

“Are you going to be okay?” Hope asked, her voice cracking.

Taking in a shaky breath, you rest her head in your hand.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’ll be okay.  You just worry about staying healthy yourself, okay?  And take care of your parents.”

Her parents were both a little older, and they were at risk with everything going around.  They’d become your second family in the years since you’d first met Hope, and had even let you live with them for a while after graduation while you saved up for your move to New York City.  Hell, they’d paid for you to come spend school breaks with them.  They were your family.

And now you were all alone with no way to get to them.  Even if you did want to fly, all incoming and outgoing flights were being canceled.  They hadn’t officially announced that they’d be closing the airports, but it was coming.

A light in the apartment across the alley from yours flicked on, and your eyes were immediately drawn to it.

“Oh…,” you breathed out, accidentally cutting off what Hope was saying.

“What?”

“There’s a…  There’s a man.”

“A man?!  We are in a pandemic!  There’s no dating in a pandemic!”

You went quiet as your elbow rested on your desk, your chin in your hand.  “He’s… gorgeous.”

And gorgeous, he was.  He looked like he’d just gotten out of the shower, with the towel swung low on his hips.  Dark hair was smattered across his broad chest like some hero on the cover of a trashy romance novel.  He ran his fingers through his long, damp hair as he opened up the drawers of his dresser, picking out boxers and sweats.

“God…  He looks like he just walked off a photoshoot with, like… Vogue,” you said quietly.  Drool was starting to drip from the corner of your mouth, you were so entranced.

“Wait…  Really?” Hope said, her voice rising.  “I need details!  Now!”

Brows furrowed, you couldn’t take your eyes off of him.  “You have a boyfriend.”

“Who I haven’t gotten to see in over a week.  Scott is the love of my life, but I need to live vicariously through you,” she said.  “The most romance we have right now is when his internet actually works and we get to FaceTime.”

You were in a trance, just watching him move around his room.  “You know how cute I thought Jimmy Woo was?  He was in my Econ class and then we went on, like… two dates?”

“Yeah.”

“I would feed Jimmy Woo to a pack of hyenas if this man asked me to.”

But of course, nothing good could last.  Your elbow slipped off the edge of the desk and your face slammed down onto the wood.  “Oh, my god,” you groaned as you fell to the ground, clutching your mouth.  “Holy fuck…”

Hope was shouting at you through the phone, demanding to know whether or not you were okay.  She was more frantic than you’d ever heard her.

Pulling your hand away from your face, you winced as you saw the dark red blood.  “Shit. Shit, shit, shit…”  You didn’t think you’d knocked out a tooth, thank god.  You were sure that you’d be able to feel that.  “Yeah…  I think I’m okay.”  You started to pull yourself up, glaring at the blood that was on the edge of the desk.

But when you found the Most Handsome Man in the World staring at you from his window, looking just as worried as Hope sounded in his towel, you quickly ducked back down, willing him to go away.  You don’t think you’d ever been so embarrassed.

“Hope, I’m going to throw myself from the Brooklyn Bridge,” you hissed into the phone as you sat on the floor, leaning against your desk.  “He saw me bust my face open!  Or he heard it!”

There’s a pause, and then a snort.  “You have to admit, it’s kinda funny.  And the type of thing that would only happen to you.”

“Gee, I’m so happy you’re having fun with this,” you said.

You stayed down there for an extraordinarily long time, hoping to whatever god was out there that he’d stop looking.  When you finally emerged from your hiding place, you found that he was watching a movie with his bedroom light off, his eyes completely focused on the television.

And there was a whiteboard leaning against the window, messy scrawl in blue marker.

Hope you didn’t hurt yourself too bad!!  And I’m glad you enjoyed the show ;)

More than a little appalled at how blatant he was, you grabbed a piece of notebook paper and a Sharpie, writing out your reply before sticking it to the window with a piece of tape.

Nothing but a busted lip and broken pride :(

You shut your curtains, carefully cleaning your wound before getting to work on your latest writing assignment.  Though occasionally, you could remember the strange interaction and a smile would creep across your face.

Which would then cause you to wince in pain as the cut on your lip came open again.

Right before you went to bed, you peeked out of your curtains to see if he’d replied again.

Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone what I saw :)  Goodnight!

You quickly wrote out a reply, taping it up before heading to bed.

Pinky promise?  Goodnight!

When you woke up, there was already another note left for you, and the man seemed to be gone.

Good morning!  I hope your lips feel better!

You had no idea when he’d be back or why the hell he’d left.  It was a pandemic after all.

Granted, a lot of people still had to work in this whole mess.  It was ridiculous.

Feeling a little bold, you wrote out a message.

You wanna kiss it better?

But you quickly crumbled up the piece of paper and threw it away.  Despite the fact that you’d seen him almost completely naked the night before, you didn’t know him.  He’d only said three sentences to you so far, and they were written out.

It was the quarantine equivalent of sliding into someone’s direct messages on Twitter or Instagram.

Should you even reply?  He was…  He was the kind of guy you saw on Love Island.  Too perfect and too ripped and sweet and mysterious and friendly, all at the same time.

You’d been getting into a lot of shows you wouldn’t have watched before while quarantined.  You’d watched the entire first season of the American version of the show, and you’d probably start the United Kingdom version sometime that day.  It wasn’t like you had anything better to do.

“Have you written back to him?” Hope asked as you set up your laptop on your desk, pulling up Spotify.

“What?” You asked, your phone cradled between your ear and your shoulder.  “No.  It was a one time thing.  It’s done.”  Before she could reply, you said your goodbyes and hung up.  You really needed to clean and that wasn’t going to happen if you chattered away on the phone with Hope like you usually did.

Music blasted from your laptop’s speaker after you hit play, and you threw open the window, letting the late winter air in.  It had started to get really stuffy in your apartment and you needed something to do other than work and binge watching or you’d go insane.

You didn’t even notice that your neighbor that lived across the alley had come home, and was watching you with a delighted smile on his face.

You were half-dancing, half-cleaning, belting out the lyrics without a care as you got more and more into it.  “Didn’t even know it!  No punches left to roll with!  You got to keep me focused!  You want it?  Say so!” You sang, twirling around with your trash can in hand as you picked up all the various little items.  “Let me check my chest, my breath right quick!  He ain’t ever seen it in a dress like this!  He ain’t ever even been impressed like this!”

Unseen by you, the mysterious stranger took a few steps forward, grateful that he’d left his window open.

“Prolly why I got him quiet on the set like zip!  Like it, love it, need it bad!  Take it, own it, steal it fast!  Boy, stop playin!’  Grab my ass!  Why you acting like you—”  You turned around, breaking off with a squeak as you saw him standing there watching you, your trashcan and an empty mug in hand.  You were completely frozen as he stared at you with a slight smile, leaving you a deer in headlights.

Suddenly, you were hyper aware of just how awful you looked.  Your hair hadn’t been washed, or your face.  You were wearing a men’s two XL hoodie that you’d stolen from some guy you’d fucked for a few months in college and a pair of sweatpants that you’d had since you were on the middle school track team that were still too long in the feet.  You’d done shot put and discus.

Why the fuck were you thinking about shot put and discus?  You hadn’t thought about it over twelve years.  It wasn’t like you were ever any good at it.

The Most Handsome Man in the World was staring at you, holding a takeout box at a mug of tea.  But at least he was fully dressed, even if that didn’t awake away from how attractive he was.  “Hey,” he said with an easy smile.

“Hi.”  Your voice cracked as you spoke, and you’d never wanted to slam your head against the wall more.  How could you be this much of a fucking loser?

“I like your music choice.  Who is that?” He asked curiously as he set his food on the bed, kicking off his shoes before sitting down.

Yeah, he was definitely just as attractive fully clothed as he was naked, which was truly a feat in itself.  Surely there was some kind of award for that, right?

You realized you’d been staring at him in silence and coughed, replying, “Doja Cat.”

“How’s your lip?”

“Good.”

“Good.”

The two of you stared at each other, him happily munching on the chicken nuggets he’d picked up.  You hadn’t moved an inch.

“I’m James,” he said after swallowing.  “But my friends call me Bucky.”

You gave him your name as you slowly moved a few steps closer, sitting down in your desk chair and pulling your knees up to your chest.  “What kind of a name is Bucky?”

He chuckled, dipping his next nugget into the sweet and sour sauce.  “My middle name is Buchanan.  My best friend, Steve, started calling me Bucky when we were in kindergarten, and I don’t know… it just stuck.”

“I mean…”  You shrugged, wrapping your arms around her legs.  “‘S alright.  I like James though.”

“You can call me James.”

“Oh.  Okay.”

It felt intimate, somehow.  Calling him by his first name.

The quarantine was forcing people to revert back to Victorian ways of social conduct.  If you were lucky, you’d get your own Mr. Darcy.

But with the sweats you had on, it was more than likely that you’d end up an old spinster.

How did he find it so easy to talk to a complete stranger?  Granted, you were a lot less intimidating than he was.

“How’s your lip?” He asked, his head tilting to the side as he peered over at you.  “You don’t need stitches, right?”

There was an unspoken worry there.  Needing stitches meant you’d probably go without, since all the hospitals were so backed up with those that had fallen ill.  And going to the hospital just meant you’d risk your own health by coming in close contact with those going to get treated for Covid-19.

“If you do, I have a first aid kit I keep here in my apartment with the stuff to do stitches,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.  “But I wouldn’t exactly be able to come over there to help you.  You’d have to do the stitches yourself.”

Your brows furrowed as you looked at him.  “Why do you have the stuff to do stitches in your first aid kit?  I did see this one episode of one of those crime shows where they used safety pins to hold a gash open, but I can’t remember what show it was.”

Mirth sparkled in his eyes as he watched you.  “I’m a nurse.”

“Oh,” you said, relaxing.  But then you remembered, and your heart sank.  “Oh.  I… James.”

James looked rather sheepish as he looked down at his feet.  “It’s nothing really.  But I can’t use the elevator since it would risk someone being in an enclosed space with me.  So… you know.  I don’t really need leg day, right?”  He let out a weak laugh, clearly trying to blow it off.  “I’m not allowed to use the gym anymore.  Not that I would.  I don’t want to risk infecting anyone, even if I don’t have it yet.”

The way he said ‘yet’ hurt your heart.  He knew the position he was in, how dangerous it was.

There was nothing you could really say to him.  What the hell could you say?  Thank you for your service?  Technically, you could, but you remembered how your dad had felt about it.  He’d been a field doctor over in Afghanistan until he’d died on his fifth tour.

“I was just doing what needed to be done, sweetheart,” he’d said to you when you’d asked.  “Trying to save as many people as possible.  I don’t need thanks for that.”

But fuck.  James was going out everyday to fight an opponent that he couldn’t see.

“My lip is fine,” you said eventually, breaking the silence with a weak smile.

“Good,” he said, clearing his throat.  “I’ll let you get back to your solo concert.  I’ve gotta shower.”

Things went on as normally.  Or, at least, as normal as things could be in a time like that.  Only now, you had someone to talk to that wasn’t Hope every night.

He wouldn’t tell you about what it was like at the hospital though.  He’d get this far away look in his eyes and his face would pale.  “Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about, darlin,’” he’d croon, a sad smile on his lips.  “You let me worry, and you just keep yourself safe and inside, okay?”

Sometimes you’d miss him.  He’d be at the hospital for days on end, sleeping in on-call rooms and eating from vending machines.  That’s when you’d leave little notes all over your window for him to read when he got back.

But then one day he came home and you could just tell that he was more worn down that usual.

“James?” You called out softly as you pushed the window open.  You hadn’t seen him in two days.  “Are you okay?”  You leaned half out the window, your elbows resting on the ledge.

He took in a shaky breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he willed himself not to cry.

“James?”  You’re about to repeat your question when he looks up, staring blankly at the wall.

“Steve has it,” he said quietly, his voice cracking.

Your heart stopped inside your chest.  “Oh.  Oh, James…,” you breathed out.

A few tears slipped down his cheeks, his hands clenched at his sides.  “I went into a room in the ER and there he was.”

You’d heard so many stories about his best friend since childhood that you felt like you knew Steve already.  Bucky had met him when they were just five years old, on the first day of kindergarten, and it’d been history from there.  But Steve had been sickly and small up until they were about seventeen, when he’d undergone some revolutionary clinical trial.  Fixing his heart and lungs had kick started his entire system and it was like everything magically went away.

“Not even that stupid treatment prevented him from getting sick,” Bucky said quietly.  “He looked…  He looked like he was on his deathbed.”

You paused, before crawling out of the window and out onto the fire escape.  “James, take my hand.”

You knew it was stupid.  It was really, really stupid.  He was around those with the virus daily, but he needed you.  You’d risk it to give him a little bit of comfort.

“What?” He said, looking at you like you’d grown a second head.  “No.  No.  I can’t.  What if I give it to you?”

“Then we’ll figure it out,” you said, insistently holding your hand out to him.  “Take my hand.”

Sniffling, he reached his hand out of his window and took yours, your fingers intertwining.  He took in a shaky breath, a fresh wave of tears coming on as he squeezed his eyes shut.  “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted after a long moment just holding your hand.  “I’m so fucking scared.  I don’t want to go in there day after day.  I know people need me but I…”  He looked up at you with sea glass eyes.  “I don’t want to die.”

“You’re not going to,” you said firmly, with as much conviction as you could muster up.  “You hear me?  You’re not going to die, and neither is Steve.  We’re going to make it through this.”

“Sometimes I just… hold their hand,” he said, so quiet you could barely hear.  “They’re dying alone.  Their family and friends aren’t allowed in to see them.  So I just… stay with them.  So they have someone there.”  Bucky lets his head fall into his chest, his shoulders slumping.  “And then I have to call the family to let them know.  And I just hope that maybe…  knowing I was there with them helps a little.  But it’s not the same.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, not daring to look down because you’re several stories up and if you lean a little too far, it would result in a trip to the hospital you can’t afford.  You haven’t been outside in days.

You don’t realize that you’re crying right along with him until you taste the salty brine of your tears on your lips.

“We’re going to be okay, James,” you said, though you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself.  “This won’t last forever.  And I’m going to be here with you, okay?  No matter what happens.  I’m here.  I’ve got you.”

He squeezed your hand once more before letting go, nodding for you to go back inside.  “Go wash your hands.  Now.”

A smile creeps across your face as you surrender to his wishes, crawling back through your window.  “Yes, sir.”

He’s touch and go the next few days.  Sometimes he seems upbeat, positive even, about the whole situation.  Others…  Well.  He had plenty of reason to be down.

“You know, you’re a pretty good singer,” he commented one night.  He was sitting against the window, leaning his head against the frame.  You had climbed out onto the fire escape again with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.  “That night that I heard you singing to that song…  The Doja Cat one?  You’re good.”  His head tilted to the side in the way that a puppy might.  “Why don’t you sing more often?”

“I used to,” you said after a deep sigh.  “I used to sing a lot.  I was going to be a musical theatre actress.  But I got told so often that I was better at writing than performing so… I don’t know.  I guess I just decided it’d be better to pursue something I was better at.”

His lower lip was caught between his teeth as he looked at you.

You’d never had someone look at you the way he did.  Like he wanted to see all of you, like he craved it, needed it, even.  It was exhilarating.

“That doesn’t mean you stop singing.”  He moved to rest his chin in his palm.  “Even if you don’t become a performer professionally, you don’t stop singing.  Especially in times like these.”

“What?  Like those fake videos of people in Italy?” You asked with a snort.  A breeze wound through the alley and you tightened the blanket around you.  “The one that Katy Perry retweeted?”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he said with an eye roll.  “My ma used to sing around the house.  Hearing you…  It made me feel like I was home again.  Just for a little while.”  He smiled slyly.  “And you have pretty sick dance moves.”

Groaning, you climbed back into your window, shooting a glare at him.  “You promised not to talk about my dancing!”

“It was cute!”

“Was not!”

“Was to!”

You took in a deep breath as you stared at him with narrowed eyes.  “No,” you said, pointing a finger at him.  “No, it’s not.”  Before he could reply, you started to shut the window, calling out, “Goodnight, James!”  The window shut with a definitive click and you winked as he flipped you the middle finger.

Steve came home three weeks later, completely clean of the virus.  The quarantine finally ended on May 22nd, 2020, the amount of cases down to maybe a hundred that were contained within the hospital.

In that time, you’d gone outside a total of six times to get groceries.  You’d gained ten pounds, even with the basic exercises you were doing in your apartment to keep you active.  You’d also saved up two thousand dollars, since you weren’t going out and you’d put a parental lock on your laptop and phone so you couldn’t go online shopping until further notice, but you were lucky in that way.  You had an extremely well-paying job that you could do online, and your boss wasn’t an asshole.

Millions of New Yorkers flooded the streets, crying and hugging and touching everyone.

You hadn’t been touched in so long.  The last time had been when you’d held Bucky’s hand on your balcony, and that had been the only time he’d allowed it since he didn’t want to get you sick.

He’d been lucky that he didn’t get it himself.  Most of those that had fallen ill were healthcare workers.  Overworked, tired healthcare workers.

You stepped out of the front doors of your apartment building, feeling an overwhelming sense of elation.  You’d already talked to Hope that morning on FaceTime.  Her and her parents were celebrating by going to their favorite restaurant that was allowing dine-in again.

Tears pricked your eyes as you watched the people around you.  It reminded you a little bit of those pictures of V-Day in New York City at the end of World War II.

But where was Bucky?

He’d been at work yesterday, and since you hadn’t seen him, it probably meant that he’d passed out in an on-call room instead of coming home.

But you needed to see him.  You didn’t care if he was all gross and greasy.  You just needed him.

You loved him.

Your eyes locked in on a familiar head of long, brown hair sticking a little bit above the crowd.  He was awful tall.  When he turned his head, it only confirmed it.  “JAMES!” You shouted, trying to break through the roar of the crowd.  “JAMES!”

His brows furrowed, his head turning a little towards the sound of his voice.  When his eyes landed on you they went wide as saucers, his lips forming your name even though you couldn’t hear him over the people.

The two of you pushed through the hordes of people, trying to reach one another.  When you finally broke through, you threw yourself into his arms, your arms wrapping around his neck as he twirled you around.  The both of you were crying happy tears, wide smiles on your faces.

“We made it,” you whispered, your voice cracking.  “We’re okay.”  You pulled back enough to cup his face, so many words you wanted to say getting caught in your throat.

But before you could say them, he pulled you into a kiss, one hand on the back of your head and the other on your hip.  Grinning against your lips, he dipped you just a little, holding you tight.  To passerby, it was a remnant of the iconic V-Day kiss.  But you couldn’t think about that.  All you could think about was Bucky.

“Hi,” he said softly as he pulled away, breathing heavily.

Your nose nudged against his as your eyes fluttered open.  “Hi.”

He stole another kiss, your heart skipping a beat inside your chest.  “You better not stop singing now that this is over,” he said quietly as he held you to him, refusing to let go.  “Can’t go a day without hearing your pretty voice.”

“You’re a sap.”

“Your sap.”

“My sap?!”

He had a cheeky smile as he looked at you, cupping your cheeks.  “Does this mean I can take you on a date now?”

You were lucky.  You knew people who got the virus, but none of them had died.  Others didn’t have the same luck unfortunately, and it was a tragedy.  But you don’t stop singing during dark times.  You just sing a little louder.

[xbunnybunz]

Sick Days [BEN Drowned x Reader]

Summary: When a creepypasta manages to crawl into your home through a computer, people usually scream and call the police. You? Well, it's just another normal day for you.

Genre: Fluff, Horror, Humor

Date: June 20, 2015

-----

You sat in your room with the expression of utter boredom painted on your features, your hand absentmindedly tracing patterns on the table next to your open laptop. You grunted as your computer went into hibernation mode again and tapped the spacebar to reawaken the screen. Your bedroom window was wide open, allowing the evening breeze to float into your adobe and gently rustle the papers on your table. Fading streaks of sunlight peeked through your fluttering curtains, caressing your body with soft warmth.

Despite the serene atmosphere that had settled into your semi-messy room, your features were soon twisted into a grimace. The fingers that had been trailing along the table began drumming a steady rhythm, growing quicker and more impatient by the second. You glanced at the clock for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, and read the blaring red numbers 6:23 PM. You scowled, annoyed. "Ugh, where is that little rascal?" You muttered, tapping your keyboard again and watching irefully as your homescreen popped up again. Ben usually arrived before sundown, but the sun was already halfway down the horizon. Ben probably would've taunted you for being so worked up over his absence, and you, being a little short tempered, would probably fall for his teasing and would have exploded into a mess of jumbled profanities. Though many would describe your actions now as "eager," you recalled how petrified you were when Ben first popped out of the fossilized desktop your dad insisted they brought when your family moved. That day, your mother and father had been visiting a sick relative in the hospital, and couldn't come home for the night. You, feeling free and a little daring, decided to stay up the entire night watching horror flicks in your livingroom. Although you felt the terror of eight marathoned horror movies shake you to your core, you persisted, jumping at every little noise from the movie and from your creaky home. That's why, when you witnessed the forgotten computer in the corner of the livingroom fizz and flicker on and off, you froze in unfathomable fear, merely staring as a deathly pale hand clawed it's way out of a jumble of binary code and pixels. By the time a head of tousled white hair and pitch black eyes with crimson irises emerged from the screen, you were already halfway out the door, knowing better than to trap yourself in your own bedroom. You would've spent the night at a neighbor's house, but your closest neighbor must have been at least a mile away- being that your family decided to move into the suburbs. Unfortunately for you, who was secluded in the pitch black of the night with god-knows-what in your house, it was pouring outside. In your mad scramble for salvation, you had not grabbed the keys to your house. You had originally settled for the plan to stay in the freezing rain, (it was definitely a safer bet than being in the house) but alas, the hours spent watching scary movies finally took its toll on you, and had made you paranoid to every small rustle and crunch. (In truth, it was just the trees.) This terror had driven you to crawl up some old growths of ivy on the side of your home, feeling blessed to find your bedroom window open just a crack- allowing you to pry the rest of the window open. Halfway through your window, you looked up- only to become blatantly horrified. There the white-haired boy was, floating in the middle of the room with bleeding eyesockets- as if he had been waiting for your arrival. Overcome with panic and surprise, you allowed the wet soles of your feet slip out from under you, sending your drenched body sailing face-first towards the hardwood floor of your bedroom. Your nose took the brunt of the fall, and erupted in a mess of blood upon impact. The pain of a shattered nose did little to deter you from the thing in your room. Holding your nose with both hands, you scrambled to press yourself against the wall- as far away from that demon-ghost-thing as possible. But when you looked back up, you were shocked to find it trying desperately to hold back laughter, it's eye twitching from the effort. The corner of it's mouth was twitching toward a smirk, and it's eyes were betraying it's stoic expression- it wanted to laugh at you! You shot to your feet, prepared to duke it out with the hovering monster- only to slip a second time on the rainwater that you had tracked into your room. This time, your head collided hard with the frame of your bed, and you blacked out. You woke up the next morning with a wrapped head and a bandaged nose. It turns out your parents had returned from their little trip and found you lying in a puddle of your own nosebleed- which sounds as humiliating as it felt- and had patched you up. After you told them about what you had seen, your parents merely laughed and gave you an affectionate pat on the head, claiming that the stress of moving and lack of sleep had to do with your "hallucinations." You would've believed them, if it wasn't for the fact that the boy showed up in your room again. You fell asleep while using your laptop and when you awoke, you found the pale-haired boy freeing his foot from your computer screen. Though you were sure that the white-haired monster returned to finish you off, you found him simply pointing his finger at your wrapped up face and cackling at you, tears budding in the gaping holes that were his eyes. You felt your face burn with embarrassment, and though you should have called for help, you simply sat there, allowing the strange being to laugh at your misfortune. After what felt like an eternity he retreated back into your computer, still snickering- leaving you bewildered and dazed. He later introduced himself as Ben Drowned over a cyberchat website named "Cleverbot," and you learned his story, as well as the fact that he could teleport just about anywhere that held an electronic device. Later that night, you awoke to a flooded room. With your heart pummeling with fear, you gasped and flailed for breath, desperately searching for a way out. You were less than pleased to find Ben on the screen on your open laptop- which was, for some reason, still working under water. His shoulders shook with muted laughter, doubling over with the hilarity he found in your pitiful predicament. As soon as it started, it was gone. The water that had once filled your room was gone, leaving everything unscathed in it's wake. Once you found mobility in your limbs again, you stormed to your laptop (which still contained the laughing freak) and took out the battery, taking away the laptop's source of life. You stormed about your house, rampaging in the middle of the night to turn off or unplug any source of electricity you could- the phones, the computers, televisions- even the dusty desktop. Despite the complaints of your confused parents, you were at peace. Since you had cut off any source of electricity, (other than the lights) that pesky elf hadn't bothered you- probably because he couldn't. However, your happiness was short-lived. Upon returning from school one day, you found that your parents had somehow reconnected everything before going to work- leaving you with two things: electricity, and an angry Ben. You had no idea how you did it, but you managed to convince Ben not to suck you into the netherworld or kill you- With minimal damage to the house. Before you placated him, Ben had flown into a livid tantrum, tossing tables and pictures to-and-fro with some unseen force, only ceasing when you promised that you would keep all electronics plugged in- thus allowing him to drop in any time he liked. Since then, the white haired boy with red irises visited routinely each day without intentions to scare you, though you were still unnerved by his presence at first. As if he sensed your uneasiness, Ben began to annoy you. Ceaselessly. Day after day, he knocked over decorative vases, messed up your room, taunted your occasional bad grades, and in all: irked the hell out of you. Yet here you were, waiting for his arrival like some kind of goddamned puppy. "What. Ever." You hissed through clenched teeth, standing up from your computer table, "Maybe he got bored of me. He's been visiting me for... God knows how long already...Good riddance." Despite your words, you felt a twinge of sadness prick your heart like a fine-tipped needle. Though he was undoubtedly aggravating most of the time, you had liked him company. Just a little. You sighed, the beams of twilight cast your shadow across the floor. "I should prepare some microwaveable dinner, my parents are working overtime today." As you sulked slowly towards your bedroom door, a loud crash and the sound of loud static pierced your eardrums, making you leap several feet into the air and scramble for the doorknob, storming downstairs to find the source of the noise. You were both annoyed and relieved to find Ben crawling out of the screen of the old desktop, though your annoyance went out the window once you spotted his shaking arms on the edge of the screen, as if he couldn't support his own weight. You extended a hand out to him, flinching as he finally managed to haul himself out of the mess of codes, landing in a heap on the floor. "Ben?" You inquired, peering at his crumpled form. "Are you okay...?" You knelt down next to him, touching his shoulder gently. "Ben?" At your voice, the creepypasta turned to look at you weakly before sniggering quietly- which worried you a bit. "What are you doing in my house?" You raised an eyebrow. "Ben, this is my house. Not yours." Ben, who had a pinkish hue to his pale cheeks, took a look around before the realization dawned upon him. "Oh, right. I'll be going then." You watched as the usually boisterous entity struggled to get back onto his feet, only to fall down again. This time, however, you caught him. Once his body made contact with your arms, you nearly shrieked. The back of his neck was burning hot, and the rest of his body was strangely warm- just like an overheated computer. "Ben-" You adjusted your hold on him, (he was a lot heavier than he looked) "Ben, are you sick?" Ben glared at you weakly. "No." You sighed, exasperated. His pride was going to be the death of him one day. You placed a gentle palm his forehead, cringing at the impossibly high temperature you felt. "Ben, you have a high fever. A bad one." The said person clicked his tongue and turned his face away, looking irritated. "That explains why I felt like shit the whole day." You couldn't help but snicker as you carried him to the couch, "That also explains why you didn't think of visiting me today." "Get off your high-fucking-horse, princess." Ben scowled, trying in vain to look threatening. "You should be thankful that I visit you everyday." You rolled your eyes, placing him softly on the couch. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks for gracing me with your presence everyday, dumbass." You swore you heard Ben grumble something under his breath, but you were already too far up the stairs to hear. You returned with several pillows, a thermometer and some pills from the bathroom cabinet, determined to nurse Ben back to health. Though he was an annoying turd most of the time, there were rare moments where he comforted you in times of need- though most of the time, his offers to help just involved murdering someone, which you kindly refused. ("Killing people isn't the solution to everything, you freaking moron!") Now, it was your turn to help him. With an abundance of pillows in your arms, you urged him to sit up for a second (which he did with an anguished groan) and slipped four or five behind him, ensuring his comfort. You went into the kitchen and returned with a damp cloth and a glass of water to drink with the medicine. To be honest, you weren't quite sure if human medicine worked on creepypasta such as Ben, but it was all you had. "Ben, come on, you need to take some medicine." He scoffed at you. "Get your Earth pills away from me. You know just as well as I do that those won't work for me." You knelt next to him on the floor next to the couch and uncapped the bottle, shaking two pills out of the container and nudging him up. "You're right. I don't know if it'll work, but it's the only thing I have, so just suck it up and take them." "Get away from me." He hissed. "Ben..." You said, your tone threatening, "Don't make me unplug everything again." At this, Ben's hollow eyes narrowed, the red specks of light in them piercing into your skull. "You wouldn't dare." You gulped, feeling a cold sweat accumulate at his intense gaze. You steeled yourself and glared right back at him. "Try me." Grudgingly, Ben accepted the pills and sat up. Before you could stop him, he threw the pills in his mouth and began to chew. You froze, holding the cup of water in your hand and staring at him with wide eyes. You had made the same mistake of chewing those pills when you were younger, prior to figuring out that you could use water to wash them down. To be frank, those pills could cause more damage than a fever if not taken with water- they were horrendously bitter, and nearly caused you to puke. Just as you thought, Ben gradually stopped chewing, turning even paler than he already was- if possible. Though his face showed no emotion, you could almost feel the bloodthirsty aura that washed off of him, obviously not too pleased with the taste. You wasted no time in shoving the glass of water in his hands, urging him to drink. The water was gone before you could even blink, and Ben held the front of your shirt with an intent of death in his eyes. "You-" He stuttered, his face tinted red from anger, "You-" You braced yourself for whatever might come, but surprisingly, the grip on your shirt loosened, and Ben flopped back down unceremoniously, letting the pillows swallow his lean body. "Oh, whatever... Why would humans invent something so horrible to heal a sickness? If anything, that just made me sicker..." You smiled nervously, feeling the slightest bit guilty. "Er, it's my fault... I should have told you about the water sooner..." Ben scowled faintly. "Damn right you should've." You whispered a low "sorry" before wringing the wet towel, placing the cool cloth on Ben's head. This pulled a sigh of satisfaction from his lips, his eyes fluttering closed with contentment. You uncapped the thermometer, clicking the "ON" switch before turning back to Ben. "One last thing before you rest, Ben. I need your temperature." Ben didn't even bother to open his eyes or complain- which surprised you. Without hesitation, he simply opened his mouth. You found yourself smiling endearingly at his actions: it was like handling a stubborn child- all you had to do was get past his hard shell. Taking Ben's temperature was a little bit of a struggle, since the digital screen glitched and spazzed out once it made contact with him. However, once you had taken his temperature, your eyes nearly bulged out of your head. The little pixels, occasionally glitching, read "105.7° F. " After discovering this little fact, you urged him to sleep for a bit- feeling a bit panicked. After the third time of telling him to just relax and sleep, Ben snapped at you. "If you tell me to go to sleep one more time, I'll call Jeff up here and tell him to put you to sleep." Though you knew this was an empty threat, it still shut you up. You had heard a lot about Jeff the Killer, and though some of your friends were obsessed with him, you weren't too keen on meeting him. After turning on the fan in hopes to cool Ben down, you settled back next to him on the floor, watching his uneven breathing. After a few moments of staring, Ben's eyes snapped open, feebly glaring at you before it turned into a smirk. "Sweetheart, I know i'm good looking- but if you're gonna stare, at least do something that can excuse you from it." You blinked and furrowed your brows, feeling embarrassed but relieved. It sounded like he was feeling a bit better- but was that really a good thing for you? Silently, you lifted a hand and began combing it through his silvery hair, knocking his hat astray. However, Ben didn't seem to mind. In fact, he completely ignored his hat and turned away from you, as if he were hiding his face. Despite his best efforts, you spotted a pinkish tint on his cheeks that extended to his ears- and you were sure it wasn't because of the fever he had. You watched him with soft eyes and continued your small ministrations, wondering how he had gotten sick in the first place. Before long, Ben had fallen asleep to your touch and the low hum of the fan. Sighing breathily, you gave the sleeping boy a thoughtful look. You didn't understand why he had kept the routine of visiting you everyday, but you weren't about to complain. Moving was no easy task, it included making new friends and leaving the old ones behind. Your socializing skills weren't your strongest suit, and although you tried your best, it was difficult to keep a conversation with someone at school- you feared their judgement. Though you knew most of the people at school didn't mean any harm to you, it was still a little scary for you to be cast out into a new environment so suddenly, it made you feel vulnerable. And although Ben had scared the pants off of you at first, you slowly began to realize that your arguments and chats with him didn't make you tense or anxious. Perhaps you could even go as far as to say he made you the slightest bit happy. You continued to play with his hair for a little while before removing your hands, observing him carefully. It was true that Ben was relatively handsome, though you would rather die than admit that to him. His white hair and pale complexion gave him the look of a hauntingly beautiful angel, though his eyes were dark and devilish, always seeming to hold only the most malicious of intentions. While he was awake, his countenance was usually twisted into a smirk or a sneer- which didn't exactly make him more attractive, but definitely did not take away from it, either. However, as he was asleep, you couldn't help but notice how strikingly bewitching he looked without the usual grimace. His long, white eyelashes brushed against his cheekbones, colored pale pink with his fever. Though you hadn't noticed it previously, it was almost unnerving how captivating Ben was. With his sleek, graceful features relaxed, you almost wouldn't have been able to guess that he was such a cunning gremlin while he was awake. You couldn't stop your eyes from wandering to his lips, which were slightly parted with his steady inhales and exhales. Just like the rest of his body, his lips were deathly pale, and slightly chapped- though they still looked inviting. You blushed and averted your eyes upon realizing how inappropriate your thoughts were. Ben was horribly sick and helpless, yet here you were, daydreaming about... A kiss... You covered your face, feeling humiliation wash over you in waves. Ben would probably laugh himself to death if he knew what you were thinking. The mere thought of being with Ben was impractical within itself, since there was no way monsters like him were even capable of feelings, right...? Your train of thought was halted when you heard the silverette groan lowly from across you. You peered out from your hands with questioning eyes, wondering if you had woken him up with the intensity of your staring. (Was that even possible, though?) He wasn't awake. His eyes were still sealed shut, but his mouth was twitching, as if he were trying to say something. You leaned in closer, watching attentively. Did he want water? A colder towel? More pillows? Suddenly, much to your shock, your name erupted from his lips, sounding like a cross between a groan of irritation and a plea. Then, he was silent again. You felt a warmness in your body emitting from the center of your stomach, and before long, you found yourself smiling at Ben. He was asleep, so it wouldn't hurt too much, right...? Slowly, you leaned forward and brushed back some of his soft locks, marveling at how pretty his face was. With such a small distance between you two, you could smell his scent- a distinct smell of static and coconut. Gently, you pressed your lips to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his soft, feverish skin on your own mouth. As you pulled away, you found a hand on the back of your head, pulling you back in. Wide eyes registered as Ben tilted his head, and his lips met yours, watching your bewildered expression with groggy, half-lidded eyes before he closed them, pressing his lips harder against your own. His mouth was burning hot, no doubt it was because of the fever, but it made the kiss even harder to resist. With flushed cheeks, you allowed your eyes to slip shut as well, returning the gentle pressure lightly. You noted that Ben was being unusually careful as he cupped your face, as if you were made of fragile glass that would shatter at any moment. You smiled at this, and brushed the side of his cheek with the back of your hand endearingly. He pulled away and you opened your mouth to speak, but before you could get a word in, his lips descended upon yours again, his tongue sweeping over your already open lips and tickling the roof of your mouth. You squeaked a bit at this, and he pulled back, his hand still on your cheek, opening his eyes to take in your reddened face and light panting. And then you saw it. It surprised you more than the kiss did- and perhaps more than his first appearance did. Ben smiled. It was a genuine smile, albeit small, unlike the smirks and half-grins he gave you all the time. This time, his lips curled naturally, softening his scarlet eyes a twinge. The hues of twilight poured in from the window and washed over both of you, bathing both of you in a beautiful gradient of a fading pink, yellow and orange. You should have scolded him for kissing you while he was sick, but you couldn't find the heart to ruin the mood. Instead, you smiled back at him, leaning into the hand that remained on your cheek. There, in the wake of the lingering sun, you discovered that what once was your greatest fear was also your greatest treasure.

[ruffboijuliaburnsides]

🥰 for the Witcher of course

A/N: Milos was created I believe by Fayet on AO3 who writes Hibernating With Ghosts which you should all read.

[surrounded by love]

Vesemir was the first person to love Geralt, he thinks. He doesn’t remember if his mother loved him, and he has significant doubts about whether she did or not, since she left him to be raised as a witcher.

But Vesemir was gentle with him, gave him a name of his own, took him back to Kaer Morhen with admonitions that it would be a hard life but that his brothers would always look after him.  He didn’t understand the “if he survived” part until later, when he was a bit older, but it was true nonetheless. There was a fair amount of bickering and bullying among the younger boys who hadn’t gone through the trials yet, but if it came down to it they always had each other’s backs, just sometimes they weren’t nice about it.

Vesemir taught him to hold a sword, to fight with a sword, to keep moving even when he wanted to fall over. Vesemir, he learned years after the fact, had pushed back against the choice to put Geralt through a second round of the Trial of the Grasses, said that they needed a witcher who came through the first round in such (relatively) good shape. And it was Vesemir who was the kindest to him and the most protective of him, in his own rough and hard way, after he emerged from the second round different and strange and uncertain. And he’s never stopped.

Eskel loved Geralt immediately.  They were of an age, though Geralt had been in Kaer Morhen longer when Vesemir brought Eskel to the youngest boys’ dormitories, but Eskel had been bigger. Just a little taller, just a little stronger. 

“I’ll protect you,” the boy declared with complete childlike confidence, taking Geralt’s hand and jutting his chin out as if daring anyone to argue, and Geralt said, “Ok,” and let it happen.

When there were bullies or injuries or sickness, Eskel was always right there. When they came through the Trial of the Grasses (the first time, for Geralt), Eskel was worse off but still managed to crawl his way to Geralt’s cot and squeeze onto the tiny thing with him, holding him even as he trembled nearly out of his skin from the pain and the fear. 

(Geral never tells Eskel how much that moment meant to him, even if he wasn’t so badly off. He never tells Eskel how much any of the things he’s done over the years mean to him. Eskel doesn’t need him to.)

And after the siege that destroyed their brothers and their home, Geralt came back to find Eskel had arrived much quicker than he had, that he and Vesemir had already dealt with the bodies and the worst of the bloodstains. And even hollow-eyed and grieving, the first thing Eskel does is walk to Geralt, pull him into the tightest hug of their lives, and ask if Geralt is okay.  If that’s not love, Geralt has never experienced it, but he’s pretty sure it is.

Lambert loves Geralt in the same way he hates Geralt: loudly, intensely, and jealously. Their relationship is fraught, always. When Lambert is twelve, he begs Geralt to take him away onto the Path, promises he’ll earn his keep, and in the first big city he can go his own way.  Geralt declines, and Lambert’s hatred crystalizes in that moment, from idolization to jealousy.

But other times, as he gets older, especially after the siege, Lambert also provides comfort. He’ll needle Geralt to the point of lashing out, and at Vesemir’s command to “take it outside!” they’ll get their swords and spar for an hour, sometimes more, and when the fight eventually ends, even though it almost always ends with Geralt’s sword at Lambert’s throat, Geralt feels better and Lambert looks satisfied and relieved.

It’s almost as if Lambert doesn’t know how to care for someone without hating them a bit too. Geralt tries not to think about it, because Lambert deserves to be able to pour out that love he carries inside himself without having to lace it with hatred and violence.

Coën  loves Geralt, in the way you love a cousin you were never close to. The Gryphon isn’t a regular winter resident in Kaer Morhen, exactly, but then neither is Geralt. 

Coën  teaches him moves that his school perfected, that don’t naturally mesh with the way the wolves were trained to fight, and talks at length about Milos and how he learned it. 

Milos was a smallish, blond-curled Wolf who was killed in the siege. By all accounts, from Vesemir and Eskel, it looked as though he’d died doing his best to protect the littlest of children. He’d travelled with Coën (inasmuch as witchers travelled with each other, which was to say mostly meeting up every few weeks in a previously determined location) for over a decade.  They would never let Coën go with that sort of connection.  They knew it was there.

And Coën is always a little worried about them all. He may not love them the way he loved Milos, but he doesn’t want what happened to Milos to happen to them.  

Jaskier loves Geralt.

Sometimes facts are just facts, and a best friend will always love you.

Jaskier loves Geralt steady and true until Geralt can’t stand it anymore and breaks his heart and pushes him away.

(And even still, that broken shattered heart keeps loving him, even when he doesn’t remotely deserve it.)

Yennefer loves Geralt, though not always the way either of them want her to. The draw is the djinn, they realize eventually, but the feelings are her own. It’s complicated in the end - she doesn’t want to be kept or bound, and he doesn’t want to be left behind, and yet somehow both of them have managed to entangle the other in the things they want least.

“We could’ve been a great love story,” she says one evening, years down the line, sitting at the fireplace in Kaer Morhen’s library after dinner. “Something your bard would’ve been fit to burst about writing.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and falls silent. It’s a long time before he says, “I don’t think that was what we’re meant for,” just before Eskel and Jaskier come in bearing alcohol and glasses, Lambert carrying a tray of bread and cheese.  It doesn’t leave Yen any space to argue, or agree, or say anything. 

Geralt’s not sure he can handle hearing too much about exactly what kind of love she feels for him. Not just yet. He can’t quite handle the thought of Jaskier writing a song - well, another song - about them, especially after the heartbroken bitterness of the others.

Ciri loves Geralt with all the joy and power and carelessness a traumatized child could hope to love.

She is fire and passion and anger and bitterness and kindness, and it’s all Geralt can do to open himself to accepting all her emotions and trying his best to give back even half as good as he gets.

He doesn’t.  But he tries. He’s her father, and he will always try.

Jaskier loves everyone. It’s not clear at first, how much he loves. Geralt sees him with Ciri, combing her hair and holding her after nightmares and singing silly songs and pretty songs and songs that he clearly wrote about Geralt but with more subtle imagery than Geralt’s used to from him. He’s always known Jaskier was talented, even if he didn’t enjoy the fruits of his labor, but this is something else entirely, a story that is clearly about Geralt, the most honest songs he’s heard about himself from the bard’s lips, but without ever once mentioning wolves or witchers. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t heard these songs, or why they exist. He’s afraid to ask. Ciri seems to already know them well.

Geralt sees Jaskier with his brothers, even with Coën, and feels like he might burn from the warmth in his chest. The lazy ease with which Jaskier interacts with them. It’s not that he’s not nervous, he clearly wants to make a good impression, but Jaskier is warm and open and most importantly not afraid of any of them.

He is never afraid, and it terrifies Geralt more than anything he can think of, and makes him improbably proud to have been the bard’s first witcher.  His brothers love Jaskier right back, in their ways, Eskel with cheerful-yet-terrifying facts about monsters and witchers and the dark places of the world, Lambert with insults and very restrained physical harassment, Coën with solemn offers of helping him train to be a better swordsman than he is, so he can protect himself out in the world.

He sees Jaskier with Yennefer, their previous animosity softened somewhat. They still snipe at each other, pulling at the threads of each others’ insecurities and fears, but if they go too far, they back off, which they never did the first times they met. Geralt sees Jaskier say something saucy (judging by his expression) to Yen one day, and expects Yen to retaliate or slap him, but instead Yen laughs - bright and loud enough that even as far away as he is, Geralt can hear her - and kisses Jaskier’s cheek. He doesn’t know what they’ve built, but he’s glad it’s there, holding them up if he can’t be there.

Vesemir is an enigma in some ways, but Jaskier manages at least to get into his affections, judging by the strict tone he takes with Jaskier while he watches him train with Eskel or Coën, or the firm way he steers the exhausted bard to the dinner table, or the baths, or his own room. It makes Ciri laugh, and Jaskier always sighs when this happens, just following along with a teasing (but somehow also respectful), “Yes, Papa Vesemir.”

And then...

And then.

Jaskier loves Geralt. 

It doesn’t make sense. And after some time away, Geralt can process and internalize that it was never meant to be solely platonic. That Jaskier was willing to take whatever love he could get, but that the love he gave was more than that. It overflowed to everyone in Geralt’s life, spilling over and over and over, doing its best to fill everyone up, and somehow Jaskier manages to do this without coming out of it drained and exhausted and unable to love.

He kisses Geralt one day, after singing Ciri to sleep.

“I can’t handle this anymore,” he admits, and Geralt doesn’t know what he means. He tries to say it, pained and uncertain and terrified that Jaskier’s leaving, but Jaskier watches his face and the strange openness of his expressions, and he smiles.

“You can’t either, can you?” he asks softly, and Geralt lets himself whimper, just a tiny bit. “Well,” Jaskier says, a spark of heat and delight in his voice as he presses against Geralt’s body. “We’ll just have to fix that, won’t we?”

Every important person in Geralt’s life loves him, and when it matters they all love each other as well. And while he doesn’t know how to process or handle this fact, he knows that he never in a million years would give it up for anything short of saving their lives.

And all the people around him continue to love him.

[littlemessyjessi]

“Blood of My Enemies”: BBC/Netflix Dracula Imagine

BBC/ Netflix Dracula  Imagine BBC/ Netflix Dracula x Reader, PS Reader, Plus Size Reader

At four a.m. I had just left after working a sixteen hour shift at the hospital.

My patience was beyond thin as I stood in line at the twenty four hour mini mart.

All I wanted was my bottle of wine, a shower and my blissfull, blessed bed.

After wearing my scrubs for that long I felt disgusting.  

I was an unholy amount of bitchiness standing there and when I heard a distinctly male voice behind me....I nearly snapped.

"Excuse, madam."

The accent was nice but I had no patience.

I turned on my heel and looked at him.

"Yes?" I asked offering nothing but vacancy across my features.

"Come now, darling." he said. "No smile?"

My eyes narrowed at him for a moment before I bit the inside of my cheek in anger and sat my wine down on the shelf nearest to me.

"Listen." I said tucking my hands into place on my full hips. "I have just spent the last sixteen hours on my feet at the hospital covered in other peoples piss, shit, vomit and blood.  I have been yelled at, slapped, had a gun pulled on me and had to hold someone while they died.  And that's just tonight.  I am in no mood for some random guy trying to flirt with late night scragglers."

"Listen, darling. I just-"

"No you listen!" I snapped. "I just want to go home, drink my wine and hibernate for the next four days and if I could jump start that process by being left the fuck alone that would be great!"

Was I an unholy bitch?

Was it uncalled for?

Probably but in that moment I couldn't have cared less.

"You have my most sincere apologies, madam." he said. "Allow me."

He reached for my wine and I promptly smacked his hand.

"I don't need you to buy anything for me.  I just made it glaringly obvious that I worked very hard for my money.  I'm good." I snapped.

"Yes, you have made it obvious.  Please, if you'll allow me to purchase it... as an apology.  I assure you I am a gentleman and I wouldn't want to leave you with the impression that I was anything less than such." he said.

With an underlying attitude of hostility, I let him purchase the wine and he gave the bag to me.

"Again, I'm terribly sorry for any trouble I've caused you." he said, his dark eyes twinkling in a way that I wasn't totally sure if I liked or not.

He was quite handsome.

In a sort, old school classic type of way.

It wasn't something you saw a lot of anymore but it was nice.

"Thank you." I said.  "And sorry for biting your head off.  I'm a bit testy after working overtime for the fourth night in a row."

"That's understandable." he said with a slight smirk.  "Besides, I've always been fond of women who have a bite to them."

His corny remark got the best of me and I couldn't help but smile a little in spite of myself.

"I figured your smile would be lovely." he said. "I see I wasn't wrong."

My glower was a little less intense as I looked over at him.

"Well, thank you again." I said.  "But if you'll excuse me I need to go home, get piss drunk and attempt hibernation."

He chuckled a bit and opened the door for me and fell into step with me as I headed down the street.  

"Would you like an escort home?" he asked and offered his arm.

"Look." I said turning to him. "While I appreciate this whole dapper gentleman routine, I don't know you, man.  I'm certainly not leading you back to my home.  Try not to take it personally but I'm not that stupid."

He sighed again with a small shake of his head, "Seems I've overstepped again. I just wasn't ready to say goodbye just yet.  As you said, you are tired and in need of sleep. It would be selfish of me to keep the beauty from her sleep."

"Hey, if you're awake at this hour you'll probably see me again.  I usually work night shift.  I'm just covering someone else's shifts this week because her kid's sick. There's only a handful of places open around here at four in the morning.  And trust me, I'm definitely always popping in here on my break for coffee.  Otherwise know as the blood that runs through my veins." I said.

He said, "I look forward to that."

"See you later, Mysterious Stranger." I said and turned to leave.

"See you later, Fiesty Nurse." he said.

"Oh, I'm not a nurse." I laughd. "I'm a much bigger nightmare."

"A doctor?" He laughed.

"No." I said turning and walking backwards for a moment.  "A CNA.  Twice the bullshit for half the pay.  Evil incarnate is probably a better name for me."

"Evil incarnate is it!" he called after me.

"Night!" I said. "See ya in four days!"

And I did.

Every night that I worked, I bumped into the mysterious stranger who I soon came to know as Dracula, later shorted to Drac.

Eventually those chance meetings became planned meetups.

He'd be waiting on me with coffee and something to eat- always having claimed to have already eaten or drinking some type of thick liquid from a travel mug.

I wasn't surprised.

He looked like a fit guy and it wouldn't have shocked me in the least for him to be drinking some type of beet juice cleanse.

As was so popular these days.

Fuck it- I just wanted my nachos, man.

Tonight was no different as I approached.

"Hey, Drac." I said as I walked up to him - supremely happy to be rid of my workplace for the night.

"Hello, darling." he said handing over the coffee and whatever he decided to give me to eat.

"You know, you don't have to buy this for me every night." I reminded him. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I appreciate it but-"

"Yes, yes, Miss Independent.  I get it.  However, I like knowing I can buy you a coffee and a meal occassionally." he said taking a sip from his drink.

I eyed it for a moment and sipped my coffee but apparently he could see the wheels turning.

"What are you thinking?" he asked with a slight smirk.

"I think many things." I answered elusively. "I'm a CNA.  I'm still cussing the patient who gave me the bird and his wife who accused me of checking him out.  I mean, I was but checking out someone's abs out of lust and out of a need to cleanse a fucking bullet wound are two different things."

"Don't beat around the bush." he teased.

"I gotta ask." I said before taking a hulking bite of the sandwhich.  "What is that red sludge you're always drinking?"

"The blood of my enemies." he quipped with a smirk and I rolled my eyes.

"You should market that." I said and nudged him with my elbow.  "No really? Is it some kind of beet juice monstrosity?  Because how dare you, sir?  How dare you?"

He chuckled for a moment , "Just a source of nourishment.  Everyone has their diet thing these days don't they?"

I shrugged, "Yeah, I guess.  My diet thing is that I am deeply offended by brussel sprouts.  I hate them so much I would even go so far as to have a doctor LIE and give me a statement to say I was allergic."

"What is your reaction to them?" he played along.

"Extreme bitchiness." I said.

"Oh, so we've got a list of other things that you're allergic to as well." he teased and I promptly socked him in his rather solid arm making him laugh.

"Jerk." I giggled.

"What if it was blood?" he asked.

"Huh?" I asked, draining the last drop of my coffee.

"My drink." he clarified. "What if it was the 'blood of my enemies', so to speak?  What would you do?"

"Look, man." I sighed. "I had a woman come into the emergency room the other night drinking a tea she made from her own hair.  She carried it in a flask on her hip.  I've seen it all. "

He chuckled, "I suppose you have."

"You ok?" I asked noticing his change in demeanor. "Something wrong?"

He gave me a smile but I knew it to be fake.

"Nothing, love." he said settling a hand on my knee.

I looked at it for a moment before I took it in my own.

I could feel him looking at me but I was determined to just look up at the moon instead.

"Drac, you could be flesh eating demon and while it might be a bit shocking- honestly, I've seen worse." I said.  "I've had little girls brought in the emergency room by their supposed father's.  They've had broken arms and bruises and I've wanted nothing more than to take them away from those heartless bastards who I knew were doing unspeakable things to them.  But I couldn't.  But I didn't have prove.  Sometimes you just know but you can't do anything about it.  That's my cross to bare.  Hell, if I had a bloodsucking beast at my disposal I could sick her on every evil person I know."

"Her?" he chuckled. "It's a woman?"

"Well, we are the root of all evil aren't we?" I smirked finally meeting his gaze.

His other hand came up to rest on mine and he sighed and stared at our intwined digits.

"Let's say I knew such a creature." he said. "And this creature was infatuated with you. More than infatuated.  Positively spellbound. And this creature did have to do horrible things to survive but he also cared for you so deeply and would never harm you.  Even knowing what kind of terrible creation he was....would you have him?"

"Are you the creature in this scenario?" I asked and he finally met my gaze.

A deep sigh left them.

"At times, I both love and loathe how clever you are." he said. "But yes."

"Then yeah, sure." I said simply.  

His full brows furrowed as he looked at me, "Yeah? Sure? That's it."

"Listen, man." I said. "If you want me as a snack, I'd already be dead. Plus you buy me food and coffee every night.   That's trustworthy material right there."

"Food and drink earns your trust now?" he chuckled.

"You're not listening." I said. "I work in the medical field. Coffee is my blood and I am always hungry."

"I adore you." he said with a lightness in his dark eyes. "You're impossible but I adore you."

"I tolerate you." I teased him.

He took my teasing in good nature and placed an arm around me, "Just so we are clear on the matter, I have contemplated you as a snack on many occasions.  Just not in the way you might think."

"Oh, I'm not a snack, honey." I sassed him. "I'm a full course meal."

"I shall await the day when I can taste it." he said teasingly.

"You filthy whore!" I laughed and smacked his chest.

And that was how I ended up in relationshp with five hundred year old vampire of all things.

What was most surprising is that he turned out the best relationship I'd ever had.

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

Hello, darlings! I hope you enjoyed this Drac fic! I just love that handsome devil! Thank you for the requests and feel free to send in more Drac requests! Love, Kenny

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Love, Kenny

[thestarkerisobvious]

Rattlesnakes

inspired by the amazing art work by @starker-sorbet​        

A snugglefic for @mrstarksbabyy​

With great thanks for the betaread by @mrstarksbabyy​

Sixteen -- The Lovelace House        

8. Rattlesnakes

In his fifteenth year, Peter had often thought Tony’s life was just like the life of Old-Blue, the dog that came with the house.  Old-Blue had always been content to lay lazily in the sunlight throughout the day.  He would gladly come when he was called, was happy to play if anyone was interested.  Was always interested in being fed or being pat on the head.  But for the most part he was also happy to lay in the sunlight and nap.  In the back of his mind, Peter had pictured Tony just like that, soaking up the darkness under the bed the same way Old-Blue soaked up the sun.

In Peter’s sixteenth year, he learned that Tony was nothing like Old-Blue at all.

When Tony had explained to Peter that he had to spend the summer months under the bed, “in the darkness” Peter had naturally pictured Tony as a hibernating bear, headed into his cave to sleep through the summer the way a bear slept through the winter.  He couldn’t have been more wrong.  Now that Tony had a name and Peter as his  “master” things were different.  That summer spent under the bed had been less like a bear in a winter cave and more like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

But unlike a caterpillar, Tony had been feeding for the entire summer.  Feeding unseen.  Feeding on Peter’s continuous reading, but now Tony was feeding on a great deal more.  He had been feeding on Aunt May’s contentment every time she sat at her window and watched the sunrise, on Uncle Ben’s irritation at politicians every time he read the newspaper.  Maybe, in Peter’s fifteenth year, Tony had been a lot like Old-Blue.  At least he had been, when he went under the bed for the summer.  But when he emerged he was something different.

He was more like a working-dog, now, Peter reasoned.  Peter had read a great deal about dogs when they first moved to the Post Homestead, in the beginning when the family had determined they would buy another dog to be a friend for Old-Blue.  They wanted to be fully informed before they went out to find a dog (Not that it mattered, in the end, all the dogs they owned had found them.)  They quickly determined they did not, as a family, have enough energy for a working-dog.  Working-dogs, the book warned, had to be kept busy at all times.

Otherwise, the working-dog would become destructive.

Keeping Tony busy, Peter found, might easily turn into a full-time job.  Fortunately a single journey outside the Post border meant that Tony would need to rest for days.  On those nights they could snuggle and talk, Tony feeding several times from the vein in Peter’s neck, Peter’s back pressed snuggly into Tony’s chest.  (Peter preferred it that way.  His erection still appeared when Tony fed, but it was no longer as painful or urgent.  And, like the rest of his body, it always relaxed when Tony fed.) 

Sending Tony out to spy on his neighbors was rude, Peter knew, but it was necessary to keep Tony occupied.  Tony would obediently investigate and report on the population of owls or foxes or other wildlife on the Post property, but it was clearly uninterested in the duty.  Despite the detailed reports Peter kept in his notebooks it was, in the end, hard for Peter to pretend that it wasn’t just busywork.  They both agreed that life on an actual farm, with animals to guard and protect, was far more exciting for Tony than living with Peter the Bookworm (although Peter never tired of being called “My Library-Pilgrim.”)  On Dark Moons or stormy nights Tony would venture to the local library or to the school -- he could travel to anywhere Peter could draw on a map or show him in a dream,  but what he could learn in those places, after dark, was limited.  

Both buildings enjoyed a complete eradication of their mouse and rat population, but feeding Tony “sustenance” just gave him more strength, and giving him more strength made him more restless.  

It could be fun, sometimes.  On a rare occasion Peter knew what his teachers talked about in their houses in the evenings.  Occasionally he could predict a pop quiz or the next subject to be taught.  But spying on teachers mostly just informed Peter that they were underpaid, his school was underfunded and their lives in this small town were just as boring as his.

Convincing Tony to change May and Ben’s minds on certain subjects, like what shows he should be allowed to watch on the new channels that they were getting, took some doing.  Tony considered May and Ben to be his Master and Mistress after Peter, and there had been a general prohibition in the Post family against teenagers using Tony to convince guardians to easing restrictions or change long-standing rules. But there were no specific spells protecting May or Ben from Tony’s influence, and Peter could usually talk his friend into it.  

Tony insisted it took a great deal of feeding, not just the from-the-neck kind, but also the skin-to-skin and the kissing kind.  It took a great deal of kissing before Tony could convince Uncle Ben to let Peter make more long-distance phone calls.  Until Peter found out just how expensive long distance phone calls were.  (Peter found out a lot about his guardians financial troubles that year -- that’s why Tony didn't do a lot of spying on them anymore.)

In fact, Peter learned a great deal about the adults around him, and while what he learned made him wiser, it did not make him happier.  Finding out that Tony was not an all-knowing entity took Peter aback, but finding out that none of the adults around him were all-knowing either?  That was a blow that took him a very long while to recover from

Oh well, at least the Devil’s Hollow librarians were nice to him now.  Knowing their financial frustrations and aspirations made it very easy to win them over by day, while Tony skillfully won them over by night.   

As March crept steadily toward April keeping Tony busy was not nearly as important to Peter as keeping Tony fed.  Tony bragged that, when the Post family fed him well, he only had to sleep for three days at “Litha” (which seemed to be June 21rst.)  Even now Tony assured Peter he might last ‘till “Walspurgestnaught, or beyond” which meant they would still have to say good-bye in May.  

But keeping Tony fed wasn’t simple.  

Using Tony to euthanize animals that were destined for the pound, for instance, was a complicated matter.  The Post family had only fed him healthy farm animals, Tony reminded him, but Peter had no healthy farm animals to offer up.  So when the mangy yellow dog limped into the yard, flies in his nose and labored breathing making it clear it would not be joining the family pack (Uncle Ben called it “Old Yeller” because he was obviously going to die) Tony seemed like the obvious solution.  He consumed the body completely, leaving only the faintest trace of matted fur behind.   

But for the next two days he crawled into Peter’s bed and lay there limply on the bed, nuzzling Petre’s face over and over again, begging for kisses, suckling Peter’s fingers weakly.  Even when they met in dreams Peter had to search for Tony, finally finding him in the lavish bedroom, lying exhausted on the curtained bed, begging to be fed.

(And did Peter enjoy taking care of Tony that way?  Enjoy turning Tony’s face towards his with tender fingertips, enjoy slipping his tongue into Tony’s mouth again and again, while Tony tangled gentle fingers in Peter’s hair and moaned in appreciation?  Oh yes, yes Peter certainly did.)

Was it the same way, when Tony consumed the rat populations of various buildings?  Peter really couldn't say.  Maybe Tony’s hands were busier then, maybe he used more teeth when he kissed, Peter wasn’t sure.  It wasn’t obvious.

It wasn’t like the rattlesnakes.

Peter had sent Tony out multiple times on a search for venomous snakes.  Aunt May despised snakes, and Peter enjoyed reassuring her that she wouldn’t run into any dangerous ones on their property, a promise he trusted Tony to keep.  When Tony finally found a nest of rattlers, albeit several miles south of the Post border, he had Peter’s permission to consume them, bodies and all.

Peter didn't exactly complain when Tony surprised him in his bed later that night, dragging him out from under the covers and molding their bodies together, feeding breathlessly from the vein in Peter’s neck, moaning and holding Peter tightly with powerful arms.  Peter was grateful his back was pressed against Tony’s chest.  At that moment, he wasn’t completely sure he could push Tony away enough to hide his erection.  He didn’t stop it.  He liked it when Tony moaned and panted when they were together, when Tony clutched at him with hungry hands.

He didn’t really fight back when Tony pushed him down face-first into the bed, sucking hungrily, pumping his hips against Peter’s hips, forcing Peter to rub his boxer-covered cock against the covers.  He didn’t have time to fight back.  He did manage to call out “Tony?!” twice before his treacherous boxers slid down and he found himself coming helplessly on the bed.

He did fight back then, pushing Tony off and diving under the covers, hiding his head as Tony hungrily grabbed the bedspread with both hands and…

...well Peter wasn’t really ready to acknowledge what Tony had done with the wetspot.

“You sleep under the bed tonight!” Peter hissed at him, and Tony silently obeyed, dissolving into the darkness under the bed without a sound.  “No more rattlesnake dinners for you!”  

They never spoke of it again.

(Sometimes Tony spoke longingly of the deer that used to be hunted in that forest, deer that certainly would return someday now that there was no hunting on Peter’s family’s land.  Peter hadn’t given his consent to that just yet.  It wasn’t just that he considered every deer his spotted a character from Bambi, Peter knew what male deer were like in the spring.  What would Tony be like after consuming that?)

But Peter couldn’t deny that he had sent Tony out into the forest, over and over again, to seek out other animals who were dying.  He justified it in his brain by saying he was doing the animals a favor, euthanizing them and putting them out of their misery.   

But if he was being honest (and Peter was trying to be more honest with himself.  Trying, at least) he only had one reason for sending Tony after dying animals.  When Tony took the light from a dying animal’s brain, then consumed their aged or wounded or diseased body, he came back to Peter’s bed different.  Of all of Tony’s different moods, Peter felt safest with this one.  When he got to carry Tony in his arms and lift him to the bed, tuck him under the covers.  When he got to move Tony’s mouth around for a kiss, move his wrist or his fingers to Tony’s mouth.

He hated himself for it, but he loved it when Tony clung to him, meekly asking for physical affection.  Then Peter could be in complete control of everything they did in bed together.  He could lay his body close, or angle it away, from Tony if he wanted to hide his erection.

But Peter had never seen Tony so weak, so helpless, as when he returned from stopping Mr. Lovelace.

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

Return To Castle Dracula will be posted in two days.

Master Post (not the person, the chapter list)

Please direct all questions/comments/constructive crit to @witchwayisright

[roswelldetails]

Episode 2x04 - What if God Was One of Us

EPISODE SUMMARY:

AN ACT OF GOD — On the verge of a breakthrough in her quest to save Max (Nathan Dean), Liz (Jeanine Mason) turns to Kyle (Michael Trevino) for one last favor that could potentially land him in hot water. Meanwhile, Michael (Michael Vlamis) and Alex’s (Tyler Blackburn) investigation into Nora (guest star Kayla Ewell) leads them to a farm, where they meet a historian named Forrest (guest star Christian Antidormi). Elsewhere, Cameron (guest star Riley Voelkel) confronts Jesse Manes (Trevor St. John) about her sister’s whereabouts, and Isobel (Lily Cowles) uses her powers for good. Amber Midthunder also stars. Shiri Appleby directed the episode written by Steve Stringer & Christopher Hollier (#204). Original airdate 4/6/2020.

DETAILS:

Roy said that he took veterinary training, which is how he was able to help with Louise and Nora's injuries.

"How come it feels like you don't know what I'm saying, but you know what I'm thinking?"

Roy moved the truck (with the pods in it?) to the livery.

"Boss's wife won't let him blame the drought on God so that honor goes to his foreman -- that's me."

Kyle on The Science:

"You're telling me that Michael Guerin used pinball parts and a car battery to cause cutaneous perfusion?

(Cutaneous perfusion...i think it is circulation of fluid/blood through tissue, but it's a bit above my head)

The device Liz needs is a "Personal Genome Machine". She ordered it when she still worked at the hospital.

Before entering the Crashdown, Graham Green tapes a Missing sign on the door for Hank Gibbons (who Noah killed in 1x13).  Apparently someone covered it up.

The sign is HARD to read, but I think it says:

"All viable leads reported to Graham Green's UFO Emporium will receive a free keychain.  Make certain you subscribe to the Weekly Probe as we dive deeper into the untold stories of Roswell and answer the question on everyone's mind.  ARE YOU NEXT?"

Graham Green references that he's the "creator of last week's 39th most downloaded true crime podcast." (Assuming that this is the Weekly Probe, referenced on the poster).

Graham Green is opening a 1947 themed malt shop at the UFO Emporium

U.F. Doughs (the Crashdown's new donuts).

Isobel's been coming to the Crashdown every day for weeks.  (Note that this episode is the first one that really doesn't have a clear time context).

"Feliz cumpleanos, mama!" Happy birthday in Spanish, of course, but note Kyle's choice term of endearment for fic purposes!  And she responds in kind "Gracias, mijo!" (Mijo = male version. Arturo calls Liz mija = female version)

"A wild Michael Guerin finally emerges from his weeks-long hibernation in a lab and a library."

Again, non-specific time frame.

"When every other farm was struggling, the Longs experienced record-breaking crops.  Summer of '47. No one could explain it…till October '48. The day after that photo ran in the paper, the farm was devastated by a massive fire.  Foreman, entire staff killed. Whole place burned down."

"What caused the fire?"

"Well the paper called it an act of God.  Said it was a freak storm. Bolt of lightning strikes the barn the same night that my mom's caught and locked up in Caulfield."

Wyatt Long's horses are named "Diamond" and "Silk".

Jesse Manes' beer of choice is "Polestaff".

Cam's postcard from Charlie (Likely the reason she came back to Roswell) says:

"See you back in Roswell --Charlotte"

Top left corner says "Greetings from Roswell, NM".

It was mailed to Jenna at the Green Hill Motel in Dayton, Ohio.

Jenna says it's not Charlie's handwriting.

Isobel in the mindwarp: "And what's your dream, Arturo? What would be your miracle? What do you pray for?"

Arturo & Rosa's fight… 

"Did that fool give you drugs? I'll kill him!"

"Ow! You're hurting me! That's child abuse!"

"Everything I do I do to hold you up and you see it as abuse. I don't know what to do anymore!"

"Yeah right." Rosa falls down and laughs.

"This isn't funny! Sheriff Valenti won't give you any more chances."

"You should be happy. You wanted me to be on the field hockey team, remember? You said I should make friends and have good American fun."

"Who sold you the pills?"

"I stole them."

"Was it Frederico?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

"Tell me the truth!"

"It was Mom! She's either too high to notice that they're missing, or she knows and she doesn't care."

"You're lying to me. I don't know how to help you."

"So stop trying then. I'm beyond hope anyway, right? That's what everyone else in this town thinks."

"Maybe you're right. I'm going for a drive."

Arturo tried to register with Instagram as PancakePapi!! He ended up with PancakePapi58!

Scene with Steph and her dad...FIRST MENTION OF SOPAPILLAS ON THE SHOW!!! 🤤🤤🤤🤤 (They're the best...in New Mexican restaurants they're like, both an appetizer and a dessert.  They're like hollow fried bread that you eat with honey. Delicious.)  See here:

Plus it gave the show another opportunity to be authentically New Mexican through food references.  (Last season it was in episode 2 when Arturo asked,"red or green?" And Liz replied "Christmas!". In New Mexico that means half red half green chile smothering her plate.) Like so: 

1948...unclear how much time has passed, but Louise says months.

The kid's name is Walt.  (Walt Long?? Some other last name?).

Nora says that under the tarp is the "pumpkin launcher" and it's a surprise.

Nora says it's not safe for Michael here, "but soon."

"Hey do you smell that? It smells like rain.  It's what you smell like under all the grease and bourbon.  It's what your workshop smells like. Something alien happened here. Not that I can still smell it 70 years later."

"This is the best evidence I've seen that Max and Isobel's mother survived the initial firefight. This is something that you do with family."

"Nora's my mother. If she was here at the same time as Louise…"

Note - when did they confirm who Louise was or that she was Max & Isobel's mom? This has not happened narratively yet.

Since Walt was a young kid, Alex thinks there's a chance he's still alive (though at the end Nora definitely thought he died when the barn blew up. I suspect that Walt survived and is the key to the story...not fact, just speculation.)

Forrest: "The foreman, Roy Bronson, was definitely hiding something.  But it wasn't Little Green Men. It was Nazi spies."

"This is like Junior Year eraser room, getting caught by Coach Wiggins."

OG callback to the eraser room being the high school makeout spot. OG, "the eraser room takes our innocence." 

Rosa in Spanish "¿En serio?" Basically "are you serious!?!" Or "really?" When the blender shorts out (awfully similar to her first Noah nightmare in 2x01)

"...when Charlie told me she had stole classified documents, I reported her.  I thought I was doing the right thing and the military put her in prison."

"Right. Where she was safe."

"No. I… I didn't know who she really was when I turned her in. I didn't know what prison would do to her."

"She wanted you to turn her in, Jenna. She set you up to do so. She knew that as long as she was in government custody no one could get to her."

"Charlie fought in two wars.  Who was she afraid of?"

"A private securities firm, most likely.  You know that I met her? She was working on this genetic sequencing project that had the potential to save lives, but also destroy them. And there were some people out there who saw applications for her research that went beyond her intentions."

"She was doing research that could help save lives, and people wanted to use it to create a bioweapon."

"Well yeah, she created this pathogen that could seek out and dismantle specific sequences. Just think about it -- a smart bomb that could be detonated in the middle of a crowded city, only harm it's intended target. Think about the innocent civilian lives saved while you take out leaders of terrorist organizations."

"Or commit genocide. If her work fell into the wrong hands, it could quietly wipe out entire groups of people because they share a certain genetic code, while their neighbors go about living their lives.  Why do you know so much about this? What's your interest in my sister?"

"I believed that I had a use for her pathogen, at one time. But my fight is over now."

A few notes about this exchange.

Clearly Charlie's pathogen is the key ingredient in the smart bomb that Flint was developing, as discussed in 1x12.

Liz's "personal genome machine" can break down the alien genetics and give Project Shepherd what they need to use a smart bomb on the aliens. 

Don't forget, her lab is protected by Air Force security set up by "Alex's team". (Badbadbadbad!)

Rosa describing her bipolarism. 

"I get these mood swings sometimes. Like, I can be happy and singing one minute, and then, all of a sudden, this darkness just closes in over me, and I have all these voices telling me that I'm worthless."

Jesse gives Cam the name of the security firm looking for Charlie.  We don't see the name of it. He warns her to be careful. "I may be hobbled but they are not."

"Now, you were hunting aliens, and I gave you Max's name. Why didn't you lock him up in Caulfield with the rest?"

"I don't know.  I guess I feel like there's a story unfolding in Roswell. Has been for more than 50 years.  You can't blame me for wanting to see how it ends."

Catherine Zeta-Jones in a laser maze -- Liz is referencing the 1999 movie Entrapment.

Liz trying to science-intrigue Kyle….

"Interesting historical footnote. There was an internment camp in Roswell. Nazi POWs built half this city.  Hence the iron crosses. My great-great grandfather BoDean's foreman got busted for hiding a couple of women here. According to him 'A couple Nazi spies escaped and strudeled their schnitzel for room and board right here on this very farm.  See, I was never really as into shooting squirrels as Wyatt is, so, when I came out here for summers as a kid, my cousin Kate and I -- we'd prowl the property for artifacts."

"You know, what we're doing you and me -- it doesn't only have to be for Max...once Max is healthy, we could use this genome machine to Target cellular apoptosis.  I mean, we could craft polymerase sequencing in human DNA. We don't have to stop. We have no boards, no restrictions…"

Apoptosis is also sometimes referred to as "cellular suicide" or "spontaneous single cell death".

Polymerase is like the building blocks of DNA.

In other words, Liz is really, really smart.

FORREST LONG!!!!!! 😂😂😂. 

Alex on the bullet shells: "These match the M1917s the airmen used in '48.

"They were scattered all over the property. Legend has it the Nazis we're building some kind of bomb in the barn. Then one night the Air Force showed up."

"The night of the fire."

"The blaze burned so hot it turned sand to stone. Papers say that lightning struck the barn and everyone died in the flames, but...that's bull.  See I think the Air Force covered up the massacre that happened when they discovered that weapon.

A few things on this scene… 

Forrest mentions his cousin Kate...Wyatt's sister who was murdered by Noah in 2008.  So Forrest is Wyatt Long's cousin. 

Substitute Nazi for alien and it's probably all based somewhat based in truth.  In the 1940s that definitely would have been a reasonably obvious way to cover it up, especially given the history that Forrest cites and the military culture in Roswell.

Note: POW = prisoner of war

The iron crosses Forrest references…

Article on the German POWs in the Roswell Daily Record…

Walt was hiding in the barn when Tripp made it explode.  Explosion looked shimmery, like the alien ship & tech. 

Also, more info than you ever wanted to know about the Roswell Army Air Field/Walker Air Force Base/Roswell International Air Center...including some info on the POWs.

Sheriff Valenti's theory on Noah's death:

"I think Max Evans poisoned Noah and left him in the desert the night of the lightning storm, and I think Isobel Evans was in on it."

Kyle says it would take gallons of acetone to poison someone.

Tripp was Alex's great uncle

Nora was working on a ship to take the pods home.

TRIPP MANES!!!  Full name is Eugene Manes III.

Alex finally gives Michael the piece of alien ship he's had.  He doesn't want to be another Manes man standing in Michael's way.

Cam's voicemail to Liz.

"Got a lead on my sister.  Give me a call when you get that tin-star-wearing E.T. awake, so I can curse him out for worrying us all. Good luck Liz. Bring Max home."

Arturo's Spanish to Liz and Rosa.

"Das gracias a Dios.  Gracias todos los dias."

Translates generally to "Thank God.  Thanks every day."

Isobel's monologue at the end:

"The idea of God always freaked me out. Like, apparently he made people in his own image, which, first of all, get over yourself. And also, does that apply to us? Does every planet have its own God? Let's say that we're all clones of the big guy in the sky. Well then, doesn't it stand to reason that we're all capable of slinging light? Well I guess by that same token we're all capable of tremendous wrath. We're walking contradictions. A never-ending mercurial rise and fall. Darkness and light. I guess the real miracle is choosing the light. Despite the ever-present darkness. Look at us. You're in the middle of a downright biblical desert, galaxies from where we started. I mean, our very existence is a miracle. I'm capable of so much more than I thought I was, Max. I really think that maybe I could do great things. I need you to come back, okay? I need you to be the thing that I can believe in. That doesn't let me down. I just need this one little miracle, and I promise I won't ever ask for anything ever again."

MUSIC:

1. LEN "Steal My Sunshine"

2. Spacehog "In The Meantime"

3. Duke Ellington "Take It Easy"

4. Maná "Como Te Deseo"

5. Oasis "Don't Look Back In Anger"

6. Ben Harper "Waiting On An Angel"

[recentanimenews]

Wonder Egg Priority – 05 – Omelette Rice

Now that each girl and the group as a whole have had their spotlight episodes, it’s time to return to Ohto Ai’s story. While she’s exhausted and sore from her last battle, Ai’s mom insists she get out of bed for breakfast. Her mom also made her omelette rice for lunch and they’ll be having sukiyaki for supper. Ai notes that they usually only have sukiyaki on special occasions. Then her mom asks if she’ll have a “proper talk” with Mr. Sawaki today.

When Ai joins the others, it’s clear she’s in a mood. First of all, she’s skipping emphatically, then starts kicking a traffic cone around and then a sandwich board that she accidentally shatters. The other three are understandably curious what caused this change in her. The four visit the Accas, who inform them of a new threat: Haters, who disguise themselves as Seeno Evils but are far more powerful.

Haters are the result of the four girls “standing out” by their protecting the egg girls. “Those who stand out pay for it”, Acca says, reminding me of how conformity was also the best defense in Ikuhara’s Yuri Kuma Arashi. They present the girls with a different kind of defense: cute pendants that awaken when spoken to in Latin and imprint upon their owners.

Each girl finds somewhere private to awaken their “Pomanders”. Neiru’s is a snake, Rika’s a turtle, Momo’s is an alligator, and Ai’s is a chameleon. While envy and spite birth the Haters that attack Ai and her latest egg girl, those same qualities are like “bread and butter” to her Pomander, who proceeds to gobble one up. As a big fan of beast-taming in FFXIII-2, I like the extra boost they provide to Ai as the difficulty level increases.

In life, Yoshida Yae could see dead people and “strong grudges” no one else could. Because only she could, no one believed her, and she was eventually committed. The facility was full of the very thing only Yae could see, which do doubt led to her suicide. Ai tries to keep her safe by hiding her, but this time the Wonder Killer itself is invisible.

While it’s a little confusing at first, it becomes apparent that Ai’s defense of Yae and battle against an invisible foe comes after the “special occasion” for which her mom is making sukiyaki: Mr. Sawaki is joining them for dinner…and not to talk about school. While the sukiyaki is a clue, it still feels like an ambush, especially when Ai is still drying her hair from a bath when he basically invades her safe space.

Ai’s mom and Sawaki aren’t done with the surprises, as they announce to her their intention to start dating, if it’s okay with her. YIKES. Look, I get it, her mom is divorced and ready to find love again, and Sawaki seems on the surface to be a kind and decent guy. But your daughter’s teacher, who was a major presence in both her and her only friend’s lives prior to Koito’s sudden suicide?

The cynic, i.e. the Rika in me smells something rotten in the state of Denmark. Just as she supposed Ai’s mom used Ai’s need for counseling as an excuse to make Sawaki’s visits a regular occurance, leading to their growing closer, Rika has even darker concerns based on her own mother’s relationships. In her experience, live-in boyfriends always abuse their girlfriend’s kids—violently if it’s a son, sexually if it’s a daughter.

When Ai tells the other girls about this, Momoe is giddily over the moon, as it could mean she and Ai could be family someday. She does not take Rika’s aspersion casting well, and not just because Rika makes a distinction between how a boy or girl would be abused. Momo trusts her uncle, and believes Rika is letting her perspective curdle Ai’s. For him to use Ai’s mom as a decoy to get to Ai…she just can’t believe he’d be that way.

And yet…sometimes it’s the closest friends and family members who have a blind spot where their loved one is concerned—just ask anyone who was close to someone who has been #MeToo’d in the last few years. “[What they are alleged to have done] isn’t them” is a common refrain. The bottom line is, Ai seems most troubled by the fact she still doesn’t know what caused Koito’s suicide, and as long as the mystery remains unresolved, Ai will understandably feel uneasy.

And then there’s Neiru’s input, which is to draw in so close to Ai she can’t hide her face. She brings up Occam’s Razor—the simplest theory is the best—and wonders if the bottom line is that Ai likes Mr. Sawaki. From where they each stand, Momoe, Rika, and Neiru all have valid reasons for how they feel about Ai’s predicament. There simply isn’t enough information for anyone to be proven right or wrong.

All that is certain is that the uncertainty is extremely frustrating for Ai, so much so that after getting beaten by Yae’s invisible Wonder Killer, and Yae tosses her prayer beads that enable Ai to see it, Ai wastes no time taking out those frustrations on the Killer, kicking and smashing it into oblivion.

Before Yae also vanishes, she gets to experience the release and relief of having Ai embrace her and tell her in no uncertain terms that she believes her. For Yae, Ai was the only one. Upon returning home, she decides to name her new chameleon buddy Leon. It’s a bit obvious, but it feels right.

The next day, it pours. Ai’s mom comes home while she’s still in the bad, and scolds her for leaving her dirty clothes out. When she says she’ll turn out the pockets before putting them through the wash, Ai bursts out of the bath without drying off, dresses herself, and runs out the door into the torrential rain. When her mom asks where she’s going, she defiantly yells “SCHOOL!”

Ai keeps running, and by the time she reaches her school, the rain has let up and the sky has become clear and beautiful. She spots Mr. Sawaki as two other schoolgirls are saying goodbye to him. She runs up to him takes hold of his arm, and catches her breath. It looks for all the world like she’s about to confess her love, but she doesn’t. Instead, she brightly declares that she’s going to start going to school again, purposefully brushing the hair out of her face to reveal her blue eye.

Ai doesn’t give Sawaki an answer about whether its okay for him to date her mom. She also doesn’t have any satisfying answers about Koito; at least not yet. Depsite all that, she’s emerged from her cocoon after a lengthy hibernation, and to give ordinary school life another go. Not for Koito, not for her mom, and not for Mr. Sawaki…but for herself.

Perhaps she was “egged on” (I’m so sorry) by her mom and Mr. Sawaki’s announcement, but defending all the egg girls and hearing their stories, as well as those of her fellow egg defenders, and even Leon helped her put her own situation into relief. Avoiding school hasn’t brought her all the answers she’s sought since losing Koito. Maybe by returning to school they’ll reveal themselves…or maybe not! Regardless, she’ll move forward and live her life. I just hope she didn’t catch a cold running forward through all that rain!

By: sesameacrylic

[randomoranges]

this time i get to be the edward and i’d like an étienne.

more cathartic splurgy whatever teacher au

Write-Off

If possible, Edward would like to hibernate until the month of July. That, or not return to work the following day, or ever. He doesn’t say this often and he doesn’t really mean it, but he hates them. He genuinely hates these kids. (He doesn’t, but right now, it feels like it.) He’s tired. He’s exhausted. He’s been having the hardest of times with this group and he’s at wits end. He’s been ploughing through – going in, getting the work done, trying his best and keeping his head up, but nothing seems to be working. At all. He’s called the parents, he’s e-mailed them, he’s talked to the kids, he’s tried reward systems, hell – the principal has even come in, twice and there is no improvement.

 The e-mails from the parents aren’t helping either. There are at least two kids that don’t want to come to class anymore because of the vile environment and he doesn’t know what to do anymore. The students are mean towards each other, they keep on interrupting his lessons, and no matter what tactic he’s tried, there’s nothing that works. He feels bad for the dozen or so of kids who want to learn and who behave appropriately.

 Just today, he thought of walking out. He actually made it as far as the door, but then he stopped himself. What would that accomplish? He’d be the one punished anyways.

 As it is now, he’s sat at his desk, at home, meant to be getting some work done, but he doesn’t feel like it. He wants to throw everything away, set it all ablaze and then lock himself up in his room and let the darkness consume him. He doesn’t care anymore. He’s done. He wants out. He’ll work in a grocery store for minimum wage and odd hours. Whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore. He doesn’t care some students are failing. He’s done what he had to do. It’s their fault.

 He hates them.

 (He doesn’t. He doesn’t, he doesn’t, he doesn’t, but they’re pushing his buttons and making him hate the job. Hate the work. Hate them. They’ve drained him, completely, and he has no idea how he’s going to make it to the end of the year. And he wonders, again, always, why this is deemed to be “normal” and how this could ever be part of the job – but that’s another conversation.)

 He throws his pen across the desk in frustration and watches it bounce off his grade book and to the stack of math tests he’s just graded. There’s no satisfactory thud and it does nothing to improve his mood. He feels trapped, here, he wants out, but the idea of getting dressed and going out sounds even more exhausting and frustrating. He’s at his own edge and yelling into a pillow sounds both cathartic and irrelevant.

 “Hon?”

 Edward turns towards the door and glares at the intruder, until he realises that it’s Étienne. He lets out a heavy sigh and turns back to his stack of paper, letting his shoulders slump. He yearns for Étienne to coddle him and also wants his boyfriend to leave him the fuck alone at the same time. He lets Étienne interpret his mood and figures he can deal with whatever outcome comes from it.

 Étienne decides to enter his den at his own risk and makes his way to the chair. He places a careful hand to his shoulder and Edward tenses and then relaxes almost automatically. He resists leaning into the contact for a full second or two and then gives up.

 The touch is gentle and a great contrast from the clash of his own emotions.

 It isn’t long before he finds himself with his face squished in Étienne’s midriff as his boyfriend cards his fingers through his hair and holds him close.

 Étienne knows, obviously. Knows how hard it’s been on him and he’s been – letting him rant and giving him space when needed, which has been nice and appreciated, but – this is also – without realising it – what he needs. He feels his shoulders shake as Étienne makes soft noises with his mouth and the avalanche of every negative thought running through his head for the past month rushes forward to be let out.

 Edward clutches at him and lets his frustration and anger and exhaustion run out of him. He lets his boyfriend guide him through it, simply by being there and takes solace in the gentle hand running up and down his back.

 Eventually, Étienne sits on his lap and lets him furrow his face in the crook of his neck, and Étienne keeps holding him close and places gentle kisses to the top of his head. He’s here, with him, and it’s exactly what Edward needs. Étienne doesn’t offer him any crap advice of “it’ll get better” and “tomorrow’s another day”. Étienne knows he doesn’t want to hear it at the moment and instead offers him the safe space he needs to quietly come apart and pull himself together again.

 They stay like that for hours, maybe even days and Étienne doesn’t pressure or push him to do anything; simply lets him be, until finally Edward emerges from the folds of Étienne’s shirt and looks up to find kind, but concerned green eyes looking at him. His boyfriend caresses his face, gently, tenderly, and Edward closes his eyes for a moment.

 “Why don’t you stay home tomorrow?” Étienne offers and Edward actually considers it for a moment.

 “Too much hassle. Need to do a sub plan. Need to call the school. Then we’ll fall behind. The kids will be worse. It’s – too much.”He doesn’t have the energy to deal with any of it. And he’s not even sick. Others have it worse than he does. He shouldn’t be so affected by a group of 28 eleven year olds.

 And yet.

 And yet.

 “Take the day,” Étienne reiterates, “You’re no good to yourself or the kids if you feel the way you look.  I’ll write the sub plan for you and I’ll get everything ready for the class tomorrow.”

 Edward avoids his gaze and looks away. It’s easier to play the martyr. To tough it out. To find excuses to run another day. It’s wrong, he knows, but it’s easier. It’s twisted, but it’s how the system seems to work. The culture. You didn’t do it right if you’re not dead and exhausted at the end of the line.

 “Listen to me, please.” Étienne uses his firm teacher voice on him and it’s disconcerting; he’d laugh about it, but he doesn’t. “Stay home, sleep in. Let me take care of the rest. Forget about the kids. Take care of yourself.”

 He considers it. Maybe. He could. He could sleep in. But it’s already Wednesday. Tomorrow will be Thursday and then the weekend will be closer. He can catch up on sleep over the weekend and start the following week with his batteries three-quarters full. The next break will arrive soon enough. He can just – work until then and crash at that point.

 “Would you?” He asks Étienne, “Would you call in sick if the cards were reversed?”

 Étienne falters and hesitates. He opens his mouth to say that yes, he would, but Edward gives him a look that says he doesn’t want a bullshit answer – he needs the truth, for himself, to prove a point, or both, he’s not sure.

 “Be better than me.” Étienne settles for instead.

 Edward ponders it long and hard. He thinks about it as Étienne keeps rubbing his back and holding him close. He sighs and leans his head back down on his boyfriend’s shoulder, makes himself small and let’s himself be taken care of for a change. He gets to have the tantrum now and someone else can deal with the aftermath. The decision weighs on him as the options fight to the death in his head. The pros and the cons. The benefits that outweigh the consequences; the consequences that trump over the benefits. It’s a cycle, a vicious one, and it never ends.

 He feels Étienne shift and then hears him tap away at his phone. It takes him a while to realise what he’s doing and he finds that he’s relieved when he hears the voice of the answering machine at school, followed by Étienne’s steady voice saying that Edward won’t be in tomorrow, that he’s not feeling well and that a sub plan will be brought it.

 He’s thankful Étienne took the decision out of his hands – that he did it for him. He makes enough decisions in one day that this one seemed too much and too daunting. He already feels a fraction better, the weight off his shoulders, knowing that he won’t have to deal with the maelstrom of his class tomorrow. He’ll be able to be himself for the day, forget about his responsibilities, to a point, and turn off. He knows he’ll have to play catch up the day after, but at the moment, he does not care.

 FIN

[justheretobreakthings]

Welcome to the Family - Chapter 4

(Previous Chapter) (Next Chapter)

Word Count: 2,898 (Total Word Count: 9,238) Read on AO3

Story Summary: Lance had been excited about his family taking in a foster kid, eager to get to meet his brand new little brother or sister, who would surely adore and idolize their super cool Big Brother Lance. What he got instead was a sullen, quiet, temperamental teenage housemate with a criminal record and a disastrous haircut.

With a shaky breath Keith turned around and leaned his back against the door, listening for Lance’s retreating footsteps and trying to regain his composure. One of his hands brushed against the knob and he debated turning the lock, but ultimately decided against it. Tania hadn’t mentioned whether he was allowed to lock his door, and he didn’t want to get in trouble if it turned out that it wasn’t permitted.

He waited until he was sure Lance was gone before going back to his bag, peering into it to see what had been messed with. He wasn’t sure what Lance’s aim had been, if he were looking to steal or looking for some contraband or something to report him on. Either way, it was incredibly stupid of him to have been commenting on his finds while he was rummaging through the bag.

Keith paused with a frown. That was beyond stupid, actually. Or it would have been if Lance had intended to hide that he was looking through his things. Had he actually thought that it was just an okay thing to do? Was that some personal quirk of Lance’s or would this be the level of privacy he should be expecting at the McClain house? Keith let out a huff of frustration. He hated no-privacy houses.

At least it seemed that Lance hadn’t dug through more than clothes and CDs. The emergency first-aid supplies and food were untouched where they were stuffed at the end of the bag, and his knife was still safely wrapped in socks and tucked into the inner pocket.

He finished unpacking on his own. It didn’t take long; his clothes didn’t even take up a full two drawers of the room’s dresser, and the only personal touches he had brought with him were the plush hippopotamus now resting on top of his pillow, and the little stack of CDs and few paperback books that he set onto the wall-mounted bookshelf over the desk.

Afterward, he collapsed back onto the bed, trying to think of what to do to pass the time next. It wasn’t as if there was much by way of entertainment in this room - probably by design - but he also didn’t want to go back downstairs and interact with the family, not yet. Tania seemed nice enough, or at least was making an effort to be, but she was also kind of exhausting, and Lance was nosy, had kept following them around and staring at Keith and going through his things. He still had yet to get a proper first impression of Rachel, but his hopes weren’t high.

With a sigh, he decided to hibernate in his bedroom for now. He pulled one of his books from the shelf - a weatherbeaten sword-and-sorcery that he had already read a couple dozen times over by this point - and set to reading it again, keeping his ears open for any sounds from the rest of the household. They seemed to be leaving him alone. He wasn’t sure whether Tania had just told them to give him space, or if they were avoiding or ignoring him; he was grateful for the quiet either way.

He had whiled away a couple of hours with his book before he was finally interrupted by a knock at the door. He looked up, letting a few seconds go by before realizing that whoever had knocked was waiting for his go-ahead to enter, so he said, “Come in.”

The door opened and Rachel poked her head into the room. “Hey,” she said. “Veronica just got home and Papá’s a couple minutes away, and dinner’s about ready, so Mamá needs you to come downstairs now, kay?”

“Um, okay,” Keith said, dog-earing his page and setting his book down on the bed before standing up.

Rachel raised a brow and nodded toward the book. “What, you don’t use bookmarks? Just fold the pages up like a heathen?” She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “For shame, Keith.”

Instantly Keith felt his stomach clench as he glanced back to the book. “No - no, it’s - it’s my book, I swear, I didn’t mess up any of your guys’ books, it’s - I mean, the pages aren’t in great shape anyway, and I would use a bookmark if it was someone else’s, I just didn’t think - ”

“Whoa, whoa, hey, easy,” Rachel said, eyes gone wide as she held up her hands placatingly. “Sorry, wasn’t accusing you of anything. Lance dog-ears his books too, I just like getting onto him about it. I say he’s a monster for folding the pages, he replies that I’m just being a snob with my oh-so-fancy bookmarks, and we call each other names until Mamá tells us we’re giving her a migraine. It’s fine, though. Mark your books however you want.”

“...Oh,” said Keith. “Okay.”

“You good to come down to dinner?”

Keith nodded. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

Rachel led the way downstairs, throwing curious glances his way a couple of times as they walked to the dining room. Keith kept his arms folded tightly and his gaze down as he followed her. He had overreacted about the book, started panicking over nothing, and now Rachel was thinking he was weird and confusing and probably overdramatic or something. Just what he needed to make a wonderful first impression.

A paunchbellied man with a scruffy ducktail beard was just entering the front door and he and Rachel landed downstairs, and another new face, a bespectacled young woman, was already in the dining room helping Lance set the table. Veronica, Keith surmised, and he was certain Tania had told him her husband’s name as well, but he couldn’t remember it.

“You must be Keith!” the bearded man said as he shut the door behind him, a beaming smile on his face. “I’m Manuel.” Well, there was that mystery solved. “Sorry I couldn’t come along to pick you up today, got called into work and just couldn’t worm my way out of it.”

“It’s quite all right, cariño,” Tania said as she bustled through the entrance to the kitchen with a pot of rice in her hands. As she set it down on a placemat on the table she added, “I really do wish that you’d talk to your supervisor, though, your hours have been a mess recently. Rachel, dear, could you grab the ropa vieja from the stove?”

“Oh, it’s just for a little while until our staffing issues are dealt with,” Manuel said as Rachel left. He pulled out the chair at the head of the table and plopped himself into it with a grunt. “Don’t want to get into it with scheduling anyhow, seeing as I’ve taken so many personal days as of late. The Guardalavaca trip last month, and we’ve got Veronica’s orientation and move-in coming up - ”

“Which, for the fiftieth time, you don’t have to go to,” Veronica spoke up. She smirked at Keith. “I’m going to college on the other side of town, and Papá acts like it’s the other side of the country. I’m not even officially ‘moving out’, I only have to live in the dorms during the week. I’ll be home on weekends.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t miss you on weekdays,” Manuel said.

Veronica rolled her eyes. “You didn’t do this with Luis or Marco.”

“Oh, I did, you just weren’t paying attention.”

“Veronica is starting her first semester at the Garrison Institute in couple of weeks,” Tania explained to Keith with a proud smile toward Veronica. “Are you very familiar with it?” Keith shook his head and Tania continued, “One of the best research universities out there, and Veronica managed to land herself an absolutely fantastic scholarship package, my little scientist.”

“Mamá, you’re embarrassing me,” Veronica groaned.

“What is it you’re majoring in again, mija?”

“Aeronautics.”

“That’s the one. Thank you, love,” she added to Rachel as the latter set the main course down in the middle of the table. “You can help yourself to as much as you want, Keith, dear.”

“Thank you,” Keith mumbled as he took a seat. The meaty dish that Rachel had set down - the ropa vieja, Keith assumed - was passed his way. It did look and smell appetizing, and Keith was certainly hungry; he’d only eaten a cereal bar for lunch. But he still played it safe, only placing a small scoop onto his plate before passing the dish along to Lance in the seat beside him, who piled a mountain quadruple the size of Keith’s onto his own plate.

“So, enough about me,” Veronica said as she took her own seat. “Looks like you’re going to be my new little brother, huh, Keith?”

Keith lifted one shoulder in a shrug and started picking at his ropa vieja with the tines of his fork. That was the second time he had been called that today, and he honestly wished they would stop. There were always certain foster homes that would do that, foster parents who would call him their ‘son’ and the other kids in the house his ‘brothers’ or ‘sisters’ and tried to act like they were an official ‘family’. It always just made it that much more jarring when they inevitably sent him packing again.

“Well, in that case, I wanna know a little about you,” Veronica said. “Tell me about yourself, Keith.”

“Um,” was all Keith said. He looked down and stuffed a bite of the ropa vieja into his mouth to keep from answering. It tasted pretty good, he decided, but more importantly it gave him an excuse not to talk. What sort of answer was she expecting, anyway? There was nothing to him worth talking about.

“What do you like to do for fun, Keith?” Manuel prompted when the silence had stretched on for several seconds.

“I, uh…” Keith said, trying to come up with something. “I - I read, I guess?”

“Play any sports?” Manuel asked. Keith shook his head. “Any musical instruments?” Another head shake. “Any school activities? Been in any clubs before?” No, and no.

“That’s something we ought to look into for you, right Keith?” said Tania. “Find something fun for you to do in your free time. Altea High’s got a lot of extracurriculars. And you could always tag along with Lance or Rachel to something. They’re both in drama club, and Rachel is in marching band and Lance is on the swim team. Any of those sound like they’d interest you?” When Keith just shrugged, she added, “Well, we can have Mr. Smythe go over the other clubs and such with you on Friday, see if anything sounds fun to you.”

“Mr. who?” Keith asked, frowning.

“The guidance counselor at the school,” Tania answered. “We’re going to meet with him before the school year starts to get your schedule finalized and get you oriented in the school a bit. There’s another get-to-know-you question, Keith! What’s your favorite school subject?”

“Uh, I - I dunno,” Keith answered slowly. “I’m… decent at science?”

“Another one,” Lance groaned. “My whole social circle is just one science geek after another.”

“Lance, don’t make fun,” Manuel scolded. “I think it’s great, we could be looking at another Garrison student in the family in a few years’ time.”

“Mm,” Keith hummed noncommittally. There was no point in even giving that possibility a second thought. He didn’t have the money to afford college, didn’t have the grades to ever go for scholarships, and the odds that he would even still be in this foster home long enough for the McClain’s to have to be concerned about his post-high-school plans were less than zero. But he didn’t bother saying it. They’d figure it out themselves soon enough.

“Come on, Papá, Keith just got here,” Lance said through a mouthful of food. “It’s too early for you to be trying to push him into nerd school.”

“You know, mijo,” Tania said, “If you took your own schoolwork more seriously I bet you’d be in the running for it too. You have the intelligence for it, you really do, if you would just apply yourself - ”

“I’ve already got a future planned out,” Lance interrupted. “Make a name for myself as a contestant on The Bachelorette, use my fame to market a line of luxury hair-care products, retire in Havana at age thirty-two and die peacefully in my hot tub at ninety-six.”

“See, I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not, and that terrifies me.”

“Serious as a stab wound. I dream big, Mamá. And I thought we were interrogating Keith, not me.”

“Huh?” Keith said, brows furrowing.

“We’re not interrogating him, Lance, we’re just getting to know him,” said Manuel. “Come on, Keith, back on that. What sort of foods do you like to eat?”

“Uh, I dunno,” Keith answered. “Anything, really.”

“How about music?” Rachel asked.

“I already said I don’t play anything.”

“I meant listening to,” Rachel said, rolling her eyes.

“Oh,” said Keith. “Um, I - I like - I like rock, I guess.”

“Any favorite movies? TV shows?” asked Veronica.

“Not really…”

“How long you been in foster care?” Lance asked.

Keith bit his lip and looked down at his lap, his grip on his fork tightening as Tania scolded, “Lance, not the time.”

“What?” Lance asked. “It was just a question. To get to know Keith better, you know?”

“I don’t - I’d rather not, um, not talk about - ” Keith stammered.

“That’s all right, Keith, that’s all right,” Tania said hastily. “You don’t need to talk about your… experience if you don’t want to.”

“I was just curious, jeez,” Lance muttered, lifting his fork and stabbing it into his rice. “Didn’t mean to freak anyone out or anything.”

“Let’s just - let’s just try to be sensitive about the situation, okay, Lance?”

Keith kept his eyes on his own plate as they spoke, and he could feel his face reddening all the while. Okay, so, clearly Tania had some knowledge about his past. He didn’t know if she knew the actual and distressingly high number of homes he’d been through, or details of what had happened with them, but she knew enough to know that his time in foster care had not been a happy story. And she had just made the rest of the family fully aware of that as well, and Keith squirmed in his seat as he felt the others’ curious eyes on him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Lance grunted. He took a couple of quiet bites of his food before quietly adding to his mother, “¿Se nos permite preguntar por la cicatriz?”

“No, Lance,” Tania said firmly, shooting him a glare, or at least a close facsimile of one; Tania’s face really was not designed for anger.

Keith glanced between the two of them, confused. “Wait, what did he say?” he asked.

“Nothing, dearie,” Tania sighed.

“But what - ?”

“That’s something we’ll need to do for you now that you’re in the family, isn’t it,” Manuel said. “Help you learn Spanish. Have you got him scheduled for Spanish at the high school, Tania?”

“Not yet, we’ll be going over that with Mr. Smythe,” Tania answered. “Would Spanish class be okay with you, Keith? Altea has a foreign language requirement, but they also teach French, German, Japanese, and Russian, if any of those are - ”

“Nah, um, Spanish is fine,” Keith mumbled. He returned his attention to his plate. Whatever Lance had said, it was obviously not meant for his ears. Fine. He was used to that.

“Are you enjoying your meal, Keith?” Tania asked. Keith nodded wordlessly and continued eating.

The others tried to pick him apart a little more during the rest of the meal, but as Keith just grew quieter, the focus gradually, and thankfully, turned to the others, discussing their lives and back-to-school plans and other miscellany that wound up becoming a buzz in Keith’s ears. The McClains were a very talkative family, and Lance was frankly a louder talker than necessary. It was all starting to grow exhausting and just a little overwhelming.

The strain may have shown on his face, because Tania didn’t push when Keith turned down the offer of second helpings of the food, and when the dinner was finished, she picked his plate up for him. “Don’t worry about dishes or anything tonight,” she said. “Just focus on settling in for now. Tomorrow we can look at fitting you into the family chore chart. Sound good?”

Keith nodded, taking the fact that everyone was getting up from the table as his own invitation to leave. He pushed his chair in with a scrape and headed upstairs, shutting the door to his room behind him and flopping onto the bed, figuring that’s where he’d remain for the rest of the evening.

Things seemed okay so far. Not perfect, but okay. And unless they were putting on a facade for him to start out with - a possibility that he couldn’t outright dismiss no matter how friendly the family may seem - he could deal with the McClains for now. He didn’t know if he’d actually be able to enjoy himself here, or feel comfortable here, but that wasn’t his priority.

He had given up on the possibility of enjoying or being comfortable in any of his homes. As long as he was surviving in it, that was good enough for Keith.

And he was pretty sure he could survive this one.

[apurpleaddledbaker]

Clown => Encounter Smol Clown

RP thread with @knivesandfaygo

In Which Derse Clowns Are Really Bad At This Looking After Themselves Bullshit >:o(

Gamzee

You are one Gamzee Makara and you think it's still pretty cold and snowing outside? You think? Not too real sure cause you've kinda been napping on and off in Eridan's room, he is not here or using it and you have permission so hibernate you have been doing. Either way you've emerged from the room to get some food and something warm in you. You haven't left your blanket cocoon fully though, motherfuck no, still cold as all kinds of motherfuck and you're gonna bring your favourite of the soft materials with you, no fucks ta be given. Yours now, you rubbed your face on it, it's the rules. So that's how you'd be found, wearing a blanket like one of those cape thingys and heating up some leftovers in the kitchen. S'all good.

Karako

Your name is Karako Pierot and you are having a pretty spiffy day. Still colder than the depths of someplace real cold that you don't know about since you didn't stick round to have much more probably schooling beyond basic reading. while you were picking up chocolate for that pink cat lady you just met today, you also snagged some of the best snack ever. MOTHERFUCKIN POPCORN. HONK!!! You with your normal level of eagerness and excitement, zoom into the kitchen to pop this good corn and douse it in butter and salt. YAS!!! As you rush in,  you encounter a blanket creature and come to a screeching halt with a startled honk.

Gamzee

You yourself are a bit startled by the sudden noise behind ya, lifting up your head where you'd placed it on the counter to be watching the spin spin spin spin spin spin - no, don't get distracted again, focus please - of the reheating miracle occurring 'fore your eyes and turn towards the source of it. Well, you haven't really lifted your head much, you're still pretty much resting it on the counter just more on ya chin than ya cheek. Ah ok, s'just your small bro Karako, s'all good. One of your hands emerges from the fabric to wave at him all sleep-dumb lazy, "hey there," the words have gotta be paused on account of you yawning, sharp, unperfect fangs on display before your claw closes with a snap. "Bro. What's gots you this fine morning?" It's late afternoon. Shhhhh, no time for technicals... time to nuzzle into your soft fabric, all rich violet and expensive softness, s'good shit. You're gonna steal it later.

Karako

Oh the blanket beast is Gamzee. That's not surprising really but it does make you grin happily. "Hey! I gots popcorn!" you honk with great glee. "Ima make so much and munch all up on the goodness!"

Gamzee

Blink once, long slow and hum a soft noise. "That's being sounding all kinds a motherfuckin miraculous, hope you enjoy that." Popcorns good, sometimes, when it's not oversalted and is butter-drenched. Good shit. "Just, just be ya careful ya don't get it stuck in ya motherfuckin teeth none, yeah?" That's popcorn right? Or is that something else?? You're not too sure, you're pretty sure it is but then again, pretty sure ain't mean no thing with your head. It's all very :o? Wait, no, focus again, not allowed to wander. "Imma be finishing with the reheating soon enough, then ya'll be motherfuckin free to it." There we go, good clown. "Ya been doing alright?"

Karako

You gasp with the horror which only a  popcorn enthusiast could at the suggestion you microwave you popcorn. "Can't cook popcorn in a microwave. Gotta do it on a stove! I done been learning how," you honk with a grin. To his question you honk, "Yeah I been real good. Fingers keep getting cold but I am doin great!"

Gamzee

Another little hum, a slight shift of your hand that might be dismissive or might be accepting, hard to be deciding on it right now, hard to be deciding on most things right now. S'good. "Whatever be making ya pumper sing bro, just don't be burnin the motherfuckin kitchen down else Deuce'll be an upset." You finally get yourself the energy together to be standing all straight-like, the bones in your spine popping and creaking with all their little unkind noises as you do and no, no blanket, not allowed to escape, behave >:o( Wait, what? "Cold fingers ain't good none," small bit a concern now, look at him a closer, bit clearer, bit more there in the moment. "Likely ta lose a hand that way, ain't you got gloves none?"

Karako

Oh whoops. You done gone and mad him worry. Bad little clown. You totally casually stuff your hands in your pockets after setting down the popcorn so he won't see your threadbare gloves. "Oh yeah yeah, I got gloves," you honk in an attempt to be reassuring as you smile. You're aware you have on your best winter stuff right now as you'd been too excited to properly change out of them. You know they ain't great, but you'll buy better stuff.... eventually... You suddenly feel guilty for treating yourself to popcorn.

Gamzee

Nah, now, you ain't acceptin none a that bullshit, 'specially not when you done pulled it yourself. Not happening little honk, not today. Your eyes narrow, you pull yourself a little straighter, outta that slouch now there you go. "Show me." His shit really ain't the best for this weather, that needs fixing 'fore the next season, ya'll run cold and the chill gets to a clown real motherfuckin bothersome like. Ya can fix that though, might maybe making a deal or two with the fashion sister ta help ya out on that front... Should also probably consider making a deal or four ta get a nice nice set a things for your own self, you ain't got no thing at all for if you get dragged somewhere real nice and uncomfortable expensin and - No, bad honk, back on track with you. Little honk first, other shit for later.

Karako

Your eyes are looking everywhere but towards him as you pull out your hands, stull gloved in the thin maybe just a touch too small mittens you've been using for the past.... You can't really remember how long ago you nicked these. See, gloves. You wear gloves like a good honk. It's all good. Ha ha....

Gamzee

You huff in something that might be a bit too similar to your diamond and reach out to be inspecting better what ya eyes tell ya, can't always trust 'em, liars they are at times. The fins of your ears twitch as you look at 'em, too small for his hands, starting ta fray and fall away in places, too worn to be doing much of any good. Yeah, ya'll gonna fix this shit. "Getting ya a new set," it's decided, you're using that firm steady voice ya be forgetting ya got too often. "I'll cover it, don't worry none about that. Get ya new stuff for the next season too, yeah?"

Karako

"But... But I'm making money now... I just gotta... save a lil..." you honk waiting for him to criticize you as much you are currently doing to yourself for getting the popcorn.

Gamzee

"Nope, I've gots it," no arguing little honk >:o| "Think it like... late hatchday gift or something," one day you will understand shit like that, probably not though cause you still don't give anything of the like even a bit of your attending but maybe. "Ya can save for something else, shoes that won't break or something." Motherfuck were good shoes expensive though, 'specially when ya had to get ones ya claws wouldn't tear through within a few weeks, the fuckers.

Karako

Your head bows and you bite your lip. You appreciate his kindness but you also feel... small... like a small bother folks gotta look after. At least he hasn't seen you fingers you think, a little relieved. You're sure you'll have them back to the right color with a little bit of heat. They do sting though. "I uh... Thanks... I kinda forgot about my hatch day. It was a while back," you admit with some honks. "I'm 19 of them human years now."

Gamzee

"Hey, now, none a that down-looking stuff," you curl your knuckle under his chin, nails curled towards your own self to keep them sharp sharp nails away from his skin. "We church, we look after our own," when you weren't tearing each other apart. "Sides, ya did me some lookin after when the greys had me small, making sure ya stay warmer and keep ya limbs is being the least I can be doing." Probably also the most, maybe, clown shrug here. "S'an alright age," you remember being that age, motherfuckin chaotic little shit you were, not yet grown into ya first adult moult. "S'alright ta forget it, I do mine." Difference being his was most likely just information slipping where yours was the most motherfuckin purposeful of ignorance.

Karako

You try to smile a little and honk, "Well you're bro...Looking after you was what I wanted ta do..." Oh... is... does he... feel the same about you? You're not a wriggler but, maybe he sees you like that sorta? You don't know. "Aight... Thanks ya, I'll be real happy for some gloves," you concede with a few soft honks.

Gamzee

You spend another second looking at him with your narrowed eyes, firm look 'fore nodding and letting him go. Time to get your retreating on back into your personal space and the blanket that is yours now because you've decided Eridan can't have it back, your pretty soft now. "Motherfuckin exactly, so Imma do it," that might have been a bit muffled, you don't real care much. Your leftovers must've finished their miraculous reheating while you were focused on Karako cause it's done and still now and ready to be all kinds of motherfuckin enjoyed so you're gonna do that now. Careful handling cause it's motherfuckin hot. "You was gonna be enjoying yaself some popping corn, yeah? Have a good time with that."

Karako

You honk with a nod while giving him a thumbs up. With a grin you honk, "Hell yeah I was!" Good. He didn't dig deeper. You'll have to get your fingers back to normal before he gets you any gloves that why he'll never know.

Gamzee

Time for you to be getting your eat on, out here. You aren't gonna be getting no crumb things in anyone's room, no you are not. You're gonna be the good guest so you can maybe do it again. Aside from the stolen blanket but that's just something that's gotta be accepted. Away you go, wave at the little honk, you're kinda done now.

Karako

You wave back and turn your attention back tot he popcorn. You look at it for a while after he leaves.... You shouldn't have gotten it.... You don't deserve the treat. You ought be saving for important shit that's gonna keep you alive and not a burden. You sigh and trod back to your room, curling up in bed and breathing heat onto your fingers. ....If someone takes your popcorn it'll serve you right.

Gamzee

Nobody's gonna be takin it cause you in all your absent-minding forget ta get you utensils so ya had to go back for 'em and noticed the packet. It has been shifted a bit with a note not ta be eatin it none, cause it's Karako's :o) The or else is implied.

[planetsam]

may i please request a mileven fic where el gets very hurt physically and has to go to the hospital while mike is freaking out and crying (maybe a car crash or she gets shot?) 🌻🌻

“Mike, Mike!”

Mike opens one eye, groans loudly and rolls over. He wants to hibernate for a year until he’s allowed to see Eleven again. He’s been told that isn’t an option but not for lack of trying on his part. He’s still shocked though when Nancy turns on the lamp next to his bed and rips the blankets off of him. He’s outraged too. He’s about to give some kind of excuse when he looks over at the clock.

“It’s four am,” he says.

“No shit, sherlock,” Nancy says rolling her eyes, “Chief Hopper called, he says you have to be downstairs in five minutes or he’s not stopping.”

Mike blinks at her in surprise. If she knows more, Nancy isn’t saying. She just gives him a look and he remembers the five minutes thing. He scrambles to his feet and throws on whatever he can find, shoving sneakers on too. Nancy chucks his coat at him and then drags him past the stairs into her room.

“It’s four am, do you want mom and dad to stop you?”

“Right,” he says rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “I didn’t want to go through the perv portal.”

“I can wake mom and dad if you want,” she offers instead and he shakes his head, trying to touch as little of the window as possible before he gets out.

He’s terrified that he took longer than five minutes, but the moment he’s on the lawn he sees the blazer come. There aren’t any sirens but that doesn’t make him feel better as he runs across the lawn. The car stops just long enough for him to yank open the door and scramble inside. It starts going before he even has it closed. He’s ready for any number of snide remarks from Hopper about his participation but he just glances at the rearview mirror and floors it.

“Mike.”

His name is half a sob as Eleven drags herself over and puts her head in his lap. She’s curled tightly around herself, half wrapped in an old quilt. Her cheeks are wet but she seems to be fighting the tears. She shudders and presses her face into his corduroys. He can feel how hot she is. When he tries to move her, she whimpers and shakes her head, curling tighter around herself. He watches in horror as she bites into her lip and blood trickles down her chin.

“You can let it out, kid,” Hopper says gruffly, “we’re almost there. But you don’t have to hold it in.”

She looks up at him and Mike feels his heart break when he realizes she’s looking for permission. He nods.

“Yeah, let it out,” he says, wrapping his arm around her and finding her hand where it’s gripping her shirt, “you can squeeze my hand as hard as you want.”

She sobs loudly and grips his hand, blindly reaching for the other one which he gives. He winds up half on top of her but that doesn’t seem to matter so long as she can stay curled up. He looks in the mirror at Hopper. The police chief wipes a hand over his face before returning it to the wheel.

“I think it’s her appendix,” he says, then swallows, “I thought it’d be better if you were—“ he trails off so he can turn before Mike sees the big red emergency sign, “we’re here,” he says and puts the car in park. He looks ashen as he turns around, “kid we’re at the hospital, okay? It’s just the hospital, they’re going to help you.”

It takes Mike until they’re entering the doors to realize why he’s here. And why Hopper sets her down instead of carrying her all the way. The moment the hospital smell hits, Eleven gasps loudly and staggers back, shaking her head. Mike is just close enough to stop her and she twists around, trying to look at him. It’s not easy since she’s still doubled over and he immediately lowers himself down.

“I promise it’s okay,” he says, “they’re going to help you.”

“How—“ she begins and he shakes his head.

“Promise,” he repeats.

He’s not sure if it’s the pain that wins out or if she’s listening to him, but she nods anyway and grips his hand as they hobble into the waiting room. Hopper immediately walks up and starts talking to the nurse. There are more people there but Eleven refuses to let go of his hand, even when she goes on the gurney and they head into the back. She looks up at Hopper who smiles reassuringly before she buries her face in the pillow, keeping her death grip on his hand.

Hopper goes out to talk to them as he helps Eleven change into the hospital gown. It’s a testament to how much she’s in pain that she puts it on at all, but they have to stop a few times for her to cry because she hates it so much. When she’s in it, he tucks the blankets around her. He knows they won’t let her keep the quilt, but he fishes in his pocket and finds the hat he stuffed in there and forgot about, tugging it over her head.

“It’s different, see?” he says and she nods.

“Mike I’m scared,” she whispers.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says, “I got my tonsils out. You just listen to the doctor, they might have you count backwards, and then you wake up in a different room. Hopper will be there. You suck on ice chips and then eventually they bring you to a different room and you go home.”

“Will you be there?” She asks.

“They only let family back there,” he says and feels awful when her expression falls, “if I’m not there I’ll see you really soon.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, promise,” he says.

They both turn as the curtain opens. Mike was never a huge fan of Dr. Owens but he’s thrilled to see him this time. Mostly because Hopper looks fractionally more relaxed than he was when he left them alone.

“Okay,” he says with a smile, “so, I hear it’s your appendix?” Eleven looks at them both for confirmation and Mike nods, “does this hurt?” He asks, touching her stomach. Eleven gasps and then bites her lip again, “okay we’ll go with yes on that,” he says, “how do we feel about needles?”

“I don’t like them,” Eleven says.

“Me neither,” he agrees and looks at Mike, “what about you? You a fan?”

“No,” Mike says, biting back the urge to say he’s not a fan of watching the people he cares about screaming in hospital beds either, “I can keep holding your hand though.”

Eleven manages to look horrified at the implication he was going to do anything else. Dr. Owens comes over and swabs the inside of her elbow. Mike shifts how he’s holding her hand so they can work, but when she bites her lip again at the band they tie around her bicep he almost wants to stop them. Instead he shifts so that she’s got both her hands on his, reaching up and brushing away her tears. When she goes to bite her lip again, he catches it out with his thumb. She yelps and buries her face in the pillow.

“You can make sounds,” he says, “you don’t have to be scared.”

“It still hurts,” she whispers.

“It’s not gonna hurt for long,” he promises as they draw blood and then hook her up to an IV.

She relaxes fractionally when they take off the band and her hand grabs his again, locking both of their fingers. She’s exhausted and Mike wishes that he could make the pain go away. This just seems unfair, but he battles back his own emotions to try and be brave for her. It’s not long before the doctor comes back but every second she’s in pain is too long in his opinion.

“Okay,” he says, “they gotta come out.”

“Can Mike come?” Eleven asks. Dr. Owens looks doubtful. Mike looks at Eleven’s ashen face and looks back at him.

“You let me stay with Will,” he argues.

“Doc,” Hopper says and Dr. Owens sighs, loudly, like he knows where this is going. Then he shoves a clipboard at Hopper.

“Parental consent,” he says and looks at them both, “he can stay until you fall asleep,” he says pulling things out of cupboards, “put these on. You two can have matching hats.”

He doesn’t think as he goes into the bathroom and changes, barely remembering to grab his clothes when he’s done. There are booties for his shoes and he puts them on, coming back inside to see Eleven in the same position, curled tight in a ball. He comes over and shakes her shoulder, waking her up.

“We gotta put these on,” he says, trying to sound like its normal.

She trades his hat for the cap, picking at it before wrinkling her nose. He realizes that she’s got hair now and it has to be covered.

“See? It’s different,” he says.

“You look like the man on the pasta can,” she says to him.

He walks with them into the operating room and helps her as they put her on the bed. He tries to be as brave as possible, knowing that he’s not supposed to be here. He keeps his hands on hers as they inject something into her IV before laying her back. She looks up at him and he smiles.

“Promise,” he says firmly, hooking their pinkies together.

She nods as they put the mask over her face.

“Okay, count back from 100 for me,” the doctor says.

“Ninety nine, ninety eight, ninety seven—“ she trails off and her eyes close.

Her hand going limp in his feels like a sucker punch. He feels like he can’t breathe. He wants to run away but he can’t move because if he lets go, her hand will just be limp. Carefully he places it next to her, fighting back the urge to tell the doctors that they should leave the blanket on. She might get cold. He stands up as a kind nurse puts a hand on his back and steered him out into the hallway.

He opens his mouth in outrage to tell Jim Hopper he’s out of his mind if he thinks he’s going home, but the police chief just settles the jacket on his shoulders.

“You’re gonna get cold in a minute, kid,” he says.

“I’m not leaving!” He objects before he hears what the man said, “what?”

“Yeah, you’re gonna get cold. Probably in shock, you’re definitely exhausted,” he looks at his watch, “shit,” he mutters, “you got school tomorrow?”

“Today,” he says, “I’m not leaving,” he repeats.

“Fuck,” Hopper says again, “what time does it start?”

“What?”

“School! What time does school start?”

“Eight,” he says.

Hopper looks at his watch again and swears a few more times. Mike wonders if they have a swear jar and thinks they should get one if they don’t want Eleven to spend all her time in detention because she thinks that cursing is allowed. Hopper scrubs his face and then gets up in his. Mike glares right back at him.

“This isn’t routine, okay?” The police chief says, “you don’t cut school, you keep those grades up or you’ll be in a holding cell so fast your head’ll spin. Got it?”

“I’m only cutting school because you came and got me,” Mike points out, knowing he’s developed a reputation that’s kind of unjustified. Hopper gives him a look that makes Mike think he’s about to get arrested right now, “for which I’m really grateful for—“

“I just didn’t want her blowing up the hospital,” Hopper says, “she also wouldn’t agree to come here until I got you.”

Mike goes pink around the ears at that.

“You’re lucky my cuffs are still in the car,” Hopper mutters, steering him into the waiting room.

The surgery is over quickly and Dr. Owens comes out, smiling like it’s an accomplishment. Hopper reacts like it’s one too, jumping to his feet in a way that’s oddly enthusiastic. Mike gets up slower, rubbing his eyes. He’s not worried, not really. Eleven can do anything after all.

“She’s appendix-less but fine,” he says, “they’re taking her into recovery,” he looks at Mike, “we’ll put a chair for you.”

“Thanks,” Mike mumbles.

They go up to recovery. She’s tucked into the bed, flat on her back and oddly still. But she’s not really asleep. He has to remind himself of that. He drags the chair closer and sits in it, finding the best way to rest his head. He thinks maybe he grew since the last time he did this. Which wasn’t long enough ago. He curls up in the chair, close enough to touch her but unwilling to risk making her cold by pulling a hand out of the blankets that are tucked around her.

He falls asleep.

He wakes up twice before she does.

The first is when Hopper puts the quilt on him. For a guy whose only been a dad for a year or so, he’s really freaky good at it. If Mike was any more asleep than he had been, he wouldn’t have woken up. He keeps his eyes closed when he does it, but Hopper mutters another swear word like he knows when someone’s faking.

“Go back to sleep, kid,” he tells him.

The next time he wakes up is when Hopper’s putting El’s blue bracelet back on her wrist. El doesn’t wake up but Mike watches as he carefully slips it on, his fingers curling around her wrist like he can’t quite believe the machine that is beeping out her heart rate. He watches him relax and tuck her wrist back under the blanket.

The next time he wakes up it’s because someone’s looking at him. It’s a feeling that he’s gotten used to over the last year, even without truly understanding it. This time though, it’s different. Sharper. He blinks open his eyes to see Eleven curled on her side watching him intently. Mike pushes his hair out of his eyes and moves, leaning over her.

“Hi,” he says.

“Promise,” she replies and he looks at her curiously, “I didn’t say it back,” she explains, “I knew I couldn’t go if I didn’t.”

He smiles and presses his forehead to hers. She hums and closes her eyes, pressing against his. For once Hopper doesn’t say anything and just lets them have their moment. No-one interrupts them until they pull apart. If his cheeks are wet, that doesn’t really matter. El’s half asleep again.

She’s more awake when they’re settled in her room. With less pain, her discomfort is growing. Even the hat that she quickly takes back and the quilt on her bed isn’t enough to get through that. Hopper keeps having to talk to the Doctor and Mike suspects that he’s trying to get them out of there faster. He looks up hopefully when Hop comes in, but Hopper sighs and shakes his head.

“Tomorrow at the earliest,” he says regretfully, “sorry kid,” he adds and Mike isn’t sure which one he means.

“Mike stays?” She asks and Hopper shakes his head.

“Mike’s gotta go to school, we talked about this,” he explains. Mike opens his mouth and Hopper’s look goes from kind to venomous and back again faster than Mike can keep up with, “this is gonna be hard to keep quiet though, so maybe there’s some wiggle room on that year,” he adds.

Eleven looks at him with a bunch of different emotions. Her hand reaches for Mike and he gives it quickly.

“Is it safe?” She asks.

“Not really,” Hopper admits, “but what happened can’t be helped, so we’ll deal with it,” he says. Eleven looks skeptical, “just remember it’s Jane,” he adds looking at both of them.

“I know,” they both say, before meeting each others eyes and smiling.

“Okay okay just—making sure,” Hopper says,  waving a hand, “You’ve gotta go home,” he says to Mike, “I called your sister.”

Mike wants to stay and he stares at Eleven who wants the same thing, wondering why the world doesn’t seem to care about that. She turns away from Hopper, curling on her side and gripping both of Mike’s hands like she can will him to stay. Mike knows he has to explain that if he doesn’t go now they’re not going to be able to see each other for a long time. But he can’t get the words out so he just holds her hands tighter until the smell of Nancy’s perfume hits him.

“Hi,” she says, smiling at Eleven who still has a bit of a hero worship thing when it comes to her. Eleven sits up a little bit and tries to look not afraid.

“Nancy had her appendix out when she was younger,” Mike says and Eleven’s eyes widen.

“Yep,” Nancy says, “do you feel better?”

“Yes,” Eleven says softly.

“Do you not like the hospital?” Eleven shakes her head, “I don’t either. Mike cried for two days when he got his tonsils out until they took him home,” she explains producing a take away bag, “I brought you both real food though. The hospital stuff isn’t good,” she holds out another bag, “and I figured you might need a change of clothes, if you were sick.”

“You brought clothes?” Eleven asks.

“They’re just some old things, I was going to get rid of them anyway so you can keep them.”

Mike looks over as Eleven pokes through the bag, already knowing they definitely aren’t old or things Nancy was going to give away. They aren’t actually Nancy’s clothes at all. Eleven touches the sweater gently and runs her fingers across the seams of a pair of jeans.

“Can I change?” She asks abruptly.

“Not yet,” Hopper says, “but you can put the jacket on,” he adds as her face falls. Eleven pulls out a piece of clothing and wraps it around herself quickly, relaxing fractionally at the feel of clothing against her skin that isn’t the hospital gown, “better?”

“Better,” she confirms and looks at Nancy, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Nancy says, “maybe we can go shopping before you start school properly?”  Eleven nods. Nancy looks at Mike, “mom and dad will kill both of us,” she says.

“Can I just say goodnight?” He asks, “alone?”

Hopper almost says no but Eleven looks at him pleadingly and he mumbles on his way out. Mike sits on the edge of her bed and holds her hands.

“You can call me,” he says, “anytime. I’ll get to the phone before anyone hears.”

“I feel better,” she says, going for reassuring and Mike nods.

“You’re really brave to stay here,” he says like there’s a choice in the matter, “I have to go to school so I’m there when you come with us.”

Her lip’s been bitten through several times but she still manages to pout. She reaches up for his hat and Mike stops her with a shake of his head. She looks up at him.

“It’s a get-well-soon present,” he says, “you get them for people when they’re sick. Its yours now. Here.” He adjusts the hat so its not pulled down over her ears, but rather turned up so she’s a little less hot. Eleven shifts underneath the blankets, getting marginally more comfortable. The last thing is Mike reaches over and pulls the phone closer, finding a pen and paper. He writes down his number, “here, in case you need to call,” he explains, drawing an arrow, “you just dial left to right.”

“Thank you,” Eleven says.

“I’ll see you when you get home,” Mike says, “promise.”

She looks at him and there’s that familiar stab of the unknown in her gaze. There’s a part of her he’ll never fully understand, but that fact is rarely in the forefront of his head. It is now. She leans forward and presses her lips to the corner of his mouth. Outside he can hear Nancy calling, inside he wants nothing more than to stay there. With her. Eleven settles back into the pillow and squeezes his hand.

“Bye, Mike.”

[junker-town]

20020: Questions and answers

The world of 20020 is a very strange one, and people are right to have questions. Jon answers some of them here.

I don’t know if I’ve ever had more fun working on a project than I did with 20020. It was a long time in the making, as was this website, Secret Base. We intend this to be a place where we tell stories, whether they happened last night, a hundred years ago, 18,000 years from now, or some nightmarish video game realm that exists outside of time. In that sense, 20020 doesn’t define this place. Secret Base is the place where something like 20020 can actually live. I don’t want to get too overdramatic; Secret Base is a website where me and a bunch of of other jerks make shit we hope you’ll like. It’s a place I love nonetheless.

I started planning 20020 about three years ago, and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t just writing a sequel to 17776 for its own sake. This time I wanted to piece together a single, cohesive story, rather than a series of loose vignettes. I also wanted to explore certain themes more specifically. What happens to the concept of time if time becomes infinite? What defines a “good game,” and can it be laid out completely by accident? Who are Americans – specifically, these Americans, us? What the Hell is this place, and what was it? What would we do with ourselves if we actually got everything we wanted?

I tried to make something bigger and better than 17776, rather than just bolting on another installment. Personally, I feel like I did, but ultimately, those of you who have read it can be the judge of that. At any rate, thank you so much for reading. I know it was a big ask of you – not only is it roughly as long as a book, it’s a mashup of two things that typically don’t go together. A lot of you came in with zero interest in American football, and a lot of you came in without any particular inclination to read a work of science fiction where humankind never explored space because it was too boring.

A couple of people deserve an extra-special thanks here. Graham MacAree edited the piece from start to finish, and help me close as many logical loopholes as we could, picking out every time a player broke a rule, or one rule was inconsistent with another rule. Throughout the whole process, Graham was totally bought in, and was always in favor of making it more weird over less weird.

Meanwhile, Frank Bi engineered the entire thing so it could actually exist on the Internet. I’m still amazed that some of these pages weigh upwards of 50 megabytes, and yet they scroll completely smoothly without glitching out and slowing down. Frank also built an app on the back end that allowed us to easily format things like dialogue.

Anyway. Earlier this week, I solicited any questions you might have had about 20020 – why I made it, how I made it, how the game works, or literally anything else about it. I received a few hundred of those, and while I couldn’t get to all of them, I’ve answered as many as I could. Thanks so much for sending them in.

* * *

I haven’t read it yet - is it good?

– Anonymous

yeah

20020 feels a lot lighter than 17776. Why did you decide to go with that tone?

– hali

It’s interesting to me that it struck that tone with you, and I’m actually glad it did, because at some points the story actually felt slightly darker to me than 17776 did. I had a couple of priorities this time around.

The first was to continue to avoid what I hopefully avoided in 17776, which was writing some kind of morality play. I am tired of reading stories and watching shows that are trying to teach me some kind of lesson. I’m a grown adult! You’re a television, I don’t want to learn concepts like “right and wrong” from you! Fuck off, loser!

Instead, I mean 17776 and 20020 as open-ended explorations of themes and concepts. It’s so great to see people walk away from them with different ideas. Some people see this post-scarcity eternal playpen as Heaven, some see it as a completely nightmarish existence, and some see it as a sometimes-promising, sometimes-unsettling in-between. Far be it from me to call it one way or the other.

when designing The Bowl Game, how bogged down did you get in rules/technicalities? a game of this scale seems so hard to effectively govern, and many readers seemed to get stuck on rules technicalities that didn’t affect the plot much. i guess a better way to phrase this question is: did you develop the rules of the game first and then write a plot around them, or did the rules emerge naturally as you wrote?

– Victoria (@dirtbagqueer)

This was by far the toughest part of the whole thing. The field itself actually inspired the entire story.

Early in 2018, a few months after finishing 17776, I had a little bit of time in between major projects, and that’s when I started drawing up the fields. The geometry and weird aesthetic of it fascinated me. At the same time, I had absolutely no fucking idea what to do with it. I wanted it to make some sort of sense somehow. I wanted to design actual good, solid gameplay within it, but I just could not figure out how to do it. Over the course of two years, I would occasionally open it up and stare at it, practically begging for some kind of solution to present itself.

It never did, and my stupid ass finally got the point: this thing is a tribute to chaotic, senseless institutions. It’s a monument of the absolute nonsense that spews forth from ostensibly rational architecture. Like, imagine the most grating, insulting, senseless corporate drivel you’ve ever heard. To me, this that in the form of a football field.

It all clicked from there. Who would come up with such a bewildering and obnoxious thing? Obviously, Juice would. He’s amused by the literal interpretations of things and he delights in inanity and chaos. I needed Ten to hibernate, because she loves well-considered, intelligent gameplay, and she would have shot him down at every opportunity.

From there, I just wrote the rules in accordance with what I felt would be the most interesting story. After looking at San Diego State’s sad little field, I realized I wanted them to star in the A-plot, and I’ll admit to writing some of the rules in service of their story.

Chapter 4’s Georgia Quarterback is introduced to us by screaming into a phone for a pizza that never gets to him. It’s the funniest thing I’ve read in a long time and I have to know, was there something or some things that inspired it?

– @Kay_N_B

That guy’s ripped straight out of real life. I used to work at a call center doing tech support for an Internet service provider. Legend has it that if you simply yell REPRESENTATIVE or SUPERVISOR to an automated system enough times, it will get you off hold and talking to someone more quickly. This was definitely not true, but it didn’t stop people from trying.

On one occasion, I picked up the phone to a woman yelling SUPERVISOR! SUPERVISOR! SUPERVISOR! SUPERVISOR! over and over and over. She was yelling it so loud that she couldn’t hear me. Or, more likely, she was just holding the receiver to her mouth without actually holding the speaker to her ear. At any rate, I just could not get through to her. After about two minutes of that, I hung up. Sometimes I wonder how much longer she sat there yelling like that.

Is Lori from the Illinois chess chapter the same Lori who talked to the Durabos in the Koy Detmer chapter in 17776?

– Ale

She is! Not for any particular reason, other than that I liked the idea of bringing someone back. She’s named after my fourth-grade teacher and ninth-grade science teacher.

Why do trains still run on diesel fuel and how does this not affect the climate/environment?

– Vince

In this universe, humans have learned how to perfectly synthesize fossil fuels that are environmentally harmless. (That’s why I was fine with Nick just carelessly pouring gallons of diesel fuel on the ground while he was fueling the train.) In my optimistic view of the real-life future, I’m sure we’ll opt to solar power or some other environmentally benign solution, but these peoples’ insistence on fossil fuels reflects what does and doesn’t change about you if you live for thousands of years. If there are no coming generations to prod you along and find solutions of their own, how much would we really be compelled to change?

That’s a foundational theory of this story, however right or wrong: change happens generationally far more than it does internally. Once we grow up, the cake’s baked. With no generations to come, there are no more agents of change, and we’re the same old slobs. I’m going to want to smell gasoline when I mow the lawn.

What would happen if a team relocated its stadium? Or repainted the field within their existing stadium at a slight angle?

– Dave

Another fundamental theme of this story is that humanity, or at least America, is very, very preservationist. Architecturally, very little has changed, because there’s a sense that if things change, they’ll never truly get back what they once had. Whether or not that’s healthy is entirely up for debate.

Someone in the 20020 thread (apologies, can’t find the comment and don’t remember who it was!) had the idea of one school building an apparatus underneath their field that would allow it to rotate. This would be both fascinating and an absolute nightmare to calculate/write, but I loved that.

How did you create the animations and videos and such with Google Earth?

– @xyleb_

Google Earth allows you to import image overlays and slap them over the terrain. It took me a long time to figure out how to get 111 image files to stretch all across the country without the frame rate slowing to like three frames per second. In the end, it was a matter of making the field image files just about as small as possible (20x1 pixels) and stretching them from coast to coast. Given that Google Earth was never intended to do anything like this, I’m kind of stunned by how well it worked.

How do you choose the names for the players? Are they based off people you know or do you just make up names you think sound cool?

– Arp1033

When it comes to naming characters, my biggest screwup was naming the Georgia Tech quarterback Connor O’Malley. Conner is a very, very college football quarterback name, so I just bullshitted a last name that I thought would fit. Not only is Connor O’Malley an actual public figure, he’s actually a guy I’m a fan of and have been aware of for some time, and yet I somehow never connected those dots until a reader pointed it out.

I tried to give lot of consideration to the naming of characters. Since I prioritized representation, I did want to signal that certain characters were Black, or Hispanic, or Asian. Sometimes this was because I felt it was essential to their character, and sometimes it was just for the sake of representation.

In a couple of circumstances, such as the UAB Steamroller poster in which I named literally 125 characters, I partially relied on name generators. Even with those, you have to be careful. At first, I used one that allowed you to generate names that are traditionally women’s names, or more typically Black names, or Asian names. So I was like, all right, give me 50 women’s names, and it returned a bunch of names like Heather and Sally and et cetera. Yes, of course there are Black women named Sally and Asian women named Heather, but if they all have such names, that doesn’t feel entirely representative. So I requested 20 typically Black women’s names, and like six of them were Keisha. All right, cool, thanks! In that case and a few others, I just ditched name generators entirely and took first names from people I’ve known personally.

If I recall correctly, in the 17776 q+a, you talked about Nines identity a little bit and how you wanted to include an NB character in your stories. In this story, is Nine using they/them pronouns a decision they have made to identify as NB?

– Anonymous

Yep, Nine is non-binary. In 17776, Nine was non-binary simply by virtue of only having been conscious for a few days and not even having the time to examine or consider it. But now it’s been a while, and they actively identify as NB.

do you plan on bringing back any other space probes, like hubble in ‘76?

– scotty

Yes! I’ll spill the beans on that now. Hubble was originally going to appear in 20020, but there was just too much other stuff to get to. He’ll be seen in 20021.

how do you manage to find the “non-dull” part of each of the stories you write? like how do you find the newspaper clippings, names, etc?

– Carter Briggs (@carter1137)

Before I started writing, I spent two whole months just scrolling across every single field. If I hit a town, a lake, a mountain, or even a road with a weird name, I’d stop and search the newspaper archives to see if I could find anything interesting. This was definitely a test of Nancy’s sentiment in 17776 that you can’t walk ten feet in American without running into a story.

Technically speaking, it turns out that this is more or less true, but the vast majority of these stories are UNBELIEVABLY FUCKING BORING. As far as a lot of town are concerned, if anything interesting ever happened there, it sure as Hell didn’t make the papers. I’d say a good 10 percent of old newspapers are just, “Mrs. Hubbard took a trip here to visit her sons.” Just a 19th-century proto-Facebook check-in app. But one time out of a hundred, I’d find out about the James gang’s forgotten stash, or the Stannard Rock Lighthouse, or the escapes of Eugene Jennings, and it was all worth it.

I feel really, really gratified by those. I’m not so sure anyone has explored American history the way I did – by literally drawing lines across it and following those lines. It’s a very silly, stupid way to do it, but if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have found some of these things that would otherwise have been lost to history.

What do the probe’s voices sound like over the phone? Synthesized? Uncannily human? Like a Siri kind of thing?

– Anonymous

They sound human, yeah. How exactly they sound, I can’t say, but I can kinda hear Juice. Despite being French, I hear him as a fast-talking, hyper-charismatic, high-energy Southern dude, like some guys I grew up around. Think some weird amalgamation that’s reminiscent of Matthew McConaughey and Chris Tucker.

what is the answer to nines postscript(what happens when a ball is on a intersection)

– Anonymous

So when a ball is on Field A, and it crosses Field B at an intersection, the scoreboard doesn’t change. It still belongs to Field A, and only transfers to Field B if the player makes a turn.

What do video games look like in the year 20020? Do they still make new games or do they just kind of permanently update the old ones, like an MMO or something?

– Ben

This is not necessarily canon, and is just my real-world feeling on the matter seeping out: the real frontiers in gaming aren’t about graphics or technical ability or anything like that, they’re about creativity and art. Like, Breath of the Wild? That plays at 720p on my Switch, and while it’s artistically breathtaking, I think that strictly from a technical perspective, it could have been made 10 or 15 years ago. And yet it’s probably the greatest video game ever made.

Was there always an intention to do multiple parts (17776, 20020, 20021), or did that evolve as you wrote? What does the idea generation stage look like for a story as massive and out there as this one?

– @stxnmxn

When I finished 17776, I knew I wanted to write a sequel at some point, but didn’t always imagine it in two parts. As recently as this summer, I’d planned on writing it all at once before Graham and I decided to break it up. I’d just found too much stuff to condense it into one thing.

Did you have fun writing it?

– benfrosh

yeah

ballground & ballplay — how did you think to link them to this story? were you looking for them? when did you make the connection to the fields?

– @heysihui

That was an unbelievable coincidence! Clemson’s field just ran across both of them. I knew for sure I wanted to talk some about indigenous peoples, and I’ve long been fascinated with the seemingly far-flung concept of replacing war with sports. It was just the perfect opportunity.

I loved how in 20020 there are so many smaller stories being retold, some of which even affect the larger story. Of all the places big and small visited over the course of 20020, which location had your favorite historical event? I think mine was the 1910 Emory Gap runaway train.

– @jj_jjjjj_jjjjjj

The story of Eugene Jennings takes it for me. I was so profoundly touched by the story of a guy who had an incredible gift for escaping. He wasn’t an evil person, he was just born into a world he wasn’t compatible with. I think lots and lots of people like him have lived and died, and I hope we don’t forget them. You can barely find anything about Jennings on the Internet; his story could only be found in old newspapers. I’m honored I got to tell his story. I sure as Hell won’t ever forget him.

first of all, thanks for making an explicitly lgbt couple, one where the romance is directly shown, part of your main cast for 20020. did you really give much thought to it, or was it a decision that felt natural?

– jijo, @optikalcrow

Part of the reason I wrote 17776 in the first place was to take football, which I view to be this spectacular, fascinating thing, and imagine a world where it’s opened up to every single type of person. A long while back, a friend and I were talking about football. He’s gay, and he supposed that while football seemed like the sort of thing he’d like, he never got into it growing up because he “never got the invite.”

So I did that as a means of sending an invite. More generally, I really liked the idea of making a gay couple the main characters because I almost never see that anywhere, and if I do, it’s probably a story about them being gay.

As I did last time, I wanted to represent people completely matter-of-factly. I don’t delve into the experience of being gay, because I don’t have valuable perspective to offer there, but I did want to establish Nick and Manny as fleshed-out, imperfect, warts-and-all human beings. Sometimes they argue, sometimes they make a bad call, sometimes they say stupid things, and sometimes they’re unsure of themselves, just like everybody else.

who is your favorite character to write for?

– @mwuffie

It was a lot of fun writing Nick and Manny’s pointless arguments. Mimi was great too, since she was inspired by a few people who are very close to me. But Bryce, the new Troy recruit from Chapter 10, might be my favorite.

I grew up around so many guys exactly like Bryce. A young guy who’s not sad, really, just mopey. He’s an asshole in a mostly benign way. He seems to want to do nothing but just sit in a parking lot smoking menthols and leaning against his Nissan, and mumble something about wanting to challenge someone to a street race but never, ever actually doing it. He doesn’t seem to actually like or dislike or want anything. You have absolutely no clue what makes him tick or what ever motivates him to do anything, or whether he likes you. He’s just kinda there, but you get the sense that he’s perfectly content. He fucking rules.

I also enjoyed hate-writing Chess Guy. I never bothered to give him a name because he didn’t deserve one. When Graham first read that chapter, the first thing he told me was, “I fucking hate chess guy.” Mission accomplished.

juice mentions in ch 7 that he worked with indigenous tribes to get permission for fields/players to cross native land (which, of course, all of america is native land). some tribes said no — are these tribal lands OOB and/or handled in the rules?

– lily b.

Yep, for the indigenous peoples who did not grant permission, those portions of the field are out of bounds. Some also have special conditions – for instance, a limit on how many players can be on the field at the same time. These changes aren’t reflected visually on the map for two reasons: first, I couldn’t quite figure out how to do it from a technical sense, and second, I didn’t think it was particularly important or appropriate for me to guess which tribes would and wouldn’t grant permission.

Why hasn’t technology really developed that much? Besides the nanobots, there really isn’t anything else. They still watch/follow games through normal tv’s/radios. Just wondering how boring this must be for anyone not involved in the football games.

– permian triassic extinction event

I think old people just like what they like and don’t need much more, and these are the oldest people in history. Just like folks from decades ago were perfectly fine with their three TV channels and crossword puzzle, I think we’d be okay with an eternity of, I don’t know, online gaming.

Not to be a downer but at times I felt almost guilty about this future with nothing left that needs to be done while we live in this society that’s a total hell-hole for so many. Did you have any feelings like that while writing? Is there a message here linking our harsh reality with the immortal 20020 world that went over my head?

– Anonymous

These times are full of struggle and defeat. The thing I want most and believe in most for this country and this world are things I might never get to see for myself. But god damn it, I will imagine them. It’s practice for the real thing. I believe that one day we’ll actually have the world we want, and we’d better have a plan when that day comes. What are we gonna do with it?

Is it pronounced 20020 or 20020

– Mylograms

20020, yeah.

Any other questions? Graham and I will be hanging out in the comments sections for a while, so feel free to yell at us down there.

[themegalosaurus]

A Hiatus (SPN genfic, 1777 words, G)

I wrote this for @quickreaver for Summergen 2017. She had some super creative prompts but I chose this one: ‘downtime’.

LJ || AO3

Dean doesn't notice Sam's beard growing in until he looks up one morning and double-takes at the mountain man entering the kitchen. "Dude," he says, and Sam, soft in long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, blinks at him through a halo of tousled hair. Come to think of it, that's longer than normal too, curling at the nape of his neck where it's usually disciplined into something at least approximating order just under his ears. "You going for some kind of Chewbacca deal?" Dean asks, and Sam rubs a hand over his jaw, back up through his hair which ends up sticking up worse than ever. "Just don't see the need to cut it right now," he says. "I only do it for the Fed outfits, anyway, and we haven't had a proper case in forever." Then he shuffles over to the coffee machine and makes himself a fancy latte with one of the bottles of syrup that have appeared on the counter in the last few weeks. "I'm pretty sure you've been a good few inches off an FBI regulation cut for the past five years," says Dean. Sam shrugs broad shoulders and Dean looks down at his black coffee, sniffing enviously and surreptitiously at the caramel-vanilla scent that wafts in his direction from Sam's girly turquoise eco-mug. It's true that they haven't caught a hunt in a little while. It might be something to do with the Brits; they got so used to being drip-fed leads via text message that he and Sam have gotten lazy on their usual routine of scouring the web for whatever weird stuff might be happening in their line. Add to that, it's summer, and things always just seem to die down a little this time of year. It's like payback for the enormous shit-show that kicks off every spring.

Later that morning, making a grocery run in the 90-degree Kansas heat, Dean can understand why the creepies of the American Midwest, at least, might choose to lie dormant for a few weeks every year. The car has air conditioning but it's old and not good for much, and the black paint and leather interior combine to turn his baby into a sweatbox that has him gasping for the cooler as soon as he hits the gas station on the outskirts of town. He buries his face amongst the chill plastic bottles of soda before reaching in further to swipe the coldest Coke he can find from the back of the shelf. Then he grabs an armful of miscellaneous chips and candy, and three boxes of Popsicles from the freezer by the door. When he gets home he stashes the groceries and is disconcerted to find that Sam isn't in the library, or in his bedroom, or in any of the easily accessible rooms downstairs. Dean is just getting concerned when his phone buzzes with a message. "Did I hear the car? I'm outside. Up the back stairs." Dean bristles at the implied instruction before realising that he has nothing better to do, grabbing a beer for both of them, and heading out. He finds Sam in the centre of a cleared area of ground, hidden from the view of passers-by by virtue of its location in the middle of the disused power station next to their home. Brown brick walls climb up enormous in every direction, the huge span of earth between them covered mostly with nettles and weeds. Dean's only been up here once before, waded through thorns into the open vault of the building and retreated rapidly back down again when he realised it housed nothing but ragged bushes and bits of uncleared factory junk. Sam, though, must have been working on this project for a long time. He's dug out a large, rectangular plot against one of the walls, from which tendrils of green curl up against the brickwork, clinging into the crevices. Neat rows of small plants march out in rows across the earth, right up to the edges of the patch. Evidently, the need for space is such that Sam's decided to expand; Dean's dumbass brother has chosen as his occupation on this hot summer day the insanely unsuitable task of breaking up the next patch of the concrete floor. Just as Dean emerges out into the sunlight, Sam brings a huge heavy mallet down onto the ground, sending dusty powder spraying up in every direction. He staggers backward, drops the mallet and wipes a sweaty forearm over his face. "Beer," says Dean, offering a bottle damp with condensation. Sam gawps at him like he's fricking God's heavenly messenger before taking the beer in a blistered hand and downing what looks like three-quarters of the bottle. "Gardening," Dean says, half a question. Gardening Winchester-style, with a sledgehammer and steel-toed boots. "Yeah," says Sam. He indicates the vines presently sunning themselves against the brick. "Tomatoes are coming out, look." He's not wrong. There are plump red cheeks peeking from under the leaves, all over the wall. "I thought we could jar them up for pasta sauce or something." "Sure," says Dean. He looks at the wall, assessing. There are a lot of tomatoes. "I wasn't sure if they'd take," Sam says. "But." "Yeah," says Dean. He reaches out and snags the nearest tomato, holds it poised for a moment between his two fingers before he pops it into his mouth and bites into it, where it bursts wet and vivid over his tongue. Pasta sauce is always useful, he supposes. He looks at Sam again. It's not just the beard and the unkempt hair that make his brother look wilder than usual. Sam's built up a tan through these days outside, is golden brown where he's too often library-pallid from hibernating with only the glow of a laptop to sustain him, his arms swelling bronzed and sledgehammer-strong. It's also the clothes. Rather than the usual layers of plaid or his neat Fed suit, Sam is wearing an old shirt, a scruffy tee with a hole along one side of the collar that he (naturally) has sweat right through. He smells terrible.

For some reason, the whole disgusting spectacle makes Dean feel great. "You want a popsicle?" he says, and Sam's eyes light up. "Back in a second." They sit straight-legged on the baking concrete and eat the popsicles, looking up through the ragged edges of the factory's rafters to the bright blue Kansas sky. A bird of prey wheels overhead, something big - an eagle, maybe - and suddenly Dean's jolted into a memory of another summer, a motel in the middle of the Arizona desert with an outdoor pool and the sky open like this above them, Dad gone and he and Sam the only people for miles around, except for the worn-out middle-aged woman who ran the place. Dean had done bombs into the deep end of the pool and Sam had ploughed earnestly up and down, swimming laps, his chest and shoulders just starting to fill out into adolescence. Dad had been on some hunt that he hadn't thought Dean ready for (Dean wonders now if it was a siren, something like that). School had been out. Doubtless whatever followed after had been the usual terrifying horror show, but thinking back to that moment what Dean remembers is the quiet and the unusual sense of freedom, of peace. "We could build a pool out here," he says. Sam raises his eyebrows, looks around. "It's big enough, I guess." He glances down at the hammer. "Don't much fancy digging that out by hand." "Yeah." They'd need some machinery, of course, but that could be done. This is farm country. Dean could source a digger, put on dungarees and a southern accent and talk nonsense about crops. No reason why not. "You got anything else fit to eat?" he asks Sam, swiping another tomato. Sam has some zucchini bristling under broad leaves at the back of the plot, so they yank them free and make a garlicky, buttery pasta dish for dinner. After, Dean comes back up outside, notionally to measure out for his pool-in-progress but really to relish the stars scattered overhead across the huge, black-purple sky. Sam comes up with a glass of whiskey and they sit in the dark together, the herby scent of the vegetable patch floating exotic in the air around. "Summer vacation," Dean says, and Sam says, "Breathing space," rapid and a little uncertain. He smiles at Dean, a quick flash of white teeth in the darkness. "Yeah," says Dean. Dean sticks a message on a local small ads site, looking to borrow a digger. He marks out ground across the other side of the space to where Sam has his vegetable patch, deciding how big they need to make their pool. He gets the other sledgehammer and starts breaking up the concrete, acquires a pretty thick tan of his own, and develops his own beard (which, okay, takes a little longer to grow in than Sam's). He's sleeping better than he has done in years, worn out with physical work and the peculiar tiredness of long days in the sun. It's August third when Sam knocks on his door in the morning and sticks his head into the room. He's clean shaven, his cheeks oddly pale against the tan band of skin across his eyes and nose. "Sorry, man," Sam says. "Caught a job up in Wisconsin. Djinn." "All right," says Dean. He rubs his hands over his face, beard prickling under his palms. That'll have to go. The Fed threads are hanging neatly in his wardrobe, a little musty after their long summer of disuse. A lifetime of training means his weapons kit is ready and waiting. He tugs it all out, the guns, the knives, the ammo, and fights down the knot of regret, reluctance, whatever it is that is weighing down his stomach. "Come on," he says to himself in the mirror, shaving away the evidence of the weeks off work. His old self stares back at him. Dean feels his shoulders sag. As the car pulls out onto the highway, the sky rattles thunder. A fat drop of rain hits the windshield. Sam wrinkles his nose and looks up into the darkening clouds. "Good for the garden," he says. Then he pulls a Tupperware out of nowhere. The scent of fresh-picked tomatoes fills the car. Dean's stomach begins to unclench. He looks over at his brother. "You still haven't cut your hair." Sam grins at him. "Eh, it's not exactly regulation anyway." "Yeah, okay." Dean says. He grabs for the Tupperware box. "Give me one of those."

[novellacoronavirus]

Saturday, 18.4.2020

Total: 2,263,056 cases, 154,827 deaths.

Australia: 6,565 cases, 69 deaths.

Western Australia: 544 cases, 7 deaths.

Oh, indeed it’s been quiet. The street upon which I live -- two lanes, urban -- is suddenly without the grind and gears of cars, white noise, hiss and sputter. Sirens have reduced. Even foot traffic and the sound of other humans: reduced. Instead I can hear -- actually hear -- the whisper of tree-branches quivering in the wind. And the chitter of birds, who now feel safe to roam and preen along this usually noxious street.

Work is also quiet. I am thankfully now on holidays. Without kids, the character of school has been unrecognisable: calm and still, but for the faint and soothing hum of air-conditioning -- of the building itself! -- which I heard as I tapped away on my keyboard, or drew an instructional image, or recorded a video on my own time, at my own pace, without interruption.

“Sir sir sir sir sir” -- all I usually hear, all day long. You cannot understand the relief I have with it suddenly gone. Do you -- or do you now have to work from home, with children squirming and squawking at your feet all day long? The arbitrariness of this whole thing is flabbergasting.

I thought we’d have six months of coronavirus quiet. But here in Australia the tone is becoming cautiously triumphant. People are out in the streets -- albeit quietly, in small groups, ‘exercising’. The gloom seems to have lifted. Although I’m sure we all secretly check the ‘corona count’ each morning and notice, with weird emotions, NYC’s numbers continuing to remain sky-high, literally orders of magnitude beyond Australia’s aggregate. Again we are saved by our geography, our interstitial luck down under.

Does anyone else feel disappointed? My friend E does: she said part of her was keen to witness “all the bloody carnage”. Part of this must be the impulse toward living through drama, witnessing history etc. Maybe it is just a polite way of saying “I want to go back and see the accident”. But this one has some political strings, doesn't it? Eventually it will be written about, remembered. They say to keep a diary -- anecdotal evidence. Which is what you’re reading.

During the pandemic, certain things have been delightfully and noticeably different: Advertisements have pivoted towards the sanguine -- “We’re all in this together”. We can of course see through the motives of these commercially-sponsored PSAs. But the tone, the modus operandi -- it’s a number of degrees different. There’s literally less for many -- most? -- people to do, so there’s less to navigate, negotiate, or with which to deal. There is less clutter. (I’ve been listening to album after album at home, all in their entireties, whilst painting, whilst writing, whilst reading.) I feel good.

Politics have changed. I’m not sure anyone expects this to last. But in Australia -- ‘coup capital of the democratic world’ for the past decade -- petty politicking has virtually stopped. Instead we have bipartisan agreements, quick legislation, the Opposition Leader stating “This is good legislation” of the Liberal Party’s stimulus packages. The bipartisanship has been astounding -- and for me, a 35-year-old politically-engaged Australian -- it’s been a first. I can’t believe it -- to think it took a pandemic. But will anything permanently change after the hibernation, or will business-as-usual prevail?

Trump is President of the free world. Authoritarian China is rising and indeed risen. Australia has a Prime Minister -- currently successfully leading us through a historical crisis -- who at some point in the past half-decade managed to take a lump of coal -- yes, a physical lump of coal -- into Australian Federal Parliament, to laugh and pantomime at those on the left or in the centre, as though to say ‘Oh, look at this scary piece of coal -- what threat is poses to us all!’ Imagine if Scotty-from-Marketing took the advice of climate scientists as seriously as he seems to have that of public-health experts. Is there not a howling incongruence to all of this?

This is the kind of status quo whence I was hoping for a change. The pandemic has personally galvanised me -- more energy, more purpose. It has helped me cut through years and years of chronic pain and significant pain-induced limits. My housemate says “remembering is the hardest part”. To her great disappointment, she claims her Spanish countryfolk -- big victims of the the GFC, unemployment and the government's corrupt austerity measures -- forgot very quickly. Straight back to the old normal of TV soap operas with wine at night. But am I alone in feeling the raw and real struggle of being alive through this? Do you not feel there is more thinking and less action -- or at least more bloviating, non-essential, circular thinking -- in normal life? Your schedule, your commitments, your finances. How do you go about forging a single fucking minute for yourself, on any given day?

What will a post-virus world look like? Already interesting discussions around surveillance have emerged: contract-tracing through a governmental phone app. This actually is a circuitbreaker: how will you react? Will you give it thought, engage, research? Will you be honest with yourself and all the data you already willingly hand over to the big, mono- or duopolistic tech companies? How is this different from a democratic government asking you to provide your whereabouts for a clear public-health measure, for the safety of all and health of the economy? Will recovered citizens be enlisted to work essential services, as the super-immune? Will Newstart remain Jobseeker forever, with its new level of payment? Will Biden beat Trump, and will it be in part due to the latter’s handling of the pandemic?

I guess things really are destined to change, or already have. My great disappointment at things returning to normal might itself be reactive. Maybe the changes will be discreet, tangible, slow-burning --  unlike the onset of all this. Maybe change isn’t always revolutionary, at least not in appearance.

This has not been a war -- years have not passed, the young and middling have been spared, we have all had water, heat and electricity and, if we are so lucky, the creature comforts of home. There has been no random nor political violence, along with its attendant fear. But I do hope the world doesn't just wake up to business as usual.

Perhaps I am most disappointed with the fact I won’t be continuing my own ‘coronavirus quiet’. As a teacher at a private school, it was possible students would withdraw their enrolment if the shutdown and its economy continued. This might eventually have meant the relinquishment or teachers. I thought this could have been a real possibility. Initially it was scary -- no one wants to lose their job. But then I considered it a bit longer: I have savings, the job might be waiting for me on the other side of the shutdown, I’d have a whole lot of time to do what I want. And what would I do?

The plan was to volunteer to step down from work under two provisions: 1) I be offered my job back the moment an opportunity opened up, 2) my manager provide me with a glowing reference should I end up needing a job someplace else. I think each of these were feasible. And what would I do at home?

I would take the JobSeeker payment of $1100/fortnight. I would live even more frugally than I currently do -- possible. I would pay off my mortgage for a while, see how it goes. If not well: I’d renegotiate my mortgage to interest-only payments for a while. I would cook, I would write, I would paint, I would arrange and make. I would talk to friends and family over the phone. And then cook more. I would actually get to sleep on time, without the need to check my phone. And I would awake fresh as a morning daisy, hopefully every day.

But if they’d have me, for three days a week I’d also volunteer. I would volunteer in the office of my local member of parliament: John Carey. A state MP, during this he has been posting daily photos of himself at various small businesses -- offering them support, drumming up business. When the pandemic first hit, he arranged for volunteers to support the elderly throughout his electorate: proxy shopping, welfare phone-calls etc. (Turns out everyone was already covered by neighbours and family -- a good sign.)

I don’t care what they may have put me to -- stapling things? Alphabetising items? It didn't matter. I just want a change. For a while I have thought the way might be to volunteer during my six-week annual summer holiday in the central office for the Greens. But my health, my hang-ups have stopped me. All it takes is for a measly pandemic to throw things around a bit.

Yet schools go back next term. Enrolments at my school probably won’t dip. Likely -- and thankfully for many, including a part of me -- it will be the great relief of Business as Usual. Will I have the chutzpah to forget my pain -- this really is all that’s stopping me -- and follow through on this strong desire to work in a different industry, in politics or social service of some sort?

And will anyone ever remember the pandemic, the quiet, the change. Will they remember The Hibernation -- the time and space to stop, and look, and think and feel. This is and has been such a unique opportunity to take stock. I can’t help but feel that here in Australia, we are so lucky and managed the whole thing so well that nothing much will change. Already PM Morrison has announced the way forward involves IR-reform and tax cuts. We’ve heard all this before. It’s the same old shit as the pre-virus world.

You might even call it an anticlimax.

[ezatluba]

Scientists Were Hunting for the Next Ebola. Now the U.S. Has Cut Off Their Funding.

Predict, a government research program, sought to identify animal viruses that might infect humans and to head off new pandemics.

By Donald G. McNeil Jr.

Oct. 25, 2019

In a move that worries many public health experts, the federal government is quietly shutting down a surveillance program for dangerous animal viruses that someday may infect humans.

The United Nations Environment Program estimates that a new animal disease that can also infect humans is discovered every four months. Ending the program, experts fear, will leave the world more vulnerable to lethal pathogens like Ebola and MERS that emerge from unexpected places, such as bat-filled trees, gorilla carcasses and camel barns.

The program, known as Predict and run by the United States Agency for International Development, was inspired by the 2005 H5N1 bird flu scare. Launched 10 years ago, the project has cost about $207 million.

The initiative has collected over 140,000 biological samples from animals and found over 1,000 new viruses, including a new strain of Ebola. Predict also trained about 5,000 people in 30 African and Asian countries, and has built or strengthened 60 medical research laboratories, mostly in poor countries.

Dennis Carroll, the former director of USAID’s emerging threats division who helped design Predict, oversaw it for a decade and retired when it was shut down. The surveillance project is closing because of “the ascension of risk-averse bureaucrats,” he said.

Because USAID’s chief mission is economic aid, he added, some federal officials felt uncomfortable funding cutting-edge science like tracking exotic pathogens.

Congress, along with the administrations of George W. Bush and Barack Obama, were “enormously supportive,” said Dr. Carroll, who is now a fellow at Texas A&M’s Bush School of Government and Public Service.

“But things got complicated in the last two years, and by January, Predict was essentially collapsed into hibernation.”

The end of the program “is definitely a loss,” said Peter Daszak, president of the EcoHealth Alliance, a nonprofit global health organization that received funding from the program. “Predict was an approach to heading off pandemics, instead of sitting there waiting for them to emerge and then mobilizing. That’s expensive."

“The United States spent $5 billion fighting Ebola in West Africa,” he added. “This costs far less.”

The goal of Predict was to speed up and organize the previously haphazard hunt for zoonotic diseases — those that may jump from animals to humans. In recent years, scientists have discovered many lethal viruses lurking in wild and domestic animals.

It has long been known, of course, that AIDS originated in chimpanzees and probably was first contracted by bushmeat hunters. Ebola circulates in bats and apes, while SARS was found in captive civet cats in China.

In South Asia, Nipah virus reaches humans through pigs or date palm sap infected by bats carrying the virus. In Saudi Arabia, MERS also is carried by bats; they infect camels, which then infect humans. The virus can jump from human to human, especially in hospitals.

Novel influenza viruses originate in migratory ducks and geese. The viruses spread first to domestic poultry flocks, then to pigs and humans. Mutations picked up along that viral highway can render the viruses far more dangerous.

These discoveries led to new ways of preventing spillovers of infections into human populations: closing markets where wildlife is butchered for food,; putting bamboo skirts on sap-collection jars to keep bats out; or penning pigs and camels in places where they cannot eat fruit that bats have gnawed.

Predict teams have investigated mysterious disease outbreaks in many countries, including a die-off of 3,000 wild birds in a Mongolian lake. One team proved that endangered otters in a Cambodian zoo were killed by their feed — raw chickens infected with bird flu.

A Predict laboratory helped identify bat-borne viruses that a boys’ soccer team might have been exposed to while trapped for weeks in a cave in Thailand.

Allowing Predict to end “is really unfortunate, and the opposite of what we’d like to see happening,” said Dr. Gro Harlem Brundtland, the former prime minister of Norway and former World Health Organization director-general.

She was co-chair of a panel that in September issued a report detailing the world’s failure to prepare for pandemics. “Americans need to understand how much their health security depends on that of other countries, often countries that have no capacity to do this themselves,” Dr. Brundtland said.

Even though USAID is “incredibly proud and happy over the work Predict has done,” the program is closing because it reached the end of a 10-year funding cycle, said Irene Koek, acting assistant administrator of the agency’s global health bureau.

“We typically do programs in five-year cycles, and it had two,” she said. Some similar research will be part of future budget requests, “but it’s still in the design-and-procurement cycle, so exactly what will continue is a bit of a black box.”

In mid-October, the agency said it would spend $85 million over the next five years helping universities in Africa and Asia teach the “one-health” approach that Predict used. (“One health” describes the nexus between animal, human and environmental medicine).

But it will not involve the daring fieldwork that Predict specialized in.

Among the institutions that worked on Predict projects are those staffed by wildlife veterinarians and disease-trackers like the University of California, Davis’s One Health Institute; the EcoHealth Alliance; the Wildlife Conservation Society, which runs the Bronx Zoo; the Smithsonian Institution, which manages the National Zoo in Washington; and Columbia University’s Center for Infection and Immunity.

Some Predict projects will be taken over by other government agencies, such as the Pentagon’s Defense Threat Reduction Agency or the National Institutes of Health. But those agencies have different missions, such as basic research or troop protection. They do not share USAID’s goal of training poor countries to do the work themselves.

As an agency that gives money to countries, USAID often has a friendlier, more cooperative relationship with governments in poor nations than, for example, Pentagon-led efforts might.

“I’ve always been impressed with the way they were able to work with ministries of health,” said Dr. James M. Hughes, a former chief of infectious diseases at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention who was on Predict’s advisory board. “They have a high level of trust, and they help countries comply with the International Health Regulations.”

(Those regulations, in force since 2007, require countries to report all major disease outbreaks to the World Health Organization and allow the W.H.O. to declare health emergencies.)

USAID still supports some health-related programs like the President’s Malaria Initiative and the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief. But Dr. Carroll described those as “cookbook portfolios.”

How to fight those diseases is well-known, he explained, so the agency just comes up with a budget for drugs, diagnostic kits, insecticides, mosquito nets, condoms or other long-established interventions.

Predict more often placed medical detectives in the field, training local doctors, veterinarians, wildlife rangers and others to collect samples from wild and domestic animals.

It can be highly specialized work. Getting blood samples from pigs or wild rodents is fairly routine, but catching birds, bats or monkeys alive is not. Gorillas are harder. (Scientists usually content themselves with just collecting gorilla feces.)

Predict also experimented with novel ways to catch and release animals unharmed, to transport samples without refrigeration and to use DNA testing that can scan for whole viral families instead of just known viruses, said Dr. Christine Kreuder Johnson, associate director of the One Health Institute at the University of California, Davis.

Predict sponsored epidemiological modeling to predict where outbreaks are likely to erupt. It also sought ways to curb practices, such as hunting for bushmeat or breeding racing camels, that encourage eruptions.

After that West African Ebola outbreak, Predict researchers determined exactly which bat species carried the Ebola Zaire strain that caused it. Another team in Sierra Leone discovered a new strain of the virus, now known as Ebola Bombali.

The Zaire strain was found in a bat that roosts in caves and mines, said Dr. Jonathan Epstein, an EcoHealth Alliance veterinarian, while the Bombali type was in a species that roosts in houses.

Distinctions like that are important for telling people — especially people who eat bats — which species are dangerous.

“We generated an illustrated book on how to keep bats out of houses by putting screens on windows or mesh below the roof thatch,” he said. “That’s the kind of thing Predict paid for.”

Predict served as a proof of concept for a much more ambitious idea that Dr. Carroll proposed several years ago: the Global Virome Project, which envisioned trying to compile a genetic atlas of all the viruses circulating in all animals. By some estimates, there are more than 800,000 such viruses waiting to be discovered.

Many scientists questioned the wisdom of spending as much as would be needed to do that — over $3 billion. But those experts also argued that Predict, which is focused on viruses dangerous to humans, was very much worth the relatively modest amounts of money it cost.

“Predict needed to go on for 20 years, not 10,” Dr. Epstein said. “We were getting to the point of having a trained work force that could gather animal samples and labs that could test for unknown viruses, not just known ones.”

“Once it stops, it’s going to be hard to maintain that level of proficiency.”