#they’re all older pieces unfortunately but .. alas

[malusienki]

blog thesis statement // what i want my storytelling to reflect.i guess.

(quote from my notesapp // gran theatre del liceu’s 175th anniversary gala featuring soprano lisette oropesa, taken by paco amate // quote taken from the description of this instagram reel by lisette oropesa // spadająca gwiazda by witold pruszkowkski // the night has a thousand eyes by francis william bourdillon // lyric opera marquee, taken by me // untitled prose by me // when “no!” means “no!” by denise griffin on pinterest // “partner in crime” lyrics by madilyn mei // interior of dominion energy center, richmond, va, taken by me // untitled prose by me // from the teatro real’s 2018 production of lucia di lammermoor, featuring lisette oropesa as lucia ashton and artur rucinski as enrico ashton // a rant, by me // @/coyoteswri on tiktok // joan sutherland as lucia at covent garden in 1959 // wikipedia page for sir walter scott’s the bride of lammermoor // lyrics from mitski’s “class of 2013” // interior of the civic opera house in chicago, il, taken by barry brecheisen // a poem i had to write for school )

[statisticallymorelikely]

Happy birthday @ironpe!

Witcher au edit: Older Bard Chris Pine x Jaskier

Jaskier meets Older Bard Chris Pine in university, the other being a few years older and an absolute breath of fresh air among the drab scholars in academia and Jaskier naturally gravitates to him. He’s fun, flirty, charismatic and speaks so passionately about stories and love and beauty that fellow students would gather around him whenever he cared to share his musings.

He and Jaskier spend hours reading together in the library, silently penning poems on a piece of paper they pass back and forth, eyes shining with mirth, lips turned in smiles secretly shared. Jaskier has what he calls ‘the tiniest crush’ on him but what everyone else calls a ‘debilitating infatuation’. Some nights, Older Bard Chris Pine sneaks wine into Jaskier’s room and they pull the most beautiful melodies from thin air, drunk half on wine and half on the joy of creation, flushed with laughter, convinced of their own genius, skin tingling as they sit shoulder to shoulder.

Jaskier often imagines him whispering poetry into his ear while he fucks him into the bed. 

But alas, nothing further happens between them, Older Bard Chris Pine graduates and soon enough Jaskier does too. He stays for a while to attempt life in academia, gets bored out of his wits and sets off for adventure. He meets Geralt, gets into all sorts of trouble with him and creates his best songs. It’s a pleasant enough existence, seeing the world, traveling with his best friend he’s kind of in love with but who never even acknowledges their friendship, sleeping under the stars, grabbing inspiration from anywhere and everywhere. 

Most times, it’s enough to see Geralt’s sharp eyes watching him from across the campfire, something akin to longing in that gaze, but sometimes, he misses the touch that came with the easy camaraderie he had in school, elbows digging into his side, knees knocking together, fingers sliding clumsily against each other on the lute. He can’t hope for that from Geralt, not yet, maybe not ever, since the only time Geralt has ever touched him is to push him out of the way or to save his life.

Needless to say, Jaskier has some needs that aren’t being met. And that’s not even counting his desperation for something soft to sleep on. Witching jobs have been hard to come by lately so Jaskier has become very familiar with his bedroll and the cold hard ground. It’s this desperation that drives them into town one night, looking for shelter.

He hopes to get a room in the inn and pay for it with the money he earns singing. Geralt will be going to the alderman first thing in the morning to look for jobs but who knows if he’ll get paid at all. Unfortunately, there’s already a bard playing when they enter. Disappointing. Jaskier suggests they try a different inn but as they’re leaving, someone calls out his name. 

And of course, it’s none other than his crush from back at school, only he’s nearly silver now, a little more muscle, weathered by adventure yet somehow even more attractive than before. His eyes crinkle when he smiles and Jaskier’s knees threaten to buckle when he realizes that smile is all for him.

Jaskier tries very hard not to get hard when Older Bard Chris Pine pulls him in for a tight hug, big, warm hands sliding around his waist. He feels a flush creep up his cheeks but there’s a lingering unease at the back of his neck, waves and waves of anger pouring in from one direction. Jaskier looks back and Geralt looks absolutely murderous, more so than usual, but he doesn’t say anything, just glares. 

Jaskier pulls away, quickly introducing Geralt to his senior from Oxenfurt.

“So! You’re the muse, huh? The infamous White Wolf,” says Older Bard Chris Pine, cheerfully extending his hand. Jaskier has to admire his courage, not many people would shake hands with a Witcher, and a grumpy one at that. Jaskier tracks Geralt’s gaze to the arm casually slung around his waist and fights the urge to explain and placate. Geralt looks like he’s going to break Older Bard Chris Pine’s arm off, and that kind of possessive reaction stirs something hot in Jaskier’s chest, but if he really wanted to, Geralt would have already done it, so the hesitation dampens Jaskier’s hopes.

Jaskier is jostled from his thoughts when the hand on his waist tugs at him, focus drawn back to blue eyes. “What?”

“Oh, darling, you haven’t changed, have you? I was asking if you wanted to catch up. In fact, I insist on it. These fine folks can do without music for a night, right?” 

Jaskier opens his mouth, sees Geralt’s furious expression once more, closes his mouth for a moment before opening it again. “Of course! Nobody’d miss your scratchy strumming, anyway.”

A bright smile spreads on his old friend’s face. “Great! Dinner’s on me!” 

Surely, there’s no harm in agreeing to this.

Except his old friend seems to be doing everything he can to drive Jaskier insane. He parks himself next to Jaskier in a tight cramped table, pressing his thighs against his, looping an arm around his shoulder, leaning close to laugh so his breath tickles at Jaskier’s neck as he tells Geralt embarrassing stories of Jaskier at school. (Enough ale has passed through their table that Geralt’s loosened up slightly, and seriously, if you let him talk enough, Older Bard Chris Pine can charm the pants off anyone and now, Jaskier wants to claw his own eyes out because he’s suddenly imagining him with his pants off.) Jaskier is extremely aware of every point of contact, each of them sending pleasant buzzes across his nerves.

Then there’s also the way he looks at him, like Jaskier has always wanted in the past, the way he smiles so fondly at him, gaze holding something hot behind those blue, blue eyes, drawing him in and holding him captive. When he absently licks his lips to chase some ale, Jaskier’s eyes flick down and he has to fight the urge to lean forward and taste him himself. Gods, every single embarrassing daydream he’s ever had is all coming back to him and it’s all too much.

He needs some air.

So, he excuses himself to get some, reassures Geralt with a look and steps out into the cold night so he can gather himself together. He stays in the alley next to the inn to brood and untangle his mess of feelings because what is going on? It’s frustrating how hot and bothered he is. It’s like he’s gone back in time to the pathetic besotted student he used to be. He blames Geralt and his missions because he hasn’t had a decent wank in a while, they’ve been so busy.

Normally, if he likes someone he just goes for it (barring his thing with Geralt, of course, that matters too much to be handled casually), a predator in his own right, but now, he feels like prey. Maybe it’s just him regressing to his younger self. He used to know next to nothing about the world and about pleasure but now, he’s more experienced and confident but one smile and all that goes flying out his head. Maybe he's just horny and wants to get taken care of once in a while. Maybe it’s because his friend actually wants him, unlike someone else in his life.

He's so close to a realization when he's knocked out of his own thoughts by a rumbling laugh next to his ear. Older Bard Chris Pine is leaning right next to him, and Jaskier wills himself not to startle.

“Where’s Geralt?”

“I offered him a room with a bath, and he took me up on it.”

“Oh.” That answers that question then, Jaskier thinks. Maybe he should stop feeling guilty about this if Geralt isn't going to care in the first place.

“Y’know, it’s been wonderful catching up with you, Jaskier. Really made me remember the good old times, our afternoons huddled together in the library, or nights in your room.” Older Bard Chris Pine murmurs softly enough that Jaskier has to lean closer to hear him. “I still remember the pretty picture you painted, sunlight in your hair, and pink lips curled around your pen.”

He runs his fingers gently against Jaskier’s fringe, down his cheeks, thumb running against his bottom lip and Jaskier sighs. He’s had enough.

He fists a hand into Older Bard Chris Pine’s coat and reels him into a kiss. It’s hot and heavy and when Older Bard Chris Pine slips his tongue in his mouth, his brain finally gives up. He had every intention of being aggressive and redeeming his pathetic demeanor all night, but then Older Bard Chris Pine is pressing him into the wall and his knees go weak.

Jaskier scrambles, fisting his hands in his friend’s hair as he starts to suck on a soft spot on Jaskier’s neck, right over his pulse. They’re pressed so close, chest to chest, thigh to thigh but he wants more, wants to get impossibly closer. This is everything he used to dream of and by gods, he’s going to get justice for his younger self! Older Bard Chris Pine shifts and slots a thigh between Jaskier’s legs and he doesn’t have enough willpower not to rut into it.

“Fuck...”

And then the rumbling laugh is back in his ear. “Be glad to.”

They fall into bed in a separate room from Geralt’s and Older Bard Chris Pine takes care of him gloriously, taking him apart with his mouth and his fingers and his cock. Jaskier gets to have his old fantasy come true. He gets fucked into the bed with poetry in his ear and it’s much, much better than he ever dreamed because it’s poetry about him, and if this is what worship feels like then no wonder the gods get drunk on it. 

They fuck for hours and by the end, Jaskier is thoroughly owned and marked, all covered in bruises and love bites and his hole is so sensitive he’s thankful Geralt won’t let him ride on Roach. He’s sticky with sweat, sated and exhausted, and falls asleep in a warm embrace

In the morning, he wakes up to Older Bard Chris Pine half dressed and getting ready to set off. But when he sees Jaskier awake, he stops his packing to go crawl up the bed again and kiss him senseless.

“I have to go, my party’s leaving by noon,” he says, genuine regret in his voice. 

Jaskier is a little sad but he never expected anything different anyway. He knows this was a one night affair and he’s glad he had it. For younger Jaskier’s sake. Maybe his present self too.

But there’s still a few hours before noon and he bets Geralt has already gone to see the alderman for a job. There's no sense in wasting this time overthinking, so he seduces Older Bard Chris Pine for one last tumble in the sheets and gets enough orgasms to last him a few more cold months with his hand.

Before he finally leaves though, Older Bard Chris Pine looks Jaskier over in all his debauched glory and grins widely, pleased at his own handiwork. Jaskier can just imagine what he looks like, hair all over the place, love bites scattered all over his body, lips bitten red. 

“Yes, that’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous.” He runs his thumb against one particularly violent bruise right in Jaskier’s pulse point in his neck. “This one. You can’t cover this one up.”

His grin widens, smug. “Your muse is going to be furious.”

And with that he swans off and leaves Jaskier to wonder what he meant by that and how he knew because Geralt was indeed furious.

[goddammitstacey]

Here have a queer retelling of Little Red Riding Hood

The forest is magnificent. Giant yew trees reach for the sky, their leaves sending dappled sunlight down toward the moss-covered floor like a parting gift. Even Shiloh can’t deny the majesty of the place, as much as she might have preferred the wood around her a little more dead, with four legs, and holding up a tankard of beer.

But alas, good things apparently come to those who wait. And wait. Shiloh sighs, pulling her pelt more securely around her as she shifts into a warmer patch of sunlight.

“Are you almost finished?” she asks. “It’s nearing dusk, my love.”

The nearest tree is a monster. As thick around as three broad men standing in a circle, arms outstretched, fingertip to fingertip. It hides Shiloh’s wife from view. Just.

When Kae rounds the trunk of the tree, she makes it look a fraction of its years just by virtue of the contrast.

“Almost,” Kae says, broad hands smoothing over the bark like she’s soothing a spooked horse. “The bairn is sick with heart rot, the poor thing. I need to shore her up before it gets worse.”

Shiloh can’t find it in herself to be annoyed. Kae’s described heart rot enough for her to have some sympathy for the poor tree. And it doesn’t hurt that seeing her wife full of care makes a puddle out of her.

“It’s a good thing I enjoy watching you work,” Shiloh says, unable to help her soft smile. “Because it’s all you do.”

Kae looks to her, sharing the smile for a moment before her eyes snap suddenly back to her charge.

Shiloh tenses on instinct. “What?”

Kae’s alert, but not reaching for her axe. Shiloh relaxes her hold on her pelt but keeps it in hand for swift action anyway.

“There’s a girl in the forest,” Kae says. “Small. Alone. The… the trees are agitated.”

“Over a girl?” Shiloh says, confusion reflected in the look Kae sends her. “That’s a new one.”

Kae turns her attention back to her patient. “I’m almost finished here, then we can-”

“I’ll go on ahead,” Shiloh says, stretching her back out as she stands. “I’ve been sitting too long anyway, I’m going to grow moss.”

Kae doesn’t pick up the thread of the joke, looking as agitated as the trees around her must be. “I don’t…”

“I’ll be okay,” Shiloh says, stepping forward to clasp her wife’s hand between hers. “I have my pelt. I’ll even take my wrap-”

“No,” Kae says quickly, stopping Shiloh with a hand on her wrist as she reaches for their pack. “Don’t wear red.”

Shiloh raises an eyebrow. “That’s not what you said the other night, my love.”

And oh yes, now who’s wearing red? Shiloh grins as she uses her grip to pull Kae within reach, pecking her on one rosey cheek.

“It’s the trees,” Kae says, brushing a strand of Shiloh’s dark hair from her face. “They’re saying, don’t wear red.”

“How judgemental of them,” Shiloh says, but leaves her red wrap safely in their pack anyway.

Tracking the girl isn’t difficult. She smells of hay and woodsmoke, a combination that is as much out of place as her humanity this far into the woods. Shiloh hangs back, employing more caution than she would have otherwise, her wife’s worried frown at the fore of her mind.

The girl is indeed alone. Shiloh closes the distance between them until she can spy the girl’s back through the trees. Her hooded cloak is flapping around her ankles as she walks.

Her hooded red cloak.

Shiloh frowns and ups her pace, circling around the girl on soft feet until she finds a clearing up ahead with a downed tree to serve as a casual perch. The girl comes upon her bare minutes later, startling to a stop despite Shiloh’s deliberate, friendly smile and unassuming posture. Unfortunately there’s little she can do about her state of dress.

The girl can’t be older than seven summers, blonde hair tufting out of her hood as curious eyes look Shiloh over. Shiloh doesn’t blame her. She’s an unusual sight at the best of times.

Finally the girl breaks the silence. “Why are you naked?”

The bluntness of the question stirs a real smile to Shiloh’s features. “I’m not naked,” she says. “I’ve this pelt.”

The girl frowns at Shiloh’s wolf pelt, twisted about her in an approximation of a tunic. “It’s not very big.”

She’s not wrong. But then… Shiloh rises to her feet – carefully,  so as not to spook the girl further. “It doesn’t have to be.”

The little girl watches her like one might watch a particularly interesting snake on one’s path. Cautious. Cautious but curious. Shiloh knows the sort. She sees it in the mirror those mornings Kae lets them hire a real room.

“What are you doing in the woods alone, child?” Shiloh says.

The girl rises to her full height, like she’s being inspected by someone with a badge. “I’m visiting The Grandmother,” she says, practically pronouncing the capital ‘T’.

Strange. Usually the trees warn Kae of any human settlements in the woods they travel. Kae’s parentage and Shiloh’s proclivity for travelling skyclad make chance meetings with humans something to be avoided.

“And where does she live?” Shiloh asks.

The little girl points along the direction she’s been travelling, deeper into the woods. “I’m to follow the sun to her cottage,” she says.

Right. Shiloh hums as she thinks. Kae isn’t far off and almost finished her tree-doctoring by her own admittance. She will catch up when she can. “May I walk with you, child?” Shiloh asks. “I’d feel much better knowing you got there safe, is all.”

After a lengthy pause, the girl nods, which is for the best really. It’s much easier to walk by her side than track her from behind.

The girl’s name is Scarlett.

“That’s an interesting name,” Shiloh says, the red of Scarlett’s cloak growing more vivid in Shiloh’s peripheral vision.

Scarlett shrugs. “Not really. There are lots of girls named Scarlett in the village.”

“Is that right?” Shiloh says, feeling more and more like she has a handful of puzzle pieces but no interlocking edges to fit them together.

They come upon the cottage as the sun kisses the distant mountains, sending the woods into an early dusk. Shiloh’s mildly put out when she notices how perfectly normal the place looks. The gardens are well-tended and the stoop swept. There’s even a cheerful glow warming the windows.

“This looks like the place,” Shiloh says, sweeping the clearing for something to explain the slow drip of dread down her spine.

Scarlett huffs a sigh next to her. She’d taken Shiloh’s hand not long into their walk and her little palm is warm and soft in Shiloh’s own.

“I guess so,” Scarlett says.

“You guess so?” Shiloh says, eye catching on a large shadow moving within the cottage. “You’ve never visited your grandmother before?”

“The Grandmother,” Scarlett corrects her. “And no.”

She says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world, but as Shiloh looks down at her, the red of her cloak seeming to glow in the darkness, she can’t help but think the situation is the very furthest from normal they can get.

“Is that visitors I hear?” Comes a voice from within the cottage. Shiloh looks up as the shadow in the cottage window moves toward the door. It gets smaller as it goes which is a funny thing, because Shiloh could swear it’s moving toward the light source…

The shadow is bare steps from the door when Shiloh gives an exaggerated shiver.

“Are you cold?” Scarlett asks.

“Yes,” Shiloh says quickly. “I’m afraid I didn’t think ahead. Might I borrow your cloak, child?”

Scarlett looks torn. “I was told not to-”

“Only for a minute or two,” Shiloh says, over the creak of the door. “I promise.”

“Okay…”

Shiloh whips the cloak from Scarlett’s shoulders and about her own just in time to face the figure in the doorway who-

Is a little, old woman.

Shiloh balks at the sight, eyes warring with every other instinct telling her to run, fight, hide. Shift.

The Grandmother smiles. Her face is like a weathered peach and her hands look frail as spider’s silk. They clasp and unclasp in front of her, the only tell that she too feels the tension that’s fallen on the clearing like a woollen blanket.

“Where are you, my child?” The Grandmother asks, peering across the clearing. “Come closer, I’m afraid my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

Scarlett is stepping forward before Shiloh can move to stop her, small hand leaving only a warm imprint on Shiloh’s palm as she lets go.

“Ah, there you are,” The Grandmother says, with a smile warm like home. “I see you now.”

Only she doesn’t. As Scarlett walks toward The Grandmother, the old woman’s eyes, suddenly sharp and shrewd, remain fixed on Shiloh. No, she thinks as she steps forward and the cloak flares out. Her eyes are on the cloak.

Don’t wear red.

“Scarlett,” Shiloh calls, pulling the cloak from her shoulders. The Grandmother’s eyes follow it’s rustle like a hawk as the fabric hits the grass.

Scarlett stops and turns back. And The Grandmother’s shadow starts to grow.

“Scarlett, run!”

Shiloh doesn’t wait for the girl to obey, simply grabs for her pelt, reaches down deep and pulls. Scarlett screams and tumbles backward as Shiloh flies at her which makes leaping the girl an easy feat. She’s only half shifted when she hits The Grandmother’s charge but it’ll do. She’s got her teeth at least.

The Grandmother is easily the breadth of Kae’s yew patient and growing, but her skin, turning green and sickly by the minute, is easy enough to tear through. She bleeds. That’s the important thing.

Anything that bleeds can die, in Shiloh’s experience.

She’s fully shifted by the time The Grandmother hauls her back by her scruff and rakes jagged claws across her furred ribs. Lucky, Shiloh thinks as she hits the ground. She doesn’t think she’d have survived it in her human form.

Shiloh rolls to her feet and snarls. Her mouth tastes of copper and she can feel something sticky on her flank but the fight is a singing, beautiful thing in her blood. She might go down but she’ll give Scarlett enough time to put distance between herself and this… whatever this is.

The Grandmother’s skin seems to boil, lending her silhouette against the rising moon an air of gut-churning horror. Which is nothing to the sight of Scarlett behind the monster, branch raised like a club. Like she’s going to fell the beast with a stick.

Scarlett lets out a warrior’s roar as she brings the branch down and-

Nothing. It breaks on The Grandmother’s writhing back like so much driftwood. Scarlett goes from heroic to trembling in a bare moment and then The Grandmother is turning. Shiloh’s paws dig large grooves in the earth as she launches herself forward – she’s never moved so fast.

The axe moves faster.

Likely because it was hurled by a half-giantess.

The Grandmother’s skull cleaves like a ripe melon and Shiloh uses her forward momentum to barrel Scarlett out of the path of the monster’s falling carcass.

And then, silence.

Shiloh uncurls with a wince to find Scarlett unhurt if a bit squished under her bulk. She wasn’t kidding when she said her pelt needn’t be big. She’s a hulking wolf no matter the size of her talisman.

“Damn you, wife! You’d best not be dead!”

Scarlett’s eyes are round as the moon rising over them, flicking panicked from Shiloh’s less-than-reassuring countenance to the giantess bearing down on them. Shiloh can’t help but snort a laugh as she shifts back to her human form, pulling herself off the child as she goes.

“It’s okay, Scarlett,” she says. “This is my wife, Kae.”

“This is your widow more like!” Kae says, picking Shiloh up with one big hand to set about inspecting her wounds. “Because I’m going to kill you for that fright you just gave me!”

Shiloh endures the inspection, mostly because she’s had a lot of practice. “My love, you’re frightening the child.”

Scarlett seems to take that as a challenge, climbing rapidly to her feet. “I ain’t frightened!”

Shiloh kisses Kae’s palm on its way to pawing at her scalp to check for head wounds and sighs. “Yes, I could see that. What part of ‘run’ didn’t you understand?”

“The part where you were in trouble,” Scarlett says, chin jutting out stubbornly.

“Oh I like her,” Kae says, seemingly having satisfied herself that Shiloh isn’t going to keel over dead any time soon.

Shiloh rolls her eyes. “Of course you do.”

Silence falls on the three of them once more as their attention turns to the hulking corpse of The Grandmother.

Scarlett breaks it. “They sent me here to get et, didn’t they?”

Shiloh, who was behind the door when the Gods handed out artifice, says, “Yes, my girl, I think they did.”

Scarlett takes this news with the sort of stoicism that’s likely going to require a lot of crying at some point later. “I’d like to not go back,” she says, finally.

Shiloh doesn’t say anything, simply exchanges a long look with her wife. And then she holds out her hand.

One year later, the village drapes another little girl named Scarlett in red and sends her into the woods. Four hours later, she comes back.

FIN

Patreon | Goddammitstacey.com

[fascination-street-writing]

Jumping on Someone Else’s Train | Narancia Ghirga x GN!Reader

His is the face of the one who lost everything, found everything, and lost it all again.

A Canon Divergence AU, in which Narancia does not follow Bucciarati on the boat in Venezia

- 200 Follower Giveaway Piece I for @vergissmeinnnicht​ -

Content Warnings: Regret, Angst, Mentions of Alcoholism, & Mentions of Other Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Men and women clad in suits of varying styles and colors stand along the proscenium of the tracks, waiting for the first wave of commuter trains from Venezia. With thoughts of unfinished reports, soccer practices, and uncertainties of whether to have spaghetti alle vongole or ai ricci for dinner, no one pays heed to the three battered teenagers seated just behind the line – who, mind you, certainly ought to be in school.

To your left, Fugo fumes; and yet, despite his ever-apparent anger, there is unbounded despondency in his violet eyes. Despondency indeed, perhaps for the mutual decision of yours and his, or otherwise, because of Bucciarati’s blasphemy. Although, you suppose that you cannot fault your former Capo. He has always had a proclivity for saving undesirables – yourselves, included. But his kindness is not your own.

To your right, Narancia leans over and slouches, clutching his head between two hands that have not yet healed from his scuffle with the first man of the assassination team. You cannot help but to notice that several of the crackling scabs have been picked open. You regret deeply that you had not offered to run Trish’s errands with the black-haired boy. And, though he will not admit it, as does Fugo.

The sound of a shoe tapping against the concrete flooring would be irksome to you if it were anyone other than Narancia’s doing. You cannot decide if he is merely growing impatient for the train to arrive, or rather, unequivocally conflicted about what has transpired within the past hour. A shuddering breath slips past his lips, expelling as his shoulders begin to quake. He might never forgive you for letting him snivel in public.

Gently, you place your hand on his back. Narancia stills at your touch and allows his own to fall from his reddened cheeks. Reluctantly so, he meets your concerned gaze. He fears he might disintegrate into nothing more than bones if you keep looking at him this way – like you adore and loathe him all the same.

You speak his name softly, reminiscent of some kind of lullaby that his mother might have sung to him during his early adolescence. “We need you to be here,” you tell him.

His nod is an automatic response. He contemplates the bluntness of your words, understanding well enough that they have sprung from a good heart. You have become more like Bucciarati, he thinks; your pension for austerity in love rivals his, to be sure. Narancia swallows and nods once more. “I’m here,” he insists.

He would wince at the cracking of his voice if you had turned away sooner. You pull your hand back and rest it atop your leg, curling your fingers into the threadwork of your pants. “Stay with us, then.”

The rotors of the train squeal as the machinery lulls to a stop. In truth, you would never like to board another train for as long as you should live. But this is not a luxury you can afford.

“Now boarding from Stazione di Venezia Santa Lucia to Napoli Centrale. Total travel time – seven hours and thirty-nine minutes. First stop: Ferrara.”

Within the compartment of the train, Fugo sits beside you and pours over a bit of reading that he had swiped from a kiosk before embarking. Narancia determines that the book the younger boy reads must be painfully dreadful, or implausibly wonderful. His brow furrows, as if deeply embedded in his own thoughts, but his fingers never bend to turn the page.

A quivery sigh escapes as you stare from the window, appearing to be as bored as ever. The Italian countryside passes by in blurs of likewise colored landscapes. Narancia wonders how it is that you can tell the difference between a vineyard and a farm against the speed of travel. Or maybe you cannot, though you try to anyways.

You stifle a yawn, finally succumbing to the exhaustion that has accumulated over the past several days. And yet, despite it all, you are still living. Narancia feels his own jaw beginning to twitch, and his mind drifts elsewhere, to the interlude of youth before life with Bucciarati became quite so complicated; good thoughts to keep him grounded amidst the unrest of divided loss.

As it were, he remembers the day when he first met you as if it were yesterday. Before Mista, Abbacchio, and certainly Giorno – back when the two of you, Fugo, and Bucciarati made for the greatest family whom he had ever known. The only other time Narancia has ever seen such strain upon your face was when Bucciarati took you into his home, still clothed in street-rags and muddied shoes. You had not even joined Passione yet; their then eighteen-year-old leader had acted of his own volition to take you in. He always has had a way of saving people.

Narancia knows your strife as if it is his own. Your mother died and your father neglected you; you took to thievery and pickpocketing to find whatever you needed to spend a night without an empty stomach. It was only a matter of time until, provoked by the unfortunate solidarity of utter hurt, you had clicked with the two boys.

But it was not always this way.

In truth, your eagerness to snub the boy is, of some emotional gravity, debilitating. He has always believed friendship to be deserving of the highest value of any other virtue in life. When you observe his struggles to solve seemingly simple math equations during tutoring sessions, with such an unreadable look on your face, he dreads that your hesitation has born itself from an aura of superiority that you harbor against him. The moment you turn away as Fugo’s chastisement rains upon him, he wonders how he might ever be good enough to earn your favor when he cannot be good enough for himself.

When he speculates his plan to befriend you, he thinks without fail that it must be the most brilliant little scheme in the world. Narancia begins by buying you a chocolate bar from the corner store down the street, because what peer of your age does not like chocolate? By the time he has returned home, it has begun to melt in his pocket. He hopes you will not mind, and if you do, he has already decided that he will go back and purchase a second one – cognizant to carry it instead, rather than stuffing it in his corduroys.

To his chagrin, you turn your nose up at the creased, seeping parcel. “I hate sweets,” you tell him with a heavy insistence and no succeeding explanation or defense. Never mind that he had caught you sneaking cake from the kitchen last night when you thought everyone else had gone to bed.

Alas, his resolve is strong. He supposes that it was wrong of him to assume that you would indulge in a chocolate bar, because it is simply not the same thing as cake. During an astronomy lesson with Fugo, a fetching optimism takes over. That evening, he forgoes dinner to sweep the terracotta roof of dead leaves and earthly dust. He rummages through his closet for the softest blanket he owns – blue gingham that had once belonged to his mother.

He runs into you in the hallway on his way to your bedroom; budding with courage, he asks if you would care to watch the stars with him on the rooftop, because the window in his room leads right to the widow’s walk. You roll your eyes and turn away, muttering, “Constellations make me dizzy.” But did you not tell Bucciarati in passing yesterday just how much you love searching for the little dipper when the night skies are forgiving?

Narancia’s spur is beginning to wane, though he cannot blame you. Perhaps he has been reading you wrong. He simply has not pinpointed your interests – that is all. Flipping through the channels of the television, he stumbles upon a culinary program of an older man demonstrating how to prepare bucatini alla carbonara. Struck with inspiration, the boy rushes to the market for pancetta, parmesan, and dried pasta; he has never quite had the patience for making fresh dough, so he settles for pre-packed bucatini. Surely, you will understand.

And so, he leads you into the kitchen with a grin on his face. While pointing to the array of ingredients on the counter, he asks you to lend a hand and to help him prepare dinner. You are all in need of a reprieve from Il Libeccio. “I don’t like cooking,” you say, disinterested. It surely must have been a ghost who prepared the rigatoni al pesto on this past domenica, then.

Narancia does not have high hopes when he extends to you the offer of catching the movie Panni Sporchi in the theater with Fugo and he. His crushed spirits know better by now. But it never hurts to try.

You set down whatever magazine you have snatched from the corner store and cock an eyebrow. “Comedies aren’t my thing,” you utter. “They’re not even that funny. Besides, they’re just poor imitations of life. So are romances. And dramas. Thrillers – horrors . . . Actually, I hate movies.”

He bears it with a curt nod, choosing to ignore that you had held a private viewing of Auguri Professore in the living room yesterday. His head tells him that you do not wish to be his friend, amongst other things – but his heart insists that one day, you will.

It is by chance that he should wake up this night with the irrepressible urge to use the bathroom. On his way back, skin still damp from the sink, Narancia tiptoes along the embroidered vines of the carpet. It is a solitary game he only partakes in when no one is around to question his antics. When he hears a hiccup, he surmises that he has been caught. His sock-clad feet sink into the floor as he stills and prepares himself for whatever beratement is sure to follow. Instead, there is only another gasp for breath.

No, not a hiccup, he notices: it is the sound of grief that came from your bedroom. With little regard to your privacy, he peaks his head through the cracked door.

“What are you doing, Narancia?” you demand as you wipe the back of your nose and hoist the blankets – wetted by your tears – up to your shoulders. “Get out of my room.”

In this moment, it is as if the clouds have parted and clarity canvases the sky. All this time, he truly was enough for you – it was you who was not adequate for yourself. And here you are, curled up in your bed with swollen eyes that beg him to stay even though you had told him otherwise. You are tormented by bad memories that ought to be shed like snakeskin.

Narancia steps forward. “I just wanted to tell you, uh, it’s okay to cry,” he says with a certain tenderness that seems so unfamiliar to you. He rubs the back of his neck, averting your gaze. “Even if you don’t think so.”

You gawk at him and say nothing, for words have failed you. The silence is deafening, all the same. It is an audacious move, but he smiles to you – a gesture of compassion – before turning to leave. He has overstayed his welcome, and your unrelenting stare does not make him feel any better.

“Wait.” He stops, anticipating your delayed retaliation. “Could you . . . Can you spend the night with me?”

As he lies in bed next to you, distance kept by a pillow wedged between your bodies, Narancia beams – but you cannot see outline of his grin in the darkness of the room. This night and many more will pass, and you slowly become something of a beacon. He is beholden to you, because you make him feel appreciated in the ways that not even Fugo or Bucciarati can. For this reason, he will always cherish you – a talisman encapsulated within a friend.

And now, though the seeds of regret have already begun to spring roots within him – hyacinths embedded in his heart –, he will stay strong, for you are like a pharos to him. If not resiliency for his own sake, then certainly yours.

At least, for as long as he can.

“Hey, Narancia.” Startled, he jumps in his seat and clasps his knees tightly. “Is there something on my face?” you ask.

“I – Huh?” he stumbles over any response that might have come to mind. “What do you mean?”

You chuckle. “Well, it’s just that you’ve been staring at me for the past ten minutes.”

“Uh . . . I  . . .”

Fugo drags his gaze from his book to your face. “I don’t see anything,” he assures with a shrug. “Actually, come to think of it, I think your nose has gotten bigger.”

The banter of humor between you and Fugo is lost on the black-haired boy. Or rather, he is far too distracted to mimic it. He stands from his seat abruptly and reaches for the door to the compartment. “I have to piss,” he mutters.

He is gone before either of you can comment on his sudden brashness. In his absence, you nudge Fugo and gesture towards his book; just as Narancia had noted, you realize that your strawberry blonde friend has not gotten past the first page of the novel ever since you had departed. You left nearly an hour ago.

“My head is just elsewhere, I guess,” he confesses to your proclamation. He closes the book and sets it down on the seat. “I’m fine, though. As much as I can be. But Narancia isn’t.”

You hum in agreeance. “I’ll go check on him.”

Water rushes from the faucet and pools in the porcelain, ceramic bowl of the basin. Steam wafts towards the ceiling, blanketing the mirror in a cloud. Narancia’s fingers curl around the rim of the sink so tightly that the coloring flees from his knuckles. He feels like a phantom, for a part of him has surely died back in Venezia.

In another world, he imagines that he might have followed Bucciarati – as would have you and Fugo. But this is nothing more than a nonsensical thought that can never be anything more than an instance of intangible pondering. He does not wipe the fog from the mirror, because he cannot bear the sight of the boy who will greet him in return.

His is the face of the one who lost everything, found everything, and lost it all again. His stomach churns and his head whirls with aches. He has never been the type of person to boast of his character; it takes a humble attitude to realize that there is nothing special about oneself – until there is. Truly, Narancia once believed that he was a proper man, because he worked for someone as virtuous as the young Capo, whose confidence bred itself and more.

“I guess I’m not much of one now,” Narancia mumbles aloud with a sigh of vexation. “Not like Mista, Abbacchio . . . or Giorno.”

He taps the tip of his shoe against the linoleum floor. As it were, his socialization into Passione – no, into Bucciarati’s squad – has taught him the moral necessities of defending the weak who cannot otherwise safeguard nor vindicate themselves. Betraying him is a dreadful regret. How can he ignore the voice in his head that affirms his folly and tells him that he is no better for abandoning Trish in all her temperamental, vain ways, either?

When the sound of knuckles rapping against the door startles him from his thoughts, his first impulse is to lash out at whoever has disrupted his mind chamber of self-reflection. “Hey, can’t you read, idiota?” he demands, angrily. “Bathroom’s occupied.”

“Narancia, it’s just me.” The scowl on his face falters as he recognizes your voice. He turns the squealing faucet until it has dried. He does not stop to catch his staggered breaths before opening the door, and perhaps he should have. Even though you have become such close companions, you still make him feel like a child under your anatomizing gaze – as if there is something particularly interesting about him after all, which takes him for a good subject of study.

Your look of concern is jarring. For a moment, it is difficult to breathe, and he wishes he had tried to calm himself first. So much for staying strong for them. You step forward and lock the sliding door behind you. If it were anyone else – even Fugo – the proximity of your body to his might have made him uneasy. You drag a finger through the film of steam on the mirror. “I’m going to ask you something,” you begin to say, “and I’d like you to answer me, honestly. Are you alright?”

He chokes up at your words, because yes – he is perfectly fine; healthy, albeit a bit battered still from his fracas with Formaggio. As soon as he manages to stop himself from instigating the scabs on his knuckles, they will heal, and he will be left with nothing more than pink scar-tissue as an everlasting memento of these past few days.

But, in other contingencies of prosperity, he is unequivocally not alright. Against his better sense of control, his eyes well up with tears, and his cognition scatters.

“Narancia?”

There are many things that a person indulges in as a means of coping, some safer than others. Men fall to the bottle, like Abbacchio – and men lash out in violent rages, such as Fugo. He could keep picking at his scabs, find an emptied compartment to scream in, or pull out his unkempt hair. Contrition moves through him like a venom, and he supposes he should find a way to suck it out before it kills him.

His hands meet your arms in a shockingly gentle, clammy grasp; he jerks himself closer and suddenly, his lips are on your own and he is kissing you. His teeth scrape against your own and he pulls you flush, as if he cannot get close enough to you already, desperate to suffocate the detrimental notions running through him. Stunned and too preoccupied with dwelling on the sweet taste of his mouth, you have forgotten how to reciprocate.

You break apart and shrug the grip on your arms, unsure of what to say as his desperate indigo ogling gauges you for a reaction – whether you should berate him or express your equal adoration, anything is preferable than the silence. “I . . . I’m sorry,” he finally says when you have not.

“It’s fine,” you insist, an unreadable poignancy sweeping your face. “You can do it again, if you need to. I don’t mind.”

He must have heard you wrong; surely, you did not give him such a blessing as this. And yet, when he cups your jaw and meets your lips halfway, you do not shove him off. Instead, you repay the gesture and swipe your tongue along his own. His heart sings for you, like a schoolboy’s choir: thank you, thank you, thank you. You swear that your legs have become melting gold, for they quiver and you can no longer stand on your own.

Or maybe it is because the train has lurched forward. Despite the separation of your lips, Narancia catches you in arms that harbor unassuming strength, but make you feel guarded, all the same. It is strange, you reflect: he has always been something of a haven to you, ever since the night when you had cast aside all hesitations of welcoming him into your circle and did exactly that.

“I just want you to know that everything will be okay,” you tell him – about the kiss, about the train, or about your shared regrets, he does not know. No matter the intent, he enjoys listening to your voice. “You aren’t alone in this, Nara. We both made the decision to leave. You don’t have to suffer on your own, because I feel just as guilty, too.”

He frowns.

“Besides, we have all we need. You, me, and Fugo. I’m glad you’re here, you know; I couldn’t do this without you.” He hastily wipes away the tears that trickle down his cheeks. Stop crying, he sneers to himself. Stop it, stop it, stop it. You pull his frantic hand away from his reddened face and lace your fingers with his, so that he might not try it again. “It’s okay to cry, even if you don’t think so.”

He blooms and comes undone, sobbing into the crook of your neck and clasping your shirt so tightly that the spooling contorts and wrinkles. You trace shapes against his back, creasing the leather with your nails. Slow, tentative, and soft. He wishes to stay like this forever, bathroom or not – just so long as he has you.

While Narancia straightens himself and splashes fresh water upon his face, you wait for him at the door. He hesitates to follow you back to the compartment, because he can lose himself to grief exactly where he is without repercussion. You know this well, and so you extend your arm for him to take with a sense of hushed encouragement. His fingers meet yours, only this time, it is not to stop him from swiping at his face until his skin is raw. “We should check on Fugo, yeah?” you suggest.

“Yeah . . .”

Down the corridor, he trails behind you like a lost stray to his savior. In a way, that is exactly what you are, he thinks. And he will forever be grateful for it. It is not until you have returned to the strawberry blonde that Narancia lets his grasp fall from yours. You return to your seats, and Fugo offers his own attempt at a smile to you each. His book lies in his lap, untouched and unmoved.

“So, Fugo.” You drag out his name, as if deep in thought. “Did you get past the first page yet?”

| 3704 Words |

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Is It Really THAT Bad?

Cats has been a divisive show ever since it opened in 1981. Some people hate it for being a plotless spectacle that focuses more on the visuals than on music and story, while others love it for those same reasons, as well as for being utterly campy and fun. I’m firmly in the latter category, to the point I can’t  really comprehend the opposition to the film. Stuff like the jab at this film in The Critic or the mockery of it in Hey Arnold just seem weird to me; what is it about this fun, silly musical about cats that makes people’s blood boil so much?

Perhaps all these people saw into the future where the film was released.

Cats had a long, troubled history getting from stage to screen. In the 90s, Amblimation was set to make an animated version of the movie, set during the Blitz of WWII. Unfortunately, the inability of writers to find a way to turn this episodic showcase of random singing cats into a cohesive narrative combined with the failure of Amblimations films caused the project to dissolve, leaving behind nothing but some really cool concept art. 

But see, this perfectly demonstrates the problem with adapting Cats: the musical is a spectacle, a showcase, it’s all about the dancing, costumes, and the songs. It doesn’t have a story to speak of, instead contenting itself with showing us a bunch of different cats and having them sing about themselves for a bit before moving on to the next cat. Sure, there’s a bit of continuity and whatnot, but this really isn’t the sort of show that’s trying to deliver a deep narrative. It just wants you to have a good time, nothing more, nothing less.

No one told any of this to Tom Hooper, apparently. This director of the grounded, gritty, realistic adaptation of Les Mis was tapped to utilize this same style in a musical about magical singing cats, all while not even knowing what catnip is or how animation works. Hooper was apparently constantly butting heads with the VFX team due to his lack of understanding of how animating works. He tried to get the team to watch videos of cats performaing the stuff he wanted and forced them to give 90 hour work weeks, cementing Tom Hooprt as one of the biggest douchebags imaginable. On top of all this, the guy tried to weave this plotless showcase of felines into a cohesive narrative, and tapped a bunch of talent of various degrees of questionability to play parts. And what was the result?

An absolute disaster. The film was savaged by critics, with most positives being that the film was so bad it’s good. The film (of course) won a bunch of Razzies, and was the subject of mockery and memes before, after, and during its run in theaters. Hell, as soon as the trailer dropped, the film was mocked to death. Not helping was the rushed VFX which, again, was due to the team being under pressure from a draconian idiot who had no idea what he was doing. The film received an unprecedented bug fix, so to speak, in the form of an updated version with slightly better VFX that was shipped to theaters after the initial negative reaction. This obviously did nothing to help the movie’s reputation, of course. Hell, even in my initial review, I wasn’t super keen on the film. Most damning of all, though, was Andrew Lloyd Webber himself calling the film ridiculous, and even said "The problem with the film was that Tom Hooper decided that he didn’t want anybody involved in it who was involved in the original show."

But after ruminating on it, and after watching the film once more, I’ve decided to ask the usual question: Is it really that bad? It’s weird to ask this about a film that’s so new; I usually wait for hindsight to kick in, and look at older films considered bad. But even now, Cats is building up a reputation as a campy cult classic, with such figures as Martin “LittleKuriboh” Billamy watching the film with alarming frequency. And after reading the nightmarish behind the scenes and considering everything… yeah, I think this film deserves a re-evaluation.

This is going to be a little different, though: I’m sort of going to go through the film part by part, since this film has an interesting issue where, generally speaking, the first half is where the worst problems are, and the second half is where things start to pick up. So let’s get the bad out of the way first, then move onto the good.

THE BAD

So, I’m actually not going to pick on the VFX too much, and not just because of the horrible treatment of the VFX artists. In all honesty, the weird human/cat people, while not even remotely as cool as the insane costumes of the stage show, eventually stop being super distracting and kind of just become something you accept. Like, I’m not gonna pretend like this work is amazing, but I dunno, I think it gets harped on too much. There is some stuff that stands out as noticeably bad, though, and we’ll get to that.

A consistent problem with the film that I can’t even try to defend is the problem with the scaling. It’s seriously hard to tell how big these cats are supposed to be in relation to anything else. They honestly seem to change size from scene to scene. It’s seriously weird and baffling and there’s never any way to get a good sense of scale. Even when the cats are alongside mice and roaches, it just boggles the mind what size anything is actually supposed to be.

Mr. Mistoffelees, one of the most flamboyant and enjoyable characters of the stage show, is one of the biggest character issues with the film. Gone is the tricky, confident magician who prances and dances, and here is a meek, sniveling twerp who can barely do anything without tripping over himself. This is because the actor who plays him had a terrible audition that left him miserable due to a lack of singing and dance background. So, rather than find someone who could, you know, sing and dance, they decided to rewrite Mr. Mistoffelees into comic relief, which is just an insulting slap in the face. The cherry on top of course is how they straightwash the character and excise his homoerotic tension with Rum Tum Tugger, instead making him completely and totally straight and giving him a thing for Victoria. Out of everyone in the entire film, they did Mr. Mistoffelees the dirtiest.

Now, let’s get onto the actual “plot.” The film actually starts out fairly well, with some cool shots, good dancing, and some setup for Macavity, whose intro has a neat little nod to the fact he’s based on Moriarty. The issues don’t really start showing up until we reach the first of the Jellicle choices… Jennyanydots.

Jennyanydots is portrayed by Rebel Wilson, which is the first issue. Rebel Wilson is probably one of the worst actresses ever. She is just a horrendously, relentlessly unfunny human being, and she brings that exact quality to her role here. For her song, the vocal talent is secondary to the cringeworthy comedy Wilson puts on display. And yet, somehow, Wilson isn’t the worst part of the scene. No, that would be the horrendous CGI human-faced mice and roaches, which look like they came out of a PS3 game.

This horrendous spectacle is followed up with the appearance of Rum Tum Tugger, portrayed by Jason Derulo. I’m of two minds about this. On the one hand, I do think Derulo has the necessary egotistical celebrity swagger to play Rum Tum Tugger (especially when you consider he responded to negative criticisms of the film by calling the movie  “one of the greatest pieces of art ever made”) and his design is actually one of the better ones in the film, but on the other hand, his singing and the musical choice for his song are not very impressive and really just doesn’t work all too well. It’s at least something of a step up from Rebel Wilson and her CGI abominations, but that’s not really saying much, is it?

Next up we have Bustopher Jones, played by James Corden and, if I’m being totally honest… he’s not quite as awful as he could be. Corden is basically the male equivalent to Rebel Wilson, but at least while he’s singing he manages to be somewhat amusing, whimsical, and enjoyable even. The problem comes when he throws in jokes, including one where he claims to be self-conscious about his weight… a joke that occurs in the middle of his song where he is bragging about how fat he is. Talk about sending mixed messages. I wish I didn’t have to be so harsh on Bustopher, but sadly he is bogged down by really bad shtick.

Bustopher Jones also highlights a problem with the cats in this first half. These minor roles – Jennyanydots, Rum Tum Tugger, and Bustopher Jones – are all being played by relatively big celebrities, and as such they’re going to want a lot of time to sing. As a result, songs that were ensemble numbers on stage become more one-man songs here, with Bustopher Jones being the most egregious example, turning this positive fat character into a walking James Corden fat joke as he sings his own praises rather than having his praises sung.

Following him up we have Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer, who are usually fun characters with a fun little pseudo-villain song, but alas, they manage to screw that up by using a slow, jazzy version of the song originally used in earlier London productions rather than the more up-tempo version from later productions, making the song sound awkward and forgettable. Topping it all off is the bargain bin Mr. M popping in at the end for some wacky shenanigans, but at this point, the movie takes a turn towards…

THE GOOD

So as soon as Dame Judi Dench shows up as Old Deuteronomy, the film gets a sort of inverse of what happened at the start. Where the film starts somewhat awkward and promising, it slowly gets stupider and stupider when Rebel Wilson, Jason Derulo, and James Corden botch their scenes in the ways described above. Here, things start a bit shaky and unsure, but Dench is a sign things are about to pick up. What makes her so enjoyable is how, despite how utterly silly things are, she treats her role with the dignity and gravitas of something out of Shakespeare. The only thing as good as an actor in a silly movie like this going full-on ham and cheese is an actor treating their role dead serious and injecting it with such class and dignity you can’t help but enjoy it. Thankfully, Dench isn’t the only person to take her role seriously.

Jennifer Hudson as Grizabella technically appears briefly in the earlier portions of the film, but here we get to hear her belt out “Memory,” and by god does she do a fantastic job. The raw emotion and passion she injects into Grizabella is phenomenal, and it’s even more powerful when it comes back for its reprise in the finale. Victoria gets a sort of response song to “Memory,” called “Beautiful Ghosts,” and it’s a decent song in its own right, but you can tell it was a more modern composition and it just doesn’t gel super well with the rest of the songs. Still, all this is good stuff, and the “Memory”/”Beautiful Ghosts” scene is a nice, refreshing bit of emotion after the incredibly weird and silly extended dance number that is the Jellicle Ball.

The movie doesn’t stop pulling punches; shortly after Grizabella we are given Gus the theater cat, an elderly actor whose number is all about reminiscing of the old days of theater and his many stellar roles from days gone by. Naturally, the only actor who could possibly perform this role properly is Sir Ian McKellan. I am completely unironic when I say this: This is to McKellan what Patrick Stewart’s performance of Xavier in Logan is. This sounds ridiculous, but think of it: Gus is an aging thespian, clearly a bit senile and desiring to be reborn because he has reached the end of the line, and McKellan fills him with this genuine, incredibly honest performance that really makes you feel emotional. It’s powerful. It feels so personal and resonant, like McKellan has inserted some of his own feelings into his performance, which may very well be the case. Oh, and after his song Macavity kidnaps him with a big autograph book and apparates away while saying his name, which gets me every time.

And now, my friends, the lord and savior arrives: Skimbleshanks.

This is, hands down, the best scene in the entire film. Everything comes together here: the music is absolutely fantastic, the dancing is choreographed extremely well, and it’s clear that everyone involved is having a blast. This is a concentrated essence of what Cats should be, and it’s really a shame Hooper didn’t understand that this is the energy needed for the entire production. The most crucial element, of course, is Steven McRae, who not only has a lovely singing voice and looks dapper as all hell in his red suspenders, but is a tap dancing maniac. This man has feet of fire, and his tapping adds a whole new layer of fun to the song. Overall, this is a perfect scene, and probably one of my favorite scenes in any film ever. For a brief four minutes, everything about this film works. I literally have no idea why this cat wants to be reincarnated, he is straight balling in this life.

But the hits don’t stop! Right after this song, Taylor Swift descends from the ceiling, and we get “Macavity.” In the stage productions, this is a song sung by Bombalurina to describe how nasty Macavity is, since she’s traditionally a good cat; here, she’s reimagined as a villain, and so this song is basically her acting as Macavity’s hype man, singing his dastardly praises, and best of all, Macavity joins in at the end! I’m certainly not a Taylor Swift fan, but she really kills it here, and definitely makes this one of the best songs in the movie with her hilariously forced accent and insane energy. It’s just a shame that from here on out Macavity ditches his villainous pimp coat and is now a nude Idris Elba, but I suppose this is equivalent exchange for Skimbleshanks being so amazing.

While not as incredible as the previous two songs and not quite as good as the stage version due to the removal of the latent homoeroticism, Mr. Mistoffelees’s song is actually okay. It’s nice that he gets to sing his own praises here, but it’s just nothing compared to the stage version, even if it has a fun little finale and it actually is genuinely heartwarming when Old Deuteronomy returns and sings along. It’s a sweet moment that almost makes up for how much Mr. M has sucked the whole movie. Oh, also, all of the Jellicle choices Macavity kidnapped fight back against their captor Growltiger, with Skimbleshanks aggressively tapdancing at him and Gus using his acting skills to make him fall into the Thames. This is so goofy that it wraps back around to being awesome.

The movie winds down in the goofiest way possible after the gorgeous reprise of “Memory,” with Macavity being caught on a big sculpture and apparently running out of magic, leaving him stranded like a regular cat. Then we get one final fourth-wall breaking song where Judi Dench directly addresses the camera that has the music swell up to the point where it seems like the song is ending numerous times without actually ending, and each time is funnier than the last. Really, what better way could you end such a silly film than with this?

Now, a general thing that’s great about the film is the choreography. The dancing in the movie is spectacular. I don’t really have a bad thing to say about it. And, in a broad sense, the music is good too, even if the singers aren’t always perfect, the backing tracks are great, and there’s a lot of fun in the tracks in the latter half of the movie. McRae and Taylor Swift’s contributions in particular are great, and Hudson’s version of “Memory” is incredibly powerful, as is McKellan’s take on Gus’ song.

Is It Really THAT Bad?

No.

Look, it’s hard to be like “Wow this is a fantastic masterpiece of film” or anything like that, because the movie has blatant and evident problems. But this is literally the reason I made this review series; I’m asking if the movie is really as bad as people say, and in this case, no, there’s too much genuinely enjoyable in the film for me to say it’s deserving of several Razzies and a spot on the Bottom 100 of IMDB that places it above Master of Disguise and The Emoji Movie. Like, seriously? This is worse than the 90 minute commercial starring the abusive dick who called a bomb threat on his girlfriend? Hell, this movie is rated worse than Artemis Fowl, which is definitely a contender for the worst film ever made (and amusingly enough also features Judi Dench in it). Artemis Fowl has next to no redeeming qualities in it, and it certainly doesn’t have Skimbleshanks, whereas Cats has several fun scenes and also has Skimbleshanks.

I definitely think there’s more of an argument for this film being so bad it’s good or camp at best, but it’s definitely more enjoyable than you’d think it would be. If you can learn to live with the weird CGI, it’s a fun, goofy romp that you might find yourself feeling for at times. After my second watch, I have to say… I’ve started to unironically enjoy this movie. It might even be one of my favorites of all time. I can’t even deny that it has a lot of stuff I don’t like, and it falls flat in a lot of ways the 1998 film soars, and it screwed up some of my favorite characters… but there are so many moments where the fun and heart of Cats shines through brighter than it has any right to, and all the failures of Hooper and Universal seem distant for a just a few minutes.

So yeah, is this movie good all around? No way. But is it fun, does it have value, and is there more redeeming qualities than the critics let on? Oh yes there is.

[glassworkspiderlilies]

take roundabout

Kimetsu no Yaiba | @giyushinoweek Day 7 | Date or Crossover Summary: Shinobu and Giyu go on something of a scavenger hunt, courtesy of Sabito and Makomo. It’s not the worst thing. Notes: college au setting! may or may not make some additional notes for this. 

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It’s late morning when a knock sounds at the door and Shinobu answers it blearily. She’s been studying since 4AM, and it takes her a minute to get her bearings.

“Oh, you’re…Tomioka-san, aren’t you? Makomo’s friend?” she says, after she stares at the man at the door for a moment.

He nods. There’s a paper in his hand, and he looks a little bit troubled.

“Is Makomo in?” he asks, and belatedly, Shinobu steps aside to let him into their common room.

“Ah, my apologies. Yes, come in, I’ll get her.”

He stands stiffly in front of the sofa while she knocks on the door of her suitemate, who comes out after an extended moment. Shinobu goes about her business, going to the fridge for some water, only to find out that their filter is empty. She holds the pitcher under the sink, trying not to make too much noise as her suitemate and her friend converse.

“Hmmmm? What’s the matter, Giyu?” Makomo says, and Giyu holds up the piece of paper.

“Sabito’s sick. Very sick. He says he needs these things by tonight. Told me to ask you for help.”

“Ahhh,” Makomo says. “Yes, you’re not very good at…navigating the town, are you?”

Giyu tenses.

“That’s not true,” he says.

“Mmmm. Yeah. The last time you went out by yourself, you got arrested due to a misunderstanding that you didn’t explain your way out of. We aren’t going to go through that again.” Makomo scratches her head, looking troubled herself now. “The problem is…I have a seminar I’m hosting with my professor in about an hour, so I can’t really be going out.”

Giyu shrugs.

“Then it can’t be helped. I’ll go by myself.”

“Absolutely not. Sabito sent you here because he knows you can’t. Hmmmm. Shinobu, will you do me a favor?”

Makomo turns, startling the other girl out of her dazed state. Shinobu hastily shuts off the water, setting aside the pitcher to filter.

“Can you go with Giyu to pick up some things? I know you’ve been studying for a while—you’re due for a break. Giyu’ll buy you lunch,” Makomo says, and Shinobu glances at the man, who raises an eyebrow but doesn’t protest. “Please? He’s really bad at communicating and has some awful luck whenever he’s out in town, and Sabito’s requests can be a little unusual sometimes.”

Shinobu is silent for a moment, then works the cricks out of her neck.

“Okay,” she says. “I could use some air.”

“Thank you!” Makomo exclaims. “Have some fun, if you can. The both of you are always buried in your studies. Shinobu, Giyu’s not the best conversationalist, but he’s not a bad person. Go easy on him. Giyu…make an effort to get along, alright?”

The two people in question look at each other, then look back to Makomo, who merely smiles and waves them off.

“…Shall we go, then? I still have sixteen pages of reading to do by tonight,” Shinobu says, already halfway out the door, and Giyu nods before following her out.

.

It’s afternoon by the time they step off the bus into town. Apparently, one thing on this mysterious list of Sabito’s is bread from a particular café, so Giyu leads her to the café in question for lunch, as well.

“You don’t actually have to buy me lunch,” she says, looking around inside the café. It’s a very cute place, very rustic and charming.

“You look tired,” is all Giyu says, and a waitress leads them to a booth by the window.

Shinobu orders coffee and a sandwich; Giyu orders the same, except a different kind of sandwich. They’re quiet as they wait for their food; truth be told, Shinobu is kind of out of it, and though she knows of this guy, he’s Makomo’s friend, not hers. She doesn’t have much to say to him, and she’s not in the mood to make small talk.

Their coffee arrives first; Shinobu pours a packet of sugar into hers and adds a splash of cream. Giyu adds a bit more than she does to his. Shinobu leans back in her seat, allowing the hot caffeine to start rejuvenating her.

When their order arrives, they eat their lunch in relative silence, not making much conversation. As they leave, Giyu buys a loaf of their special bread with fruits and nuts, clearly for Sabito, and they head back out into town.

They browse some local shops—Shinobu is waking up but isn’t entirely awake, so for now, she continues to let Giyu lead the way. In fact, he seems to be perfectly comfortable carrying out the task by himself, and she’s not sure what her role in this is. She lingers back a couple steps, watching him consult the list then look around at the various stores.

When they stop into a bookshop, Shinobu starts feeling a bit more like her usual self as the caffeine kicks in. As Giyu scans the shelves for whatever it is Sabito is looking for, Shinobu wanders over to the mysteries section. She has three books balancing on her arm when Giyu finds her, and he raises an eyebrow.

“What, have a problem with mystery novels?” Shinobu says, and Giyu shakes his head.

“No. I suppose I just didn’t expect it.”

“What exactly did you expect me to read?”

“Romance novels?” he guesses. “I thought they were popular.”

Shinobu hums. “They’re fine. Kanae—my sister—likes them a lot. But I prefer a bit more thrill when I have time to read.”

He inclines his head in acknowledgement, turning to the shelf to read some titles. His brow furrows, and Shinobu tilts her head at him.

“What do you read?” she asks.

He shrugs.

“Not many novels. Sabito and Makomo force me sometimes, though.”

She blinks at him.

“So, what do you read?” Shinobu insists, aware that he hadn’t answered her question and not letting him get away with it.

He coughs.

“I like comics,” he says, and Shinobu smiles.

“Nerd,” she says, without bite.

The side of his mouth quirks up.

“So are you.”

She hums.

“So, did you find whatever Sabito wanted?” she asks, and he turns back to the shelf again.

“I could…probably use your help on this one,” he admits. He pulls out the list, narrowing his eyes at it. “It says, ‘a book that gets my heart racing but isn’t scary.’ I suspect a mystery novel might do the trick?”

Shinobu blinks at him, at the vague description. Nevertheless, she thinks hard and eventually selects one of her favorites that she thinks will fit the criteria. As they exit the bookstore, Shinobu glances at the list still in his hand, and decides to just go for it.

“So, what exactly is this list?” she asks. “I thought it was a regular grocery list, but it seems like…well, it seems a little abstract for that.”

In response, Giyu hands her the paper, and Shinobu raises an eyebrow at what’s written them in messy but legible scrawl.

A fresh loaf of bread from the café by the bus station—any kind that isn’t plain. A drink that clears your sinuses. A face mask that makes you look like a fox. A magazine with tips on how to style a red blazer…

It’s an odd list, sometimes incredibly specific and other times incredibly vague, and she wonders what Sabito wants with some of the things on it. And—she has suspicions, especially with the last item on the list, but she won’t say anything for now.

“Huh,” she says to Giyu, hanging back the paper. “Is he always like this?”

“This is one of his odder ones,” Giyu confesses.

“He’s really got you on some kind of scavenger hunt, even though it seems like you know him well enough to complete it pretty well so far. Do you really have to do this though?”

“No,” Giyu says with a shrug, “But I like to. Sabito’s my best friend. And I owe him a lot.”

Shinobu hums at that, understanding that there’s a long, not entirely pleasant story behind that last bit, judging from his tone. But she warms to Giyu a bit more; he’s…loyal. And a good boy.

She probably shouldn’t think like that of someone who is older than her. But regardless. His devotion is, in any case, endearing.

So they wander the shops, taking their time as they continue to find more things on the list. Shinobu laughs at Giyu’s expression when they hit the cosmetics section for the face mask, and she tugs on his sleeve to guide him to the correct products. She has to stifle her amusement in the convenience store as he pores over the magazines; he unfortunately stops in front of the gravure section, with the especially risqué ones propped in front, so it just looks like he’s staring intently at them.

At the end of the day, they take a rest at the little park on top of the hill. The sun is beginning to set, and Giyu buys them ice cream from the nearby cart.

“My,” Shinobu says. “What’s the occasion for such a treat? You didn’t strike me as an ice cream person.”

“I’m not,” Giyu agrees, “But Sabito said it was imperative I get ice cream at the end of the day. And they make decent matcha ice cream.”

Shinobu hums as she eats her ice cream, which is a special honey and berry flavor. Yeah. She should tell him, she thinks.

“Tomioka-san,” she says, “You do realize we’ve been set up, right?”

He stares at her blankly, and she can almost see the question mark above his head.

“Did Sabito tell you to be at this park when you were done, too?”

“Yes. He was specific about where I should get the ice cream.”

“Ah. Yes. You know what? Let’s take a picture.”

He’s still blank when Shinobu whips out her phone and leans closer to him, holding it up with a smile. She tilts the screen so that both of them are in the shot with their ice cream, a strip of the sunset visible behind them.

“I think this will fulfill the last thing on the list,” she says. “Give me your number, I’ll send it to you.”

Giyu blinks at her, then recites his cell number. A moment later his phone buzzes with a new message, though he doesn’t bother pulling it out to check.

“What did you mean, that we’ve been set up?” he asks belatedly.

She smiles at him wryly.

“This was a date, Tomioka-san.”

He stares.

“Does it count as a date if I didn’t know?”

“Alas, it does.”

There’s a silence as they eat the rest of their ice cream at a decent pace in order to catch the bus back in time. Neither are terribly sure what to say, but Giyu breaks the silence.

“I’ve…never dated anyone before. I can’t imagine that was a very good date.”

Shinobu shrugs.

“I wasn’t exactly prepared, but it wasn’t bad. I’ve definitely had bad ones. And a date can be anything you make it out to be. It depends on the company.”

Giyu glances at her sidelong and says nothing to that.

“Should I be yelling at Sabito?” he asks instead.

Shinobu laughs.

“Makomo was in on it too. Sabito would’ve known she wasn’t free today when he sent you. So if you yell at Sabito, I’ll have to yell at Makomo, and I don’t think either of us will win.”

Giyu grunts in reluctant acknowledgement.

What she doesn't say is that when he showed her the list, she had a sneaking suspicion then already, since the last item was a picture of you and the sunset. And there were the things that Giyu surely would not have been able to find on his own--the books, the facial products, the magazines...there was Makomo's influence. She know what kind of books Shinobu liked, what kinds of products she used, what kind of magazines she'd flip through (though that was because of Kanae). That magazine that was on Sabito's list was actually one that Shinobu had in her room right now, courtesy of her older sister. 

It was a curated list with the thought of both Giyu and Shinobu in mind, and a well thought-out plan. Shinobu doesn't know Sabito very well—only that he, Giyu, and Makomo were childhood friends from the same village, all of whom had the same mentor growing up—but she thinks she'd like to meet him now, to see the mastermind behind this plan, because she's sure that the idea originated with him. Not that Makomo couldn't come up with this, but the girl is a little more airy and mysterious, more prone to support as opposed to the spotlight. 

Shinobu smothers a smile. Well played, the two of them. Well played. 

Giyu's eyebrows are still furrowed, however, and Shinobu pokes at them. His eyes widen in surprise, and she supposes it might be too familiar for someone she doesn't know well. But—

"They'll get stuck like that if you keep doing that," she says, and Giyu sighs. "Come, now. Was it that upsetting? Was I really that bad of a date?"

He looks alarmed.

"No. I mean, I wouldn't know, but. It wasn't a bad time," he struggles to explain. "It's just—I suppose I expected such a thing to be....more? It always feels like there's some kind of...overture."

She laughs a little.

“Sometimes, perhaps. But it’s not always like that. Are you sure you don’t read romance novels?”

He colors a little.

“Makomo makes me, on occasion,” he coughs.  

“Ohhhh,” Shinobu says knowingly, “You’re a romantic.”

“Why are you saying it like that? What’s that supposed to mean?” Giyu says, and she laughs again.

He walks her back to her dorm when they arrive back on campus, even though it would be easier to just drop the packages off first.

Before he leaves, she stares at him, a hand on the door handle. She tilts her head, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Goodnight, Tomioka-san,” Shinobu says, and it looks like she’s made a decision. “Let’s have a proper date sometime.”

She slips inside, her door closes, and Giyu blinks a few times before the side of his mouth quirks up in a smile.  

[rayshippouuchiha]

I came out of Endgame with tears in my eyes and my heart filled up to the brim with absolute seething rage.

Even as I write this now my hands shake with some sick mixture of sadness, rage, and bitter disappointment.

So I preface this by saying that I am emotionally compromised and some of my views might shift with time and distance.

But, for better or for worse, this is my first rage flushed take:

I am so disappointed and so angry that after all of the tension, all of the build, all of the time and sweat and tears, all of the loyalty, we were rewarded with this.

Endgame had its high points, I’m not saying that it didn’t.  There were some genuinely funny moments and some heart rending ones as well.

Every single second Tony Stark was on screen was flawless as always.  Robert Downey Jr. once again proved why he and he alone was suited for the role of Tony Stark and the task of carrying the majority of the MCU for the past 10+ years.

That’s not to say that the rest of the cast wasn’t good.  All of the actors all obviously brought their A game and then some when they were allowed to by what I loosely call a script.

So yeah, there were some highs.

But when its comes to Endgame’s low points?

Its low points were subterranean.

They lowered the bar and then they dug underneath it.

Again I’m writing this basically fresh from the theater and with my emotions still high so do forgive me if this is a bit jumbled around or if I ramble a bit as I cover some of the real issues I had with the film.

So, first thing to address was the overall tone of the film.

For this to be the much glorified Endgame, the “battle of our lives”, there was, in my opinion, a distinct lack of true tension in this film.  Instead of a fraught, nail biting, tension filled ride, Endgame is more of a ... brisk jog through some vaguely sticky situations.

Instead of playing the story straight and giving the situation the gravity it deserved, the narrative went out of its way to put humor that served no other purpose than to ruin what tension had been previously built.  And, in my opinion, the tone of the film suffered for it.

The humor and jokes were humorous, I’m not saying they wasn’t.  I genuinely laughed out loud in the moment.  But I also feel that, with the majority of the comedy that was wedged into the narrative, the film suffered for it.

Now let’s move on a bit to the actual plot of the film.  Again, forgive me if I bounce a bit:

Jeremy Renner was breathtakingly heartbreaking as Clint Barton.  Renner was finally allowed to stretch his legs a bit in this film and he proved that, had he been given the chance, he would have given us a Clint Barton to take our breath away.

Watching with Clint as his family died helped to set what should have been the tone for the majority of the film from there on while reminding us of just what was lost and just what was at stake all at the same time.

Chris Evans brought heart to his portrayal of a Steve Rogers who seems both lighter and more weighted down in this film than ever before.

Scarlett Johansson’s Natasha finally showed more emotion than “head tilt”, “lip purse”, and “arched brow” and it was beautiful.

The brief flash of friendship and affection between Nebula and Tony was perfect and heartwarming as well.  Nebula was magnificent as the “feral space cat desperately in need of softness and a friendly hand” when placed side by side with a slowly withering Tony Stark who is, even at his lowest moments, still kind to this alien cyborg he doesn’t know but to who he owes his life.  They flowed together with an onscreen chemistry in their few moments side by side that felt organic and aching.

Together Tony and Nebula embodied a truly important life/plot point of “meet kindness with kindness and kindness will be your reward”.

Moving forward in time hearing Tony vent his anger and his pain and his distrust at Steve was cathartic in a lot of ways.

As was watching Tony rip the arc reactor from his chest and slap it into Steve’s hand.

In this moment Tony is handing Steve his metaphorical broken heart and leaving someone else to, for once, try and pick up the pieces.

But then, unfortunately, things go rather steeply down hill from there.

With Tony out for the count in a hospital bed the others hunt down and execute Thanos with basically a hand wave and all hope for the stones is lost.

Until deus ex rat-ina unleashes Scott Lang from the quantum realm and the logic of the film takes a sharp left turn.

Scott Lang was missing for 5 years.

To him it was 5 hours.

To which I say, why did Janet van Dyne, age during her stay in the quantum realm?  If, according to the MCU canon, every year in our world was roughly only an hour for Scott Lang, then why didn’t Janet come out of the quantum realm only 30 hours older instead of 30 years?

I feel like the answer is probably “because” but yeah maybe I’m just fuzzy on my Ant Man so if I’m wrong then just ignore that bit please.

Also, just a side note, I adore how it’s been 5 years, Wakanda is very much an ally and still up and running, and yet Rhodey still don’t have working legs.  But alas, racism.

Moving on. 

So with the main villain dead and Tony Stark having solved time travel in his living room, because I stan legends only, we’re now subjected, and that is the very word I’d use to describe what happens next, to what is called a Time Heist.

Cute.

Also Bruce Banner and Hulk have now merged Steven Universe style despite Hulk being scared green-less 5 years ago.  But that’s all good, Bruce smoked a ton of weed, they meditated, went on a cleanse or whatever.

Either way Bruce finally did that character development that everyone had been shouting at him since Avengers 2012 and accepted Hulk as part of him and they’re now Dr. Hulk which was … something that happened?

A thing that they chose to do.  The direction in which they set their narrative wheels and then powered full steam ahead and plowed us right over in the process.

But yeah, Time Heist!  That’s the way to go, the only way apparently.

Because going back in time to stop the Snappening isn’t an option due to reasons that are explained and still look and feel paper thin but probably just honestly boils down to “Russos”

Our intrepid heroes will now split up and surf through time Bill and Ted style to collect the Stones from different points in history.

Yay.

So the rest of the film is basically that, a big old jewel hunt through space and history where the Russos attempt to fool us into thinking their plot points are cohesive and cool by donkey punching us repeatedly in our nostalgia-sacks.

We’re treated to, in no particular order, such hits as:

“Ah 2012 and the invasion of New York only not as interesting but Tony Stark is very much an ass man, but then we been done known that.”

“The Ancient One and her still very distracting skull vein coming at you right now”

“LOKI YOU LITTLE SHIT”

“The one time I envied Scott Lang because, for a split second, he got to be inside Tony Stark”

“Let’s watch Tony Stark simultaneous take a Hulk to the face and have a small cardiac event all at the same time but from different angles”

And let us not forget

“Tee Hee Hee us white bois just had to find a way to make sure Captain America say “Hail HYDRA” but it was for “spy reasons” so weren’t we clever???????”

Yeah boys, great job.

So edgy.

(Although as a side note I do agree, Steve Roger’s ass really is America’s ass and I’d like to thank him for that. Personally.)

But then, of course, Endgame would not have been complete without:

“Steve Rogers stares longingly and creepily at Peggy Carter from behind a window, further backing up his one defining character trait in the MCU which is the inability to move on.  Also she doesn’t look up at all despite being a trained spy and all around badass who probably should have noticed the 6 foot slab of American Beef staring at her from less than a foot away, dark room or no dark room.”

And then my personal favorite:

“Tony Stark sees Howard Stark, the father he described as “calculating, cold, he never told me he was proud of me, never even told me he loved me” but it’s all good cause Tony’s a dad now so looking back all he sees are the good times with his emotionally neglectful and abusive father who says there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for his unborn kid and now they awkwardly hug while I try not to scream “FOOTAGE NOT FUCKING FOUND HOWARD AND NO THAT ONE 3 MINUTE VIDEO DOESN’T COUNT YOU SHIT” at the screen and explode in pure rage.”

Joy.

Truly a scene that was necessary and fit the narrative of Howard Stark’s personality and was needed for Tony to uh get closure or grow as a man and a father or something …

It totally wasn’t yet another excuse to give a canonically abusive father screen time in a way that seems genial and sweet in an attempt to give them a bit of redemption that they neither earned nor deserve.

But yeah, whatever, moving on.

Also Rhodey remains an absolute gem and he and Nebula get shit done.

Only oops, not so fast.

Because apparently the only one who is going to run into the whole “two of you can’t exist in one place at one time without consequences” rule is Nebula who, despite her bitchin orange stripe/badge of character development, managed to like synch up with her past self?

Because she didn’t turn her bluetooth/quantum entanglement function off I guess.

Either way Orange Stripe Nebula, O’Snebula as I call her, has accidentally air dropped all her files into OG Nebula’s mental iPhone.

So yeah now big old Past Grimace knows what’s up.

Ooops??

So shit goes down and then Past Grimace is like “you need to Trogan horse this shit, least favorite daughter” so OG Nebula does because “daddy issues”.

Dr. Hulk puts on the gauntlet and Kentucky fires his arm bringing all the people lost in the Snappening back to life now, 5 years after they got dusted.

Which is … honestly a recipe for disaster in so many ways.  What about the people, like the guy in Steve’s support group, who have started to move on?

What about the people who have remarried, have built new lives?

All of that’s ruined now.

It’s fantastic all those people are alive again but jobs, housing, food, healthcare, government, all of it is back in massive disarray across the universe.

And bringing those people back does nothing to bring back the people who didn’t die in the Snappening but died from causality instead.  All the deaths caused by suicides, by car/bus/train/plane/ship/etc crashes, by a lack of first responders, by the civil/world/interplanetary wars that probably raged across the universe due to entire governments disappearing?

All of those people are still dead.

The Snappening killed half of all life in the universe.  Causality probably killed another good ¼ after that.

And Dr. Hulk’s Un-Snappening saves none of them.

This isn’t a true solution, it’s a shitty band-aid.

But yeah, Russos so….

Moving on.

Yadda Yadda Yadda, plot plot plot. OG Nebula goes undercover, Past Grimace ends up in the future, there’s some fighting (which was admittedly BAD ASS), shit happens, and Tony saves the day like we all knew he would.

YAY!

Despite the massive rambling up above I’m not gonna plot out the entire movie right here though a lot will probably get covered coming up because here’s where I get down and start talking about the various character arcs too.

Because what a wild fucking ride those were.

Okay to take it from the top Scott Lang’s arc was fine.  Beyond my questions about the quantum realm his was clear cut and fine although I do wonder at his luck at being, apparently, the only Scott Lang in San Fran to go missing.  Well either that or he was staring at some other Scott Lang’s name instead of his own and in that case “awkward”.

Bruce’s arc was … look I could have done without all of the cringy Dr. Hulk stuff that they played up for laughs.  If they were gonna brush Hulk being terrified under the rug they could have found a better way to do it besides just erasing the duality between Hulk and Banner with a hand wave.

But yeah, Russos.

Carol Danvers was beautiful and magnificent and completely brushed aside.  Yes she was out in the universe handling shit, yes I know they did that so they could focus on the core Avengers, etc etc etc.

But it’s a damn shame that Carol Danvers, and her glorious haircut, was reduced to being the sorely needed and totally badass cavalry and last minute ace in the hole when she should have, logically, been a part of the vanguard.  Honestly I have thoughts on why Carol’s entire character should have been saved completely for the next phase of the MCU instead of introduced so late in this one but I digress.

O’Snebula was a perfect shining bionic light and I love her.

Gamora is now alive in the future but at what cost?  Not that her life isn’t worth something on its own, it totally is and she deserved the loophole resurrection 10000%.

Shit’s gonna be awkward though cause she doesn’t love Quill, she doesn’t love the Guardians, doesn’t really know O’Snebula or the universe she’s been thrown into.  She doesn’t have the memories or the experiences or the character growth and even if she does go back to her family she’ll never be the same person.

Now her and Quill’s relationship, if they ever have one again, will be reduced down to Quill going “you fell in love with me once you could do it again despite us no longer having the shared experiences that bonded us together”.  Same can be said for the rest of the Guardians as well.

Guess we all know what the plot of GotG 3 is gonna be about.

And that brings us to the story lines that really and truly upset me.

Which is basically all the rest of them.

Natasha/Clint’s combined story-line, Thor’s everything, Steve’s … Steve, and then finally Tony.

Now the Natasha/Clint story-line started out promising.

Clint’s rage and pain was obvious, his heartbreak poignant.  His decision to use all of those to cut a bloody swathe through the criminal underworld was both Dramatic(™) and understandable.

Natasha’s love and grief for him, her desperate attempts to hold onto what she has left by throwing herself into her new job, was a perfect demonstration that Natasha Romanoff is very much not a robot.  She was exhausted, frayed at the edges, and she had tears in her eyes, over Clint.  And then she pulled herself together, slipped her mask back on, and pushed her way forward.  This was all excellent.

It was also a nice narrative callback/parallel to have Natasha be the one to go out and bring Clint in from the cold.

Natasha plays touch stone, plays stability, for Clint and for many of the others.  For the first time Natasha is truly portrayed as a person all the way down to the core instead of some witty quips in a catsuit.  Plus her eyebrows finally came back from the war and her hair looked good again.  So there was that.

Clint and Natasha’s arc comes to a climax on Vormir as they search for the Soul Stone and Red Skull, the Nazi cockroach that he is, gives them the same spiel he gave Thanos.

To get the Soul Stone you must give up the life of the one you love the most. A soul for a soul.

Narrative wise this is consistent, we all knew this would happen as soon as they started searching for the Stones again.  It was obvious.

It was also obvious that Clint was the perfect sacrifice.

He’s got nothing left, his family is dead, he’s already lost the people he loves the most, he’s spent five years being a borderline monster.

And he is also, without a doubt, the thing that Natasha loves the most.

Clint was ready and willing to go, ready to die for the blood on his hands, ready to sacrifice himself for the chance that his family would be saved.

Ready to lay down on the wire and let Natasha walk over him for the sake of everything.

Clint dying made sense, was narratively sound, and heartbreaking.

All of which are only a few of the reasons why Natasha’s death was such a goddamn betrayal.

Instead of following along with the narratively sound death of Clint Barton, an Avenger that’s been ignored for most of the films as is, the Russo brothers instead chose to fridge Natasha.

Clint dying would have been the perfect mirror to Gamora’s death.

Gamora was a daughter unwillingly sacrificed by her father to destroy half of all life in the universe.

Clint would have been a father willingly sacrificed by a friend to save half of all life in the universe, his own sons and daughter included.

But no, we didn’t get that, instead we got a gratuitous scene of Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, splayed angel like and bloody on the rocks below.

Instead they fridged the Black Widow, the only woman of the original Big Six, because they couldn’t bring themselves to fridge a man.

So Clint gets the Soul Stone.

Such a fitting end for the Black Widow right?  Dying in a man’s place, mourned on screen by a circle of men, but ultimately set aside rather quickly.

I understand why Natasha wanted to be the one to go, I understand that she didn’t want Clint’s family to lose their husband/father and that her true family was the Avengers. I get that.  It doesn’t mean I enjoy or agree with the decision they made any more.

It doesn’t make me any less tired of watching female characters die for the sake of men and their families.

Natasha Romanoff sacrificed herself for the universe and her family and that deserves respect even if I absolutely hate it as a narrative choice.

Oh and what about the absolute NERVE of the Russos to have that awesome Lady Power Battle Strut happen but only after they killed Natasha, one of the Big Six?

Bitter? Me? Nooo.

Now, moving on to Thor.

Thor.

Oh my actual God, Thor.

The levels of disrespect Thor, Chris Hemsworth, and the fans were shown with this character arc/story-line in Endgame is breathtaking.

The absolute, shameless disrespect.

They turned Thor into a cowardly, drunken slob who has spent the last 5 years ignoring his responsibilities to what’s left of his people and instead has spent his time drinking, sulking, and literally yelling at kids over PSN??

Endgame’s Thor has the bullshit reasoning that he needs to stop trying to be who he thinks he should be and instead be who he is.

Which flies completely in the face of literally all of his character development from Thor all the way to Thor 3 and then Infinity War.

The entirety of Thor 3 was Thor’s hero’s journey culminating in him finally being the king he was always meant to be.  Finally maturing and stepping forward to lead his people.

I am supposed to believe that Thor, depressed and guilty or not for not killing Thanos when he had the chance the first time, just abandoned his people like that?

I’m supposed to believe that Thor would piss all over everything the majority of his family and friends died for?

I’m supposed to believe that Heimdall, Loki, countless soldiers, and The Warrior’s Three and Lady Sif (I guess), all died to protect Asgard, died for the people and for Thor, and Thor just what? Turns his back on all of that to become a drunk?

No, Thor wouldn’t do that.  Thor should have been down there beside Valkyrie working those fishing vessels when Bruce and Rocket came calling.  If Thor had any hesitance to join them it should have been, “I can’t abandon my people, I am needed here.”  He should have been fiercely guarding the tiny fraction of Asgard that’s left.

Thor’s depression and guilt was valid. Don’t mistake me on that. But they played it for jokes.  They made him a caricature of depression, made him “gross” and incompetent and the butt of the jokes, and in the process diminished what should have been a painful and poignant arc for Thor.

Instead we got Big Lebowski Thor, bathrobe included, who does stand up and fight yes but, in the end, gives up his crown and just fucks off to space to have petty pissing competitions with Peter Quill so he can?? find himself?? despite finding himself in Ragnarok already???

Thor’s entire arc in Endgame was shallow, mishandled, and disrespectful to the character, to Chris Hemsworth, and to the fans.

You, we, he, all deserved better than this.

Now we get to Steve.

Steve Rogers, Captain America himself.

I’ve had a lot of salt about Steve’s character and actions in the MCU but, all of that aside, he deserved so much more than what the Russo’s did to him in Endgame.

Hell he’s deserved so much more than what’s been done to him since post-CA:TFA.

But this is about Endgame specifically soooo….

Steve’s shown leading a support group in the beginning of Endgame, is shown talking about moving on and moving forward and learning to let go. Which is wonderful.  It sounds like the exact character development we’ve all been waiting for for Steve.

Which is, of course, the exact moment when Steve goes “nah just kidding, we don’t ever move on”.

Which, given the circumstances, is pretty fair.  If Steve was only thinking/talking about Thanos and the events of Infinity War.

But of course he wasn’t.

CA:CW should have been the end of the Peggy Carter saga for Steve.  He mourned her, he was finally moving forward, he’d kissed Sharon, he threw everything away to save Bucky, he gave up his shield, etc etc.

But no.  Endgame finds him right back there, clutching that goddamn compass, and making moon eyes at a woman who we all thought went on and lived a life without him, got married, had kids, and generally existed outside of Steve Rogers.

But no.  The Russo’s had to take that away from us too.

And yes yes I know I know multiverse or whatever but still.

Steve steamrolls his way through Endgame with skill and determination.  He picks up Thor’s hammer, finally worthy, which how??? Why???  (perhaps because he’s no longer keeping secrets??? Or maybe that’s just my salt talking? Who knows? Not me?)

And then he fights Thanos head to head.

(Although him wielding the hammer brought up an entire separate set of issues cause I’m pretty sure Mjolnir doesn’t actually summon lightning. Ragnarok pretty much said that the lightning has always been within Thor.  Mjolnir was just a control accessory.  But, you know, Russos *jazzhands*)

And then, in the end, he insists on returning the Stones on his own.

Only he doesn’t come back like he was supposed to.

Instead we’re given old Steve Rogers.

Because Steve returned the Stones and then ….went and found Peggy Carter and got married and lived an entire life with her ignoring everything he would have known was going to happen to her and around the both of them or something???

Or maybe not if the multiverse thing holds up but then who knows any more???

But then how did Old Steve end up right there by that lake on that day at that right time if he’s technically from a different multiverse???

Either way Sam gets his shield and the mantle of Captain America, which was fantastic, and Bucky more than likely knew Steve’s plan all along but the best read I really got on him was basically “eh” so he might well have been happy for Steve too.

But still, instead of finally achieving peace and continuing to learn to live in the future with Bucky and Sam and the remnants of the Avengers, his family and the life he’s built there over the past years, instead of putting the shield down because he’s learned to let go in the now, Steve only puts the shield down because he chooses the past.

He chooses the past over all of that and all of the people left who love him. Sure the argument could be said that he knew they’d be alright but still.

There is a deep well of dissatisfaction inside of me as to how Steve’s entire ending arc was handled.  Why did peace only come to Steve after Tony and Natasha were both dead and then was only found in the past?

No disrespect to Peggy Carter, I adore her, but were the relationships he had in the future worth so little that the past was the only place he could find happiness?  A past with a woman that he knows loved him but still moved on and found happiness outside of him, lived a full and happy life without him?

Steve didn’t get a character arc so much as he got a character circle.  A character loop.  He went right back to where he started.

Endgame erases all of the character development Steve underwent post-Avengers.  Just brushes it all under the rug.

The Russo’s stole the character development Steve Rogers spent a decade undergoing to give him their version of a happy ending.

They robbed him and us both of every bit of growth and forward motion Steve has underwent and I will never forgive them for that.

And now we get to Tony Stark.

Anthony Edward Stark.

The Iron Man.

Tony’s arc is, was, the longest and best developed arc in the entirety of the MCU.

It’s spanned 10+ years and has been nurtured and hand fed by Robert Downey Jr.

If Endgame got one thing right, one thing at all, it’s how they handled the majority of Tony’s arc.

From him laying the smack down on Steve once he was home, finally venting his emotions and his anger, all the way to him solving time travel before tucking his kid into bed, and then building an Infinity Gauntlet on his own even though Thanos committed genocide to get the one he had.

Tony Stark’s arc was glorious and expected and sad.

I think that my one almost complaint is that Tony stopped for 5 years.  On one hand he deserved the rest, deserved the chance to find happiness.  He was hurt and tired and he’d faced his demons and been left bleeding out with the death of half the universe weighing on his shoulders.

He deserved to just stop for a while.

On the other hand stopping is not something Tony has ever been good at, just like Pepper said.  A part of me thought Tony would be working, frantically, to find something, anything, to turn back the hands of time.  To track Thanos down. To get the Stones and then to get everything else back.

To get Peter and all of the others back.

But that’s not the route they went and I’m … okay? I guess, with that.

Tony was validated and vindicated and everyone would have finally listened to him.  It only took the death of half of the universe to do it.  But he was too tired, too hurt and untrusting to keep pushing.  I can respect that.

But of course once an idea worms its way inside Tony can’t let it go.  So he solves time travel on the fly and sets out to save the world.

Again.

His one stipulation is that he will do anything, everything, he has to in order to keep what he has now.  His wife Pepper and Morgan, his sweet little daughter.

So of course he doesn’t get to do that either.

After all of the blood, sweat, suffering, and mental illnesses, Tony doesn’t get his happy ending.  Not really.

He gets to rest, yes, but he loses out on everything he wanted to do with his kid.  In the process of saving the universe he becomes the one thing he never wanted to be for Morgan, a distant father.

A face on a screen, stories, memories other people have.

No matter how many holograms or inventions or whatever Tony left to Morgan, it’ll never replace him.

Morgan got 5 years with her father.  She’ll spend the rest of her life hearing stories about him, about how much of a hero he was.  And hopefully, with Pepper and all the others behind her, Tony will remain a hero to her and will not, instead, become her version of Captain America.  An untouchable symbol that Morgan will never live up to.

So, in the end, Tony sacrifices once again.

Watches the future he wanted crumble to dust in his fingers, lightning scorching him from the inside out as infinity rips him apart.

And he dies there, surrounded by some of the people who love him best.

His best friend.

His wife.

The son he almost had.

And, despite all of that, it is very very fitting that his death was at his own hands.

Thanos could take out half the universe, he could traverse time and space, he could humble Thor, terrorize the Hulk, rip Steve Roger’s up, survive shield and hammer and so much more, but the one thing he couldn’t do?

He couldn’t kill Tony Stark.

The only thing that could kill Iron Man, could kill Tony Stark, was his own heart.

Tony Stark takes the Infinity Stones in hand knowing how this is going to end, knowing that Stephen Strange set him on this path years ago.

Because didn’t Strange warn him?  Didn’t Strange tell him outright “I’ll let the kid and you both die to protect the Time Stone”?

Tony just never expected it to take a few hours and then 5 more years for Strange’s promise to finally be fulfilled.

So Tony does it knowing that after everything he’s been through, all of the pain and the suffering and the battles, it was only enough to have earned 5 years of happiness, 5 years of his dream.

5 years of being the father he always swore he’d be.

Tony Stark takes the Infinity Stones and dies for the entire universe, for his family, for his daughter.  Dies knowing that he’ll be doing the one thing he didn’t want to do, swore he would never do.

Leaving them behind.

Tony Stark brings us full circle as he stands as both equal and mirror of Thanos once again.

Man to Titan.  Good Father to Bad Father.  Life to Death.

Tony Stark picks up the weight of the universe and then he dies making sure that it has a future free from the same fear that has haunted him for a decade.

A warm light for all mankind, sent to sleep, to rest, knowing that finally everything will be okay.

And all he had to do was die for it.

So, I’ll close this out saying this:

This was written in one solid push after my first viewing and Endgame was dissatisfying for me as you might have guessed.  I am disappointed and angry at so much they chose to do to end out this iconic decade of cinema and to close out these character’s arcs.

There were a lot of points and little details I didn’t get to cover in this and perhaps a lot of points you might not agree with me on.

That’s okay.

Because, no matter what, there is one thing I know for sure.

We, I, will always have Tony Stark and the lessons he taught me.  The pain he endured and shared with all of us.  The bravery and strength he inspired in so many of us as we watched him struggle with physical and mental illnesses on screen.  As we watched him obsess and stress and love and grow.

I have never loved a character more than I love Tony Stark.

I have never been impacted by a character as much as I have been by Tony Stark.

I’m not sure if I ever will again.

So, Tony Stark is Iron Man.

He always will be.

And he saved more than just some fictional universe.

He saved a lot of us along the way too.

And we’ll always love him for that.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, PARKER! You’ve been accepted for the role of LAERTES. Admin Minnie: It’s absolutely not a secret that we’ve been waiting for Lawrence for a long time, and boy did you deliver. Your characterization was distinct, your voice was so clear and your plots — Parker, your plots had me so excited and literally vibrating in my seat to see it all unfold. And trust me, I just came back from a long day of meetings and hours of driving and a flight; it took a lot for me to feel energized this evening. The way you brought Lawrence to life was so vivid and unforgettable in your application, and I have no doubt you’re going to do the same on our dash. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Parker

Age | 19

Preferred Pronouns | He/him

Activity Level | So here’s the tea, right? I’m a college student who never learned how to set up a schedule that doesn’t suck and am highly involved in student government because I am poor and it pays for my housing and meals. So when it comes to the school year, I’m busy. I’m hella busy, so I’ll probably do replies on the weekends and at ungodly hours in the morning for the vast majority of the year. However, this semester is coming to a close and as long as I survive finals, I’ll have five weeks where I can be on every single day!

Timezone | Mountain Standard Time (MST)

How did you find the rp?  | My cousin showed it to me during Thanksgiving, of all the wacky things! She’s big into RP and she knows how much I love Shakespeare, and she thought I’d like this group. I thought I’d try and enter her world and see if I also like RP’ing/actually writing consistently with a set goal in mind.

IN CHARACTER

Character | Laertes - Lawrence Alvise Vernon. I absolutely adore Kendrick Sampson as Lawrence, so no faceclaim changes from me!

What drew you to this character? | So, I have a gut feeling this is going to get pretty long, so please bear with me. I think the first part that attracted me to Lawrence was the character he’s based off of. Hamlet was the first Shakespeare play I read, liked, and understood (though not in that order I don’t think). It was really awesome to see a character from something that had such a huge impact on me and what I want to do with my life still open and available! And Laertes is so important to that original story, even if the tragic Danish boyfriends overshadow him in the general story and in the fandom. The OG story doesn’t function as a tragedy without Laertes and the emotional impact of that last act and a half is only tear-inducing, to me, if Laertes was there. The story just needs him there, you know? One of the reasons I picked him to apply with is because I hoped the same could be said about the story of Diverona and I wanted to play that kind of role in a group filled with characters I think are awesome.

But it isn’t all source material that lead me to pick Lawrence, oh no! Lawrence is, as his bio shows, driven by a near all-consuming need for approval. He’s willing to keep pushing towards and striving for goals that would be completely out of reach if it wasn’t for his absolute, burning need to prove that he is capable of meeting those goals and surpassing them. For Lawrence, he expects that one receives love only if its been earned. He was never told that he was enough on his own merit and so the idea that he, as a person, is worthy has never crossed his mind, which is an absolutely tragedy! However, it’s something I understand and looking at that aspect of his character, I felt I’d be able to do it justice because I deal with a very similar thing far too often for it to be healthy.

However, there was one part of  the bio that convinced be Lawrence was the character I had to try and get into this group with. Lawrence is a genuinely good person that has had to push that goodness aside to become someone his father prefers and someone his father would give the underboss title too. He isn’t, as you stated, cruel, but he has learned that in order to advance, he has to step on people, he must control every little itsy thing, and he must, above all, be perfect. But! Despite all these lessons, he is still a good egg! A good bean! I really appreciated you all making sure that was evident in his bio and it was really the thing that convinced me to apply for him!

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

Plot One - Little Sister, You’re All That I Know: So, we’re starting off with the most important plot of all, said from the perspective of another older brother to a younger sister. From what I can tell, the Vernon siblings are both extraordinarily in love with people, but not because of any other reason than the fact that they’re people. Or, at least, they were, up until Lawrence got so angry at Verona for daring to kill his father that he single-handedly took up the pitchforks and torches to make those responsible for that death pay. In the meantime, he’s managed to completely smother and override his sister’s opinion and free will which is so incredibly not good, even if it is well-intentioned. I want Lawrence to learn to back off, to trust his sister, and to learn that as strong as he is alone, he’s much stronger with his sister at his back. I imagine the jumpstart for this would be Odessa doing something really awesome, maybe even saving Lawrence’s life. By proving in a very direct way that she would be able to look after herself, that would allow Lawrence to begin backing off, to release the reigns of control, and trusting her to take care of herself in a way their father never imagined. Unfortunately, Lawrence is stubborn. He won’t change unless someone else kickstarts that change by being extremely impressive. Which is… Not ideal but it is, however, the only way I see that change happening.

Plot Two - Throw Me in the Delorean and it Never Happened: The thing about anger is that it is all-consuming. The thing about vengeance is that it is blinding. And the thing is: when you’re running on both and only on both, you are going to make a mistake. Lawrence is so desperate to be perfect that realizing he made a mistake would be devastating. So you know what I want? I want him to make an absolutely disastrous mistake and I want him to kill the wrong person that he was convinced was involved in the plot to kill his father. Think of it as his own blind stabbing through a curtain without checking to see who was on the other side. I want it because there is nothing like realizing your oopsie resulted in the loss of someone that should have seen the next sunrise to shake the foundations of your conviction. It would be perfect as it would show Lawrence he isn’t infallible and he isn’t perfect, no matter how hard he tries to be Personally, I’d love if he makes a go at a Montague and is forced to also check is loyalty and conviction to the family he’s worked with since he was a little boy. This could easily evolve from him keeping an eye on someone and completely misinterpreting what they’ve been up to and acting rashly. I feel like his failure of judgement would leave the Montagues shaken and reeling and it would further destabilize the city, which is frankly a big yes please from me. I also want Lawrence to try and cover his failure up and fail miserably. That’s really just because I feel like it would be a very interesting character study to see how Lawrence deals with trying to hide the evidence of his imperfection and doesn’t have a lot to do with Verona as a city, but alas, I am just a humble writer too focused on the golden boy and recognize that aspect of this may not come to play at all.

Plot Three: The Beauty of a Broken Bust: In the biography, you wrote that “he was put on a pedestal so high that a fall might’ve shattered him”. That foundation he’s on isn’t the sturdiest of things at the moment, considering the person that made that base is now dead. So, I want him to shatter and break apart. I want the pieces that had made him up, the pieces that he has forced to make him up to go flying to who knows where, leaving Lawrence with nothing else to do but to rebuild himself entirely without his father’s influence. This would change his perspective on the war as well as his relationships with nearly every character in this RP. It would also force him to confront the actions and choices he made while trying to become someone his father would be proud of. I truly believe this is something he must eventually go through because the person he is trying to be for a dead man isn’t sustainable nor is it healthy! Something has got to change and that something is code for Lawrence. I can see this happening because of the death of his sister, a very personal betrayal from inside the Montague family, or from the plot I mentioned directly above. If Lawrence stays the way he is, however, he’s going to burn himself out before he can give the Vernon name any sort of justice and he has to accept that. The issue with this plot is that he’s so stubborn and this happening would require a push so strong I’m not entirely sure I want to see it. (That’s a lie, I absolutely do want to see it, but my internal dramatics insisted that I state it that way.)

Plot Four - Now Would You Kindly: Now, I know y’all said three plots and I hear you, but I have more ideas and I want to share them! The first of these extra ideas is that it is a truth universally acknowledged by Montagues, Capulets, and Vernons alike that Alvise was not a good man. Lawrence knows this, Roman knows this, the pigeons that litter the city know this. I want evidence of his wrongdoings to come swinging back and to slap Lawrence so hard that he’s forced to question if the footsteps of his father are ones worth following. Maybe it’s in the form of letters of blackmail or an investigation into how many innocent people he helped kill, but I want it to happen and I want the evidence to be so overwhelming it almost drowns Lawrence. He’s spent a very long time pushing down what he wants to be for what his father wants him to be and I want Lawrence to question if it’s really been worth it, if that kind of person has been worth the outrageous effort he’s put in to make it happen. And maybe that person isn’t someone Odessa wants to be related to, which is something I think would absolutely impact Lawrence’s decision. She is his last living blood relative, after all.

Plot Five - I’m the King of the Castle: In Lawrence’s mind, I have no doubt that he believes he should be the Montague underboss now that he is back in town. He has, after all, fought for it, cried for it, and killed for it. However! He is not the underboss and that has no doubt rubbed him the wrong way. So, I want him, in his crusade to avenge his father, to also do his best to prove how perfect he is for the underboss role. I want him to leap into impossible jobs and to push down his morals yet again and brush on a mask of cruelty because he wants it, he deserves it, and it his in his name and therefore his legacy that he has the blasted title of underboss! He needs to fight for it and I want that fight to be obvious and also just flat-out brutal to observe.  I don’t know if I actually want him to get it, if I’m being completely honest. Him having the title also raises some issues about what he did to get there, issues I want to explore, however I feel that such a role would push Lawrence too far in one direction on that vague scale of morality and loyalty he currently exists on and I kinda want him to keep waffling on it for as long as possible. This could change however! Especially with plotting. And I recognize that, so I will say that the core of this plot is his fight for the role of underboss and less about what would happen if he got it.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yeah, I’m ok with that! It would really suck, especially given how the Vernon family has been absolutely just. Destroyed. Uprooted. Left unmoored and drifting in the wind like last week’s laundry. But that same instinct that tells me that killing Lawrence would a) sprinkle in some awesomeness that is the original source material in a very satisfying way and b) would upend Verona even more than its already been, giving and taking motivations from people and maybe driving the rest of the Montague family just absolutely over the deep-end, which I would pay actual, real-life money to see. The slow destruction of the Vernon family is the slow destruction of Verona herself which means there is some drama to be had in Lawrence’s death! And I do love drama.

IN DEPTH

In-Character Interview (I only did two, please let me know if you want more!):

“What has been your biggest mistake thus far?”

Lawrence swallowed, face kept carefully still to give nothing away. Answers sprung to the tip of his tongue, eager to leap forward like hounds released from their kennel, but opening that door would destroy a lot more than just Lawrence’s reputation. Indeed, the perfect tool should not have so many answers to that question, but perhaps, Lawrence mused, his time away had done something to his obedience.

He stalled for time by taking a sip of the drink he had been neglecting in the warm Italian air. It was now unpleasantly lukewarm as the golden heat of the day made its way into the glass but it was better than nothing. It was only as he took a small sip that an answer sprung to mind, one that was both truthful and good for the image he was attempting to maintain.

“I have to say it was leaving the city,” he commented, returning the glass to the table. “I… left for reasons I am proud of, especially because there’s nothing wrong with being educated in this world. But if I had stayed, I could have done something!” Lawrence’s fist hit the table, making the glass and girl across from him jump. The sudden burst of temper was gone as quickly as it had arrived as his hand opened and his shoulders relaxed. “If I had stayed, this all wouldn’t have happened and a great man would still be with us. But I didn’t and now my father is dead.” He shrugged, meeting the girl’s eyes and hoping she wouldn’t see the emotion carried in them. “If I had come back earlier, Verona would be a very different place.”

“What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?”

His jaw clenched so tightly, a particularly attentive listener could hear his teeth protest the treatment. Lawrence’s hand held the chair like it was the only thing keeping him from leaping across the room to punch the smugly smirking man in the nose. “Just because I’ve only recently returned,” he gritted out, “does not mean I have gone turncoat. There is nothing,” he spat out, “nothing in this city more justified or honorable.”

His body eased the tension that it had so rapidly adopted as he noticed the nervous twitches and aborted movements to concealed weapons that had begun filling the room. As he eased, the rest of the room did too. “But you’re wrong,” Lawrence continued quietly, though there was no mistaking the vehmance leaking from his mouth like poison. “This isn’t a war. This is justice long overdue and more than earned. To call it a war is to imply the Montagues are not fully in the right.”

Lawrence took a deep breath, exhaling some of the passion he had been speaking with not long before. “I wish it wasn’t the loss of my fath–” His voice cracked and Lawrence swallowed, once, before continuing. “Alvise that had caused it, but it is only makes this city all that more dangerous for the Capulets. Because now I am back in Verona and I am coming for every single one with Vernon blood on their hands.” Perhaps it was dramatic, but the ice-cold certainty that hung in Lawrence’s voice stole any humor from the proclamation.

In-Character Para Sample:

He was eight years old, holding a pistol in shaking hands barely large enough to operate the thing. A slowly expanding puddle of red licked at his new shoes, staining them from cream to what would, by tomorrow, be an ugly brown. The shoes were what Lawrence focused on, the shoes and their new color. Because if he didn’t, if he looked up, he’d see the man slumped against the wall like a marionette without strings. If he looked up, he’d see the evidence of his actions.

Larger hands took the gun from Lawrence, trying and failing to be gentle. He wasn’t large enough to stop Alvise, though he wouldn’t even if he could. If his father took the gun, he could also take the body and the unbearable weight of its existence. Lawrence knew his father could fix anything, make any problem go away, and so he let the gun go. Maybe his father would fix this too. The two said nothing to each other as large men quietly entered the room, cleaning it, restoring it under the watchful eye of a king of Verona. Lawrence kept his eyes on his shoes.

Before long, Lawrence had been bundled into a car. The gun and body were gone as were his shoes. The next morning, there would be a new pair of shoes, cream and pristine, sitting at the foot of his bed. They stayed there, untouched, until Lawrence outgrew them.

He was thirteen at a new school, all restless energy that danced under his skin because, for the first time in his life, he was allowed to play a sport. He chose football, of course, but the black and white ball came with strings he never anticipated. Fitness was never the problem, it was balancing practice with everything else. Which bruise came from cleats and which came from fists during sparring was never an easy distinction, but as he got better at the sport, he began to look more and more like a poster child for the American Child Services.

It was a lack of sleep that ultimately did him in, made him sloppy. Alvise pulled him aside one Sunday morning before the sun graced the tops of Verona’s rooftops and told him to choose, choose between the sport and his last name. It was presented as a choice freely given, but the look in Alvise’s eyes made it clear it was anything but.

Lawrence quit the football team the next day, despite thinking that if he just kept with it, he could have made the national team. Somewhere, in a shoebox in the back of a closet, are a barely-used pair of cleats.

He was sixteen, armored inside a jacket of patches and studs, the handmade messages stitched to the outside screaming his fury at the world. There was a funeral scheduled that afternoon and Lawrence wasn’t going to be able to make it. The jacket weighed heavy on his back as he cursed Verona and the Montague name for letting his friend, the only one not tied to his father’s world, die because of it anyway.

But Lawrence was needed elsewhere that afternoon, Alvise’s steady gaze still hanging heavy across his back though the man had left some time ago. That coffin was going to go into the ground and with it, the boy affectionately nicknamed “Ray” by the body in that coffin was going to be buried too. The patches that the two had spent so long on, the quiet acts of teenage rebellion and freedom would join the nickname, and Lawrence would once again become the son of Alvise.

No one among the Montague family was going to mourn the dead civilian from two weeks before. No one but Lawrence, and he screamed it from the rooftop. It was only when his throat ached and the fire inside him was less of an inferno that he left the roof and changed into a suit. Alvise needed him elsewhere, and he was never one to disappoint. Lawrence pretends he lost the jacket, even though he knows exactly which trunk it’s collecting dust in.

He was twenty-two when he took the role of captain, the final stepping stone before Alvise’s throne, it seemed. It struck him like a plank of wood across the face when he realized being a Vernon wasn’t enough. His soldiers would listen, and yes, they’d do what he’d ask, but they lacked the respect they gave his father. For the first time, he needed to be more than a Vernon and he rose to the challenge with relish.

He never learned to address them like his father, a man who had perfected the harsh bark that made every muscle in a body snap to immediate attention. That seemed to be a skill reserved exclusively for the man Lawrence knew he needed to become. He never perfected it, but he did learn how to get close enough to command respect and the focus of a room. Then the Vernon name dripped from those around him, praising him for how like his father he was. But that wasn’t enough anymore.

He was twenty-four when he left Verona, determined to outshine his father. It wasn’t enough to just be a Vernon, he had to be better than that. He doesn’t talk about that time with Veronans, the free laughter and the hours spent in a library, writing essays on things he only cared about because they were things to outdo his father. But even as Alvise hung like a ghost over his shoulder, he was still thousands of miles away. His weight that had hung over Lawrence was lifted, and it was only when it was gone he realized it had been there at all.

He would never say it, but his time out of Verona was possibly the happiest times he’d ever had.

He was twenty-eight when Lawrence got the phone call that his father was dead. He is twenty-eight still, but his hands still shake when he fires a gun. He is twenty-eight, and he sneers when someone on the national team fails to score a goal. He is twenty-eight, but anger towards the Montague family still overtakes him at times, clawing at his throat and heart, begging to be released. He is twenty-eight and he has still not learned how to deliver orders like Alvise. He is twenty-eight and despite it all, Lawrence Vernon is his father’s son. He carries a torch alongside his father’s name and even though he is not Alvise, he has never let him down and he has returned to Verona with a bag of clothes and the Vernon name. Wars have been fought with far less and Lawrence has been fighting every day of his life for his father.  He just never thought he’d have to fight Verona.There was a time for goodness, but now is the time for success.

Extras:

This app was submitted through Lawrence’s mock blog, so feel free to peruse it!

[vfdbaudelairefile13]

                                              Chapter Thirty-Six:

                      The One Where 'Count Olaf' Has Been Murdered

Jacques Snicket smiled to himself as the two older orphans smiled at him.

“You’re...Violet’s uncle?” Isadora asked skeptically.

Jacques merely nodded. “Yes, my younger brother is her father.”

“Where are they?” Duncan asked gazing around frantically. Sunny, too, looked around for Violet and Klaus hoping to see her siblings. She looked to Jacques frowning when she realized they weren’t with him. She sighed.

“...I’m not sure,” Jacques admitted. “I saw them in town earlier but was unable to ask her where they were staying,”

“No leave them,” Sunny commented. Shaking her head fiercely.

Jacques glanced down at the young toddler in his arms. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving your brother and sister behind,” he told her. He glanced at the two Quagmire triplets and frowned. “Quagmires ...there's something I need to tell you…” he begins before pausing as he hears something in the distance. He looks up, looking around.

“What?” Duncan asks.

“Shhh,” Jacques replied urgently. He kneels to be eye-level with the two older orphans. “Violet and Klaus were going to break me out of jail. Meaning...they’ll come to us. We just need to hide for the time being.” he whispered.

“Okay,” Isadora replied. “But what was it you were going to tell us?”

He glanced between the two triplets, opens his mouth prepared to tell them the truth about the Quagmire fire but stops himself when he hears a familiar voice getting closer. “I will tell you later,” he reiterated. “Right now, we have to move.” he gestured for the Quagmires to follow him as he ran up to a wall to hide behind.

“Why can’t you tell us now...as we try to hide from Olaf?” Duncan asked.

“I can’t risk him hearing it,”

“What’s it about?” Isadora asked.

He sighed. “It’s about the fire that killed your parents, ” he whispered hoping they got the clue in his words. Neither triplet reacted the way he wanted but as he continued to hear Olaf’s shouts in the distance he couldn’t risk straight up telling them. That would compromise his apprentice. Jacques knew that Duncan and Isadora deserved to know the truth about the fire that destroyed their home and murdered their parents. But he hoped to keep his apprentice a secret from the ghastly villain who had kidnapped the two Quagmires. He thought quickly of ways to communicate to them the secret without having to say it aloud.

“What about the wretched fire?” Duncan asked.

Jacques sighed. “I can’t specifically say..." he paused to think of what to say next. "but three Q’s remain,” he replied cryptically.

“What?” Isadora asked.

“The who, the what, and the where.” He replied cryptically.

Both Quagmires stared at the man confused. They had absolutely no idea what he was trying to hint at. He sighed.

“I will elaborate further when the three of you are safe,” He explains. Before either triplet could reply, Jacques grabbed their arms, gently pulling them behind him as he peeked around the corner to see a disguised Olaf reach the fountain alongside a disguised Esme.

Olaf looked ready to fall to his knees. He turned to her. “ What have you done?” He hissed as he stared into the open fountain. He glanced at the ground and picked up Sunny’s muzzle. “You let my fortune and sapphires go for a piece of porcelain?!”

“Not just any piece of porcelain,” Esme pointed out. “The sugar bowl.”

He glared daggers at her. “We need to find those orphans...and Snicket,”

“We don’t know if he’s long gone by now,”

“He wouldn’t leave without that precious niece of his,” Olaf countered. “We’ll find him,”

Olaf and Esme walked off in separate directions. One frantically looking for the orphans and their rescuer while the other only seemed to partially try to look.  Jacques waited a few seconds before gesturing for the children to follow him as he stealthily carried Sunny.

“What’s going to happen now?” Isadora asked.

“I’m not sure,” Jacques admitted. “I know what I want to happen, though. I am going to take the five of you children to Lousy Lane…” he begins.

“Monty?” Sunny asked confused as to why Jacques would take them back there.

“Yes, we will be going to the house of a fellow associate of mine,” Jacques explained. "Unfortunately, this associate tragically died a while back but his house serves as a safehouse."

“Why would we go there, though? If this associate is dead they couldnt be of any help to us?” Duncan asked.

“I have my apprentice there,” Jacques explained. “We’re going to pick him up,”

“Why didn’t you bring him along?” Isadora asked.

“Because it is quite too dangerous,” Jacques explained. “Trust me it will all make sense soon.”

“What will?”

“The fires. The misfortune. The mysteries that surround all of you children,” Jacques explained. “I work for an organization…”

“VFD?” Duncan asked.

“Yes,”

“You’re VFD?”  Isadora asked.

“Yes. Once we meet up with Sunny’s siblings. We are going to steal this village’s firetruck and head to headquarters after we take a detour to pick up my apprentice,” he explained. “And then all of you will have all of your questions answered,”

They finally reached the saloon. He glanced around. He couldn’t see Esme or Olaf anywhere. He finally got a good look at the two Quagmires. They’re hair slightly matted, their arms and faces bruised. Their faces showing a loss of happiness in their eyes. He glanced at the toddler in his arms, who looked the same as the Quagmires but she had a large red bruise on her face from where Olaf had slapped her. His heart hurt for these kids. It surely looked as though the three have been through the wringer. “Okay, you three are going to go to the second floor of this saloon and hide,” Jacques explained in a hushed whisper. “I’m going to…”

“Die?” A voice from behind him finished for him.  He sighed and turned to face Count Olaf, who was glaring at the children and Jacques. Sunny held on tighter to Jacques as Olaf shook his head slowly. “Did you really think you were going to get away?” he asked Jacques. He looked to the kids, giving each of them a wicked smile. Duncan stood in front of Isadora. “You three children should have known better,” he hissed. “But alas, I have my ways of making you three complacent,”

“You will not touch these children!” Jacques yelled angrily.

“Oh, Jacques, I’ll touch whatever I want,” Olaf replied staring sickeningly at Isadora. He glanced up at Jacques, a twisted smile on his face, “That includes your niece,”

“Enough is enough, Olaf. This story ends tonight!”

“Right you are, Snicket,” he hissed. “Your story at least,”

“We’ll see about that,” Jacques replied handing Sunny to Duncan.

Olaf smirked and looked as though he was ready to fight Jacques, but strangely enough, Olaf didn’t attack Jacques. He ran. He ran away from Jacques andthe kids, headed towards the fountain. Jacques looked at him confused for a second before chasing after him. The kids looked to Jacques. “Get to the second floor and hide. I’ll come for you after I take care of Olaf,” he told them as he ran. Duncan shifted Sunny in his arms and took Isadora’s hand with his free one. The three children ran quickly into the saloon to hide from their kidnappers.

Jacques chased Olaf around the fountain. “Are we really doing this?” Jacques called out. The streets of VFD were dark and desolate. Olaf didn’t reply, he continued to run  around the fountain and headed back towards the saloon. Jacques noticed quickly what Olaf was doing. He was going after the kids.

Jacques followed the man into the saloon, but when he walked in it seemed quiet and empty. He hoped the kids were on the second-floor hiding. “Haven’t we done this too many times?” Jacques asked, sighing. “A hero, a villain, a dusty saloon…”

Olaf jumped up from behind the bar throwing several bottles Jacques’ way. Jacques luckily dodged them all. “There’s always a few new twists!” Olaf growled in response. The bottles he threw hit the wall behind Jacques, shattering into pieces creating the only noise for miles.

Jacques sighed. “Aren’t you tired of the schemes? The disguises? The same routine again and again? It could end tonight...if you come with me quietly.” He slowly walked through the empty, dark, dusty saloon toward the bar. He glanced up towards the second-floor hearing footsteps. He hoped Olaf didn’t hear the same footsteps. He reached the bar and looked behind it to find no one around.

Olaf appeared from where the old piano sat. He pressed his dirty, grimy hands down on a few keys to catch Jacques’ attention. “But it’s more fun to be loud,” he replied throwing a knife towards Jacques’ head.

Jacques ducked and listened as the knife made harsh contact with the dartboard that hung on the wall directly behind him. He glanced up nervously at the knife. “Bull’s eye,” he noted impressed.

Olaf growled again. “Don’t try to flatter me, Snicket. I’ve had it with you and your stupid fucking organization!” he shouted folding his arms across his chest.

“You didn’t always feel that way,” Jacques noted, glancing towards Olaf, who seemed to be calming down. Olaf turned to face away from Jacques. To hide his expression.  “You didn’t always feel that way. You were one of us.” he reiterated. He cautiously took a step closer to Olaf. Olaf didn’t retreat or even really respond. Jacques watched the man’s shoulders slump. He put a hand on Olaf’s shoulder. “You could be again.”

Olaf didn’t respond. He continued to frown, hiding his expression from Jacques. Jacques gave a small smile believing that he was getting through to Olaf finally. “Remember the old days?” Jacques asked softly.

Olaf simply nodded. No words left his mouth. His breathing hollowed.

“You and I...we were best friends. Lemony, too.” Jacques reminded Olaf. “You, Lemony, and I spent time in this very saloon. Putting out fires.”

“...I remember…” Olaf said. His tone wasn’t one that Jacques was able to read. Jacques assumed it was sad and that Olaf was doing his best to act as though he wasn’t.

“Remember when you were better than all this? The fires. The murders. The kidnappings. The disguises. Living on the run from the law?” Jacques pleaded. “I believe you still are better than this, Olaf.”

“You really think that?” the man asked meekly, still not turning to look at Jacques. He simply glanced down at the object in his blazer's pocket

“...I do,” Jacques replied hesitantly. “You are better than this. I know what happened that night at the opera, and I’m sorry.”

Olaf’s face flushed of color at the mere mention of that night that effectively ruined his entire life. His frown extending and his eyes became a scary mixture of shiny but cold. It was as though any ounce of humanity he may have possessed was stripped from him the second Jacques reminded him of the worst night of his life. His face red with anger, he still refused to look at his old friend in the eyes. Jacques could see Olaf’s torso wave as he took a deep breath. “Are you now?” he hissed.

“I am now,” Jacques replied. The man held out his hand. Olaf turned around, glanced at him. “You were going to be my brother-in-law. Kit was going to marry you,”

Olaf’s face weakened further but this time Jacques got to see his expression shift. “And Lemony was going to marry Beatrice,” he responded. “But look what a stolen piece of porcelain and two poison darts can do to a person.”

Jacques frowned. “If you turn yourself in. I promise we won’t throw the book at you, old friend.” Olaf turned away from Jacques as if he were contemplating what Jacques was saying. Jacques waited for a second, still keeping his hand extended. “Just turn yourself in, Olaf.” he practically pleaded.

Olaf reached into his pocket. Carefully timing himself. His frown slowly turned into a grin. “I can’t promise the same,” he muttered happily.

“Meaning?” Jacques replied confused.

Olaf rolled his eyes. “I said, I can’t promise the same,” he said louder this time glancing up from where he stood. Jacques followed Olaf’s gaze as he realized now that he was standing next to the fire pole. When he glanced up, he could see Esme holding a large book.

“Oh, that’s my cue!” Jacques could hear her say as she dropped the book on his head. The force of the impact made him fall to his knees. He grunted when his knees hit the ground. He put both his hands on his head wincing in pain.

“Did you find the brats?” Olaf called up to Esme.

“Yes, darling,” Esme replied looking crossly to Isadora. “Get down there,” she pointed to the fire pole pushing Isadora towards it. Isadora looked at Duncan and Sunny, tears in her eyes as she followed Esme’s instructions. Esme pushed Duncan, who now carried Sunny, towards the pole. The moment Isadora slid down, Olaf grabbed her by the hair. She shrieked in pain.

Olaf pulled her close to his face, so she can see the fire that shined in his evil eyes. “You three are becoming very troublesome,” Olaf hissed at her. “If I were you, I’d learn to behave…”

Jacques still holding his head tried to stand up. Olaf noticed this and kicked him as hard as he could in the face causing the man to smack his head into the wooden ground of the saloon. “I'll be right with you, Snicket.”

“Leave them alone,” Jacques barked clutching his face. His mouth was bleeding. Olaf held a tight grip onto Isadora’s hair as Duncan slid down the fire pole reluctantly clutching Sunny. Olaf used his free hand to grab Duncan by the front of his hair.

Esme slid down the fire pole finally joining the others. Olaf pushed the children into her arms. He walked menacingly over to Jacques. Glaring at him with the coldest expression on his face.

“Did you really think that bullshit about the past would work?” Olaf asked as he stood over Jacques.

“The past wasn’t bullshit. This is.” Jacques reasoned. “What would Kit think?”

Olaf shook with anger as he kicked Jacques again. “I don’t give a fuck! What did she think about that night at the opera? What did any of them think? Hmmm?” He knelt down grabbing Jacques by the collar of his shirt, pulling the man back up to his feet. Jacques looked drearily at Olaf. “How about what you thought when you picked Lemony up in your fucking taxi and helped him evade the authorities? Were you sorry then?” he hissed.

Jacques opened his mouth to reply but before he could, Olaf swiftly reached into his blazer pocket finally deciding the moment was right. Within seconds Jacques heaved over and groaned. Olaf slowly pulled his now bloody dagger out of Jacques’ chest. Jacques gasped for air as he clutched his now bleeding wound. The children in Esme's grasp was holding screamed.

“No!” Sunny screamed.

“Leave him alone!” Duncan yelled.

“You piece of fucking shit!” Isadora cried.

Olaf merely laughed as he stared at the bloody dagger. He looked down at Jacques, who glared up at him. “You bastard,” he hissed still gasping for air.

Olaf smirked. “You should’ve learned from your brother’s mistakes,” he explained. “Oh, and speaking of Lemony,” Olaf grabbed Jacques, forcing the wounded man to stand up. The two were now eye to eye. Jacques couldnt recognize the man who stood before him.

“‘What about him?” Jacques asked weakly.

“Poor, poor Lemony,” Olaf mused laughing as Esme smirked. “That sap just had to come out of hiding to protect Beatrice’s little brats...but look,” He roughly grabbed Jacques’ face to make him look towards Esme who held the Quagmires by the back of their shirts. Sunny looked mournfully at Jacques’ bleeding wound. “I already have one of her brats and two extras. And once you’re out of the picture. I am going to get Lemony’s precious daughter and that sniveling bookworm and...well you’ve already heard the rest. Yours and your brother’s efforts are fruitless,”

“Sorry,” Sunny whimpered. She wasn’t speaking only for Jacques but for Lemony when she said it. she realized now that her sister's father gave his life for her and her brother.

“Sunny...don’t blame yourself,” Jacques wheezed in response.

“Honestly, he’s right, babylaire,” Olaf explained viciously.  “Lemony got what he deserved,”

Jacques glared at Olaf. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

Olaf rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked as he pulled Jacques closer to him. “Want to hear a secret?” he asked the oldest Snicket sibling. As he plunged his dagger into Jacques' chest again. Jacques grunted, heaving over onto Olaf for support. As Olaf retracted his dagger from Jacques’ chest. He hissed into Jacques’ ear, a cold, cruel secret in the form of a whisper that sent chills down the volunteer’s back. “ ...I killed Lemony… ” he hissed.

Jacques' face turned dark as Olaf’s words rang in his ear. “...you…” he gasped as Olaf released him causing him to fall onto his back on the ground. He looked up at Olaf, who began laughing. “You...bastard…”

The Quagmires and Sunny tried to turn their heads from the scene that played out in front of them but Esme wouldn’t allow it. Every time they would turn their heads or close their eyes, she’d hit them. The children were shaking with fear and crying. Pleading with Olaf and Esme to leave Jacques alone. To leave them alone.

Olaf glanced around the saloon. For his plan to work, he needed a second weapon. He placed his dagger down on the bar’s counter. Jacques laid there on the ground, his breathing slowing. He was in so much pain. He glared at Esme. “All this for a fucking sugar bowl?”

“All this and more,” Esme replied bitterly.

“Oh, lookee here!” Olaf chimed in happily as he grabbed a crowbar. He hit it in his hand a few times as he circled Jacques. “A crowbar in a crow bar,” he joked to Esme, who laughed. He turned back to Jacques “My only regret...was not being able to see his face when he died. To watch him burn." Olaf hissed as he looked down at Jacques.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jacques pleaded, keeping his glare focused on Olaf. But everyone in the room could see passed his glare. They could see the fear that was in his eyes. The betrayal that was showing on his face. Not only had his old friend murdered his brother but Jacques knew what Olaf planned to do next. He glanced at the Quagmires and Sunny. “Tell Violet I’m sorry,” he begged.

“No…” Sunny cried. She looked to Olaf. “Please...stop!”

Duncan held her tighter as she tried to turn away. Esme briefly let go of Duncan to grip Sunny’s face. “Keep watching, brat,” the villainous woman hissed. "It's yours and the bookworm's fault that any of the blasted Snickets got involved."

“Leave her alone, you bitch!” Isadora hissed to Esme.

“I wouldn’t try to be so tough,” Esme hissed in Isadora’s ear. “If he does keep the Snicket bitch...before long...this will happen to you, ”

Isadora whimpered in response as Olaf looked down at Jacques with a face that was full of rage and absence of remorse or humanity. Olaf possessed the cold, shiny eyes of an insane person. “ It was me or you…old friend,” he hissed as he raised the crowbar above his head. “ It was me or you…” Olaf swung the crowbar swiftly as it traveled through the air before making contact at Jacques. Olaf hissed one final sentence to his old friend. “ Say hello to your brother for me.”

And with that Olaf swung the crowbar a few more times until he was sure that Jacques Snicket was no longer breathing. He threw the crowbar to the ground. He turned to the children, who were screaming, crying, and shaking.

“You...monster,” Isadora cried.

“Oh, if you think that was bad. I have much, much worse planned for you fucking orphans,” Olaf hissed angrily. He looked up to Esme. “Get the henchpeople to drag his body and the weapons to the uptown jail. And don’t fuck up my plans any further.”

He walked over to the door of the saloon, glancing around making sure no one from the village was awake just yet.

“You won’t get away with this,” Duncan cried meekly glancing at Jacques’ body.

“On the contrary,” Olaf argued smirking. “I already have,”

He walked over to where the children and Esme stood. Grabbing the children from the woman’s grasp. He began to push the children back towards the fountain. He pushed the two older orphans into the fountain first. To Sunny’s horror, he pulled out the muzzle and placed it back around her toddler-sized mouth. She struggled and whined but it was pointless. She and the Quagmires were too weak to fight back at this point. “I hope you three enjoy the show,” he commented as he pushed Sunny into the fountain, closing it up.

“Wait...what show?” Duncan asked nervously.

But Olaf didn’t answer. He waited until he was absolutely sure the fountain was closed and the orphans were sealed back inside. He grumbled about the whole ordeal as he walked away. Sunny and Duncan began to cry.  

“We were so close,” Duncan whined. “We were free,”

Isadora didn’t respond. She pulled out her commonplace notebook and ripped out the remaining poem. “What are you doing?” Duncan asked wiping his tears.

“We need to send this out... now… ” Isadora explained.

“Isa...he could be still outside,” Duncan whispered. Sunny nodded her head in agreement.

“I don’t care. We have to get our message to Violet and Klaus. We can’t wait any longer,”

“But what if…”

“ He’s going to kill one of us either way! So why does it matter if we get caught or not!?” Isadora shrieked. Her voice weak with fear. She began to tremble. “You saw...what he did to Jacques Snicket…”

Duncan shuddered. “Don’t remind me,”

Isadora shook her head as she finished going over the last poem. She growled realizing that there were no crows that were on the fountain. She stomped her feet as best as she could. She felt defeated.

“Isa…”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think Jacques wanted to tell us?”

“There’s no way to know.”

“Do you think we’ll ever figure it out?”

“Hopefully,” she replied sadly. “Right now, we need to focus on getting out of here for good.”

“What do you think he has planned for Violet and Klaus?”

“I don’t know...but it’s nothing good,”

The Quagmires both glanced down to realize that Sunny was now crying harder at the mention of her siblings being in danger. They both frowned unsure of what to do or what to say. They knew lying to her and giving her false hope wouldn’t do anything. Duncan and Isadora both placed a hand on Sunny’s head trying their best to comfort the toddler even though, at this point, in their story they were doing their best to comfort themselves as well because they could not see a bright side or a happy ending to their tragic tale.

____________________________________________________

The next morning began with a colorful and lengthy sunrise, which Violet Snicket and Klaus Baudelaire were able to witness as they exited Hector’s barn. It continued with the sounds of awakening crows, as they began their morning migration to town. The children watched once more as the crows circled the sky and led the way towards town. Both half-siblings looked at one another and smiled as they carried the blueprints and pushed Violet’s invention into town. Even though they were both up pretty early, Klaus glanced around as they walked into town to make sure no one caught them trying to break Jacques out of jail.

As I am sure you know, there is a word to describe a large number of crows. It is not a pleasant word. It is full of sorrow and sadness. A large number of crows is called a murder. It is a word that will forever make me think of that morning in the Village of Fowl Devotees and countless other mornings. No matter how pretty and peaceful I describe that particular morning, I can almost forget that it was a very, very sad morning for Violet Snicket and Klaus Baudelaire. It’s a morning so sad, I wish I could strike it from the Snicket calendar forever. But...I can’t erase that day, any more than I can write a happy ending to this chapter in the story, for the simple reason that the story does not go that way. No matter how lovely the morning was, or how confident Violet and Klaus felt about what they had planned, there wasn’t a happy ending on the horizon for these children, any more than Jacques Snicket was coming back to life.

As the children walked into town, they rounded the corner where they could see Fowl Fountain, or at least what was left of the fountain with the number of crows that roosted on it. The fountain was swarming with crows who were fluttering their wings either in the water or on top of the metal. The children couldn’t see a single metal feather of the hideous landmark as they crossed the courtyard quickly towards a building with bars on the windows and crows on the bars.  

Violet quickly pushed her invention to the back of the jailhouse. Klaus still looking every which way to make sure no one was watching them, especially Olaf. He unraveled the blueprints once they reached the back wall. “According to the blueprints, the weakest spot of the wall should be here, ” Klaus indicated to his older sister. He folded the blueprints into his inner jacket pocket as Violet smiled. “Good luck,” he said to her as he moved out of the way.

“I don’t need luck,” Violet muttered as she activated her invention which sent a large pickaxe towards the wall of the uptown jail. Klaus flinched at the sound of the pickaxe colliding with the brick wall. Violet hurriedly reeled in her invention as quickly as she could. A look of pure desperation was plastered on her face. She continued this process at least five times, each time making a bit more damage to the exterior of the wall. Klaus looked around with every sound it made, worried that her invention was going to attract Olaf’s attention.

Before Violet could use her invention a sixth time though, Mr. Lesko ran passed the children frantically. “Count Olaf has been murdered!” he yelled.

Violet’s heart sank in her chest as she glanced over at Klaus, who was walking towards his sister in disbelief. “What did you say?” Violet called out shocked.

Mrs. Morrow rushed passed the children behind Mr. Lesko. “He said, ‘Count Olaf’s been murdered’,” she reiterated.

Klaus and Violet looked at one another desperately. Both looking about ready to cry. Their backs turned from the jailhouse wall, so they were watching as the two townspeople ran towards the Fowl Fountain. “What did they say?” the two siblings asked each other in disbelief.

“They said,” a sinister voice from behind them snarled. Startling both children. Violet’s eyes widened as Klaus began to shake.

“No,” they both whimpered as they both slowly turned around to face Detective Dupin, who slowly took off his sunglasses and smiled down at the two children.

“ Count Olaf has been murdered,” he hissed as he placed a hand on each of their shoulders. He first looked at Violet, whose face was torn between unbridled hatred and sadness and then to Klaus’ which was engulfed in fear. His smile slowly turned into a grin as he gripped their shoulders harshly. He began to snicker as he glanced from each child’s face.

[nova-friends]

Hello, Mr. E and fans. This letter will he a bit harsh, but I only speak the truth. I’ve been a big fan of the NVTFOA franchise for awhile, but the spark is dying down. Hell, we’ve been waiting for E to write a “new chapter” for more than a YEAR. Whenever he’s asked about it, he always says it’s coming soon. I was happy with the NVTFOA Tumblr because at least he’s keeping fans satisfied, but now he’s not doing THAT. It’s been months and he hasn’t answered anything. I’m angry with Mr. E right now

E: I am going to preface this entire thing with this: You are allowed to feel angry. You are allowed to feel that negative emotion because it is a healthy response. We as humans have those emotion to help us express what we are feeling and helps us get over our issues. What you should never do is act on that negative emotion because then you do something like this and I am forced to respond in kind. Don’t worry I am simply sharing insight with you. 

I don’t want anyone to respond omg this anon is a jerk and such a blah blah because based on the way this is written they were trying to be polite but firm which is a nice change of pace from the occasional asshat that leaves stuff in my inbox that I just delete because they’re just being an ass. It is well meaning ask but a little misguided. 

I am a person. I am not a machine that just cranks out stories because that is what I am forced to do. I have a life. I have responsibilities to people who depend on me and you are not entitled to anything. Do not get me wrong I greatly appreciate all the love and support I get so much that mere words can never properly express it but I do this for fun. I do this because I find enjoyment in it and I really wish I could get paid for this. I really wish I could sit back and write for the rest of my life with that being my job. You have no idea how much I wish I could make living off just doing something I love. Alas right now that’s not how it works. You say you speak truth but you don’t. You speak from the view of a reader whose favorite content who hasn’t been updated in 2 years which makes me honored you think highly of my work that it’s mere absence angers you. It’s kinda flattering. and I know you wrote this to express your frustration which as I have previously said is allowed. You were kind enough not to call me horrible words or demanding I write a chapter right now or you hate me. You express anger which I suspect might actually be more disappointment.  

I am human. I am one person and run this tumblr by myself. Deth does not run this and there’s no one helping me answering any of these questions. Deth has her own life and she can do whatever she wants because she is her own person. She is the official Nova artist because she’s a fan and I always so grateful for her work because she could give you things I never could as a writer. Many are not that lucky. 

Now let me enlighten you to the daily life of an E.

For 2 weeks every month I am the caretaker of my grandma whom I am lucky to have. She is 99 years old as of last week. She has a broken leg but she can walk because of a metal plate in her leg and a walker. She is very sharp and smart but she’s not there anymore. She suffers heavy from memory loss and pride. She doesn’t understand her leg is broken unless you remind her. She doesn’t understand she can’t help anymore or that she has asked me have I eaten breakfast for the 5th time in an hour. She loves me which is a testament to the work I do. When she is here I don’t sleep. From midnight to 6 am I watch her. I sleep with my door open. I listen for her in case she has nightmares (Rare but they happen) and I have to help her to restroom and then tuck her back into bed then maybe sleep for 20 30 minutes. an hour or 2 if I’m lucky until it is 6 am or she gets up again. I am getting older. I’ve finally shoved my pride and bought a baby monitor to ensure I don’t lose my mind. My grandma is getting older too and she’s getting more and more problems that are not easy to deal with. I’ve been watching her for 6 years but I have been taking care of her for the last 14.

Did you know that post I made a month ago was literally the first time I’ve been on vacation in 2 years? The first time in 2 years that I didn’t have to worry about anything aside my fear of heights which luckily I was able to control on my flight.

Then recently this last week we decided to change the flooring in our rooms. I had to physically move every single piece of thing I owned out of a tiny doorframe and find space for it along with my grandma’s stuff while my grandma was here and let me tell all that stuff in the living room really threw her off. 

Today was literally the first time in a month that I could actually hop on a computer to answer asks (Excellent timing btw). And honestly some days I look at that 141 asks inbox of nova (and the 22 stories prompts I haven’t written in my writing blog) And go “I don’t know if I am up for it today.” And I legit feel bad. I feel I should answer this consistently but last year really fucked with me to be honest.

Last year I lost my favorite uncle. I didn’t want to mention it because I didn’t want to hear I’m sorry or my condolences for your loss. I was angry because for the first time in my entire life, the first time ever I felt cheated. I felt robbed. It was a whole background of problems but long story short is that I didn’t really get to see him often and his death felt like a sucker punch. I...yeah. 

And that messed with my writing schedule and I am the type of person that once that is gone, it is so hard to get back in the groove of things. It is a very unfortunate flaw I have and I have been trying to get back into it but it’s hard.

I have been writing for 16 years of my life. I can write 1,335 words an hour if I’m focusing. it still takes 2 to 5 hours for me to write an average story of mine because boy am I wordy and that’s just my style plus an 30 minutes to proofread (which I still make mistakes) and another 30 to answer reviews. Then the last two season for star vs I personally don’t think they were good and that really hurts my motivation. and sometimes I want to write other stuff. Other stories or ideas, original and other series because damn do I have too many ideas. 

and of course I have to decide what to do with Nova. I love this series because this was the first time I felt like I could be a real writer. To create original ideas and series and have people love them. Like them. Invest in them. Like a real author. I’ve been writing since a time fanfiction was considered lesser. You weren’t a writer if you wrote fanfiction or aus or put ocs in a series and it took me a long time to get over that finally show Nova to the word. and my own original stuff. And of course the show threw so many curve balls at me and went in such wildly crazy directions that it directly affects nova since nova takes place 20 years in the future and I had to decide, on my own because Deth is a reader too and doesn’t want spoilers, what to do. Do i change the story I had plan, do i find ways to fill in the holes accidentally created for me? do I keep on going and just call it a future au where different choices and events just happened (Which i decided yes). I decided to keep the original plan. The plan I created when I first started this. and of course I left the cliff hanger on a fight scene. Fight scenes are very hard to keep engaging and epic yet clear and I haven’t properly written an like a year and I have to come back to a freaking fight scene. 

Literally the next chapter of the story is to show you this is the next arc of nova. this is the main arc of the entire story.

First Movement: A Magician’s Forte.

I’ve been waiting to unveil that chapter title for 2 years. 

Look I am not doing this to shame you or to make you feel bad. I doing this to remind you that I am a human being. Writers and Artists are human beings. I do this with my own time, effort and finding ways not to get burnt out and keep fitting this whole thing I love into my life. And I have always been honest with you. I answered an ask openly stating there was the real possibility that maybe I couldn’t finish Nova. That I would post my notes up so you all would get to at least know the things I had plan. 

If you are still angry, then I am sorry I lost you as a fan and as a reader. It is what it is. But you need to understand I am a person. it is super easy to have this blurred view where somehow your favorite content creator is somehow beyond the issues and problems of the world. But we’re not. We’re people too. I am just a guy that likes to write but I have a life beyond that too. 

Hope you have a great day and I hope you’re a little less angry now. 

[yetanotheremptypage]

Happy Fanfiction Writers Appreciation Day!

It’s another fic rec list! Here’s last years, which includes a link to my 2016 recommendations. They are all amazing, so you should definitely check them out, but in the mean time, here’s some more. I tried to tag most of the ships and/or fandoms, so if you ship any of those or are in the fandom, check out the recs below the cut. Of course, there are plenty more amazing fanfictions/writers out there, and to them, I give a huge THANK YOU! Finally, for the shameless plug, if you have any interest in any of my stories, links can be found here.

Arms Extended (Gen, Bandstand) AO3 [Complete]

a remix of “welcome home (finale)”

(or: the moments that inspired the lines of julia's poem)

Bandstand on the whole deserves more love, attention, and fanfiction, especially because the relationship these people build is so beautiful and there’s so much to be explored. This fic does it BEAUTIFULLY, and I can’t stress it enough. TW: I mean it’s Bandstand so anything that applies there applies here

Cut, Print, Moving On (Gen, Smash) AO3 || FF [In progress]

An imagined third season, starting approximately two years after the Tony Awards.

This fic is perfectly written and explores all of Smash’s complicated, messy, great relationships, romantic and otherwise, beautifully.

Epic Love (Han x Leia, Star Wars) AO3 || FF [Complete]

Here is what is believed: that Leia Organa has been abandoned by her husband and her brother, the two men who loved her best, in her time of greatest need. But things are not always as they seem. A TFA fix-it fic about family, the Force, and the love that could save the galaxy. Again. Also features Luke, Chewbacca, Rey, Finn, and mentions or cameos by several others.

I love the new Star Wars movies, I do. But this fic treats Han, Leia, and Luke so much better than TFA does. Please go read this pure perfection of a work and give it all the love it deserves. While you’re at it, check out... Everything else @lajulie24 has written; it’s all golden.

Everything I Never Knew (Emmett x Rosalie, Twilight) AO3 || FF [Complete]

Because sometimes a split second decision changes a life… One night, Rosalie Hale walked a different way home. Because of this, she didn’t meet Royce on the road and the worst night of Rosalie’s life happened to someone else. So what happened when Rosalie was never hurt, never turned vampire, and got everything she had always thought she wanted?

I love a good AU, and Rosalie and Emmett seem the best suited for one. Their connection is amazing and well-written and honestly, everything makes sense to me. I lowkey wish things could have played out this way for them, but alas, they didn’t, so let’s read fic instead. TW: Spousal abuse, bear attack so like blood and stuff

hey baby (i think i wanna marry you) (Donna x Josh, The West Wing) FF [Complete]

Josh goes to dinner with his old law school study group. He ends up defending the institution of marriage, before going home to Donna. Set in the Santos administration.

It’s just such a cute, fluffy little piece. How could I not, you know?

in a storm in my best dress (Percy x Annabeth, Percy Jackson and the Olympians) AO3 || FF [Complete]

"Point is, Percy's not used to being swamped in friends. So you can bloody well imagine his shock when he wakes up one morning and looks impulsively at his arm and there’s one, two, three, four, five, six, seven Marks on his line and holy crap the seventh is a soulmate mark."

or, Percy finds it difficult to make friends and Annabeth is the popular girl with a heart of steel. Soulmate AU.

Not gonna lie, this is a behemoth-- two chapters that come out at like 70k which like, damn, most of my one-shots aren’t even 1500 words, you get props for that alone. However, every word is perfect. There’s lot of pining, and hey, Percy Jackson with anxiety? Works. I saw my own anxiety reflected all over the place which... Was not the main reason I fell in love with this fic, but it’s nice to be recognized, you know? No, I fell in love with this fic because it’s about falling in love and making friends and growing up. And it’s beautiful, so go read it. TW: Anxiety attacks (Is that a tw? Oh well)

Miracles, etc. (Wanda Maximoff x Vision, Marvel Cinematic Universe) AO3 [In progress]

Wanda Maximoff’s life has been a set of frightening miracles: living in a war torn country as an orphan, escaping her anarchistic biological father, and surviving the American foster system with seven older foster siblings. Now 26 and working as a hotel waitress, Wanda has very distant plans for love and for a child. Unfortunately, her complicated life is about to get more complicated when a medical mix-up leaves her artificially inseminated with a stranger’s sperm. That stranger? Her boss, with an equally dark past.

Now pregnant- and possibly falling in love- Wanda finds herself with only nine months to rethink her entire future. Because the only thing more frightening than a miracle… is parenthood.

Did you know that a Jane The Virgin AU is EXACTLY everything you ever needed for this fandom, and specifically this pairing? My depression is cured, my skin is clear, and my crops are thriving, especially now that there’s new chapters again. Read this fic, please. It will not disappoint, especially if you enjoy JTV’s tongue-in-cheek style humor. Also dad!Clint.

My Beauty, My Baby (Gen, Downton Abbey) FF [Complete]

Cora and Sybil share a moment on the eve of the birth of Sybil and Tom's child. This story takes place in Season 3, sometime between Episodes 4 and 5. This is a bit of a departure for me, but the title words were an inspiration.

This is just so lovely. Sybil and Cora’s relationship is, I feel, kind of unexplored, so this was such a lovely treat.

people can surprise you (or not) (Anya x Dmitry, Anastasia) AO3 [Complete]

He's a poor joke of a journalist, she has something to prove to her family, and they're in here for a hell of a ride.

(“You’re asking me to be an asshole to some random woman just to prove a very sexist and offensive point like I’m some guy on Reddit who has no idea women are actually people?”)

(“Next Wednesday. I bet you can’t find a guy tonight, in this bar, and keep him until next Wednesday. Prove me wrong and introduce him to Nana during the gala. As your boyfriend.”)

OR, the reversed How to lose a guy in 10 days AU nobody asked, but everybody gets.

Angst, fluff, pining, misunderstandings, this has got it ALL. And it’s written flawlessly to boot.

Take Me Back To Me (Mary x Matthew, Downton Abbey) AO3 || FF [Complete]

When heiress Mary Crawley finds herself in the headlines for her third scandal of the year, Cora decides that it is time for Mary to turn her public image around. The solution? Hire humanitarian lawyer Matthew Crawley, whose new charity just happens to need a new donation, to play Mary’s boyfriend. (Modern Mary/Matthew!Fake Dating AU)

Were you aware you needed a modern fake dating AU for these two? No. But you do. It cleanses the soul with its perfectness. Go read it. TW: Descriptions of past not quite rape but I think it’s still classified as sexual assault

The Only Crime Is To Lose (Gen, Game of Thrones) AO3 [I think in-progress?]

The series doesn’t have a description, so here’s my attempt at one: The major houses of Westeros are crime families at war. This author expertly adapts the plotting and relationships into this scenario, which takes place after the Red Wedding-- which, in this world, involved Robb getting arrested and put away for life-- and most of the action surrounds the kidnapping of Jaime Lannister, though no one knows who did it. I’m not actually certain if this series is finished or not, but it leaves me reeling from unanswered questions and its overall beauty every time I finish the last story, so you should check it out so we can all share the pain. TW: I mean it’s Game of Thrones so like a lot of that stuff still applies

Treading Water (Annie x Finnick, The Hunger Games) AO3 || FF [Complete]

They don't tell you when you go into the arena that the lucky ones are those who die.

I don’t think I can state enough how amazing this fic is. The beautiful relationship between Finnick and Annie, the breathtaking way Catching Fire is woven into the story, and seeing the Games from the mentor’s perspective is fascinating. Go read this fic! TW: It’s the Hunger Games so anything from the books applies

we got the world (Jesse x Beca, Pitch Perfect) AO3 || FF [Complete]

"They say you're a freak when we're having fun, say you must be high when we're spreading love, but we're just living life and we never stop, we've got the world." Beca/Jesse, post-Kennedy Center flop. A series of missing Jeca moments from Pitch Perfect 2. COMPLETE.

Did you wish there had been more Jeca in Pitch Perfect 2? Then read this fic. It’s perfect in every way. (Written before PP3 though, so not canon compliant for that).

Willow (Anya x Dmitry, Anastasia) AO3 [In progress]

In a city by the sea, Anya and Dmitry find their footing.

Beautiful, happy Dimya, plus dashes of you know, revolution and angst and history. It’s gorgeous and perfect and go read it.

[sandwichwritesstuff]

A True Prince--A Sanders Sides AU Fic

Roman Sanders doesn’t want to be the “perfect prince”. He doesn’t want to rule a kingdom like his father. He doesn’t want to spend his days cooped up inside studying with his tutor Logan. What’s the problem with wanting to sing and dance and explore outside of the castle? Maybe if Logan could convince the Royal Adviser they could sneak out for a day and see what lies outside of the castle walls…

Warnings(throughout the whole thing): Deceit, Extreme Angst, Mentions and Implications of Abuse.

***This story was inspired by this post by maya-tl. Please check out their stuff. Thank you!***

Chapter 7: Several Years Ago

For the next heir to the kingdom, you'd think that someone would be paying more attention to him. Alas, Roman was left alone to keep himself occupied while everyone else took care of "responsibilities to the kingdom".

As he wandered the halls of the castle, Roman couldn't help but wish for someone to play with him. It was hard to play "Handsome and Talented Knight Saves the Kingdom from the Dragon" if there was no dragon.

A noise behind him startled him out of his fantasy. With his wooden sword at the ready, Roman turned around, ready to face the villain and take them down.

Looking back at him was a boy maybe 13 years old, not much older than Roman himself, as well as a slightly askew piece of armor. Sheathing his sword, Roman went over to help him steady the armor.

"Thanks," the boy murmured, embarrassed.

"Don't mention it. I haven't seen you around here before. Are you new to the castle staff?"

The boy tensed up. "No," he stuttered. "I'm just a messenger. I need to deliver a letter to Sir Dolos. I just got lost, that's all."

"Why would anyone want to give anything to that loser?" Roman laughed. "I mean, except for a big piece of paper with 'YOU'RE FIRED' written on it."

The boy snorted, causing Roman to laugh even harder. When the two of them finally caught their breaths, Roman extended his arm. "I'm Roman," he said. "What's your name?"

The boy looked uncomfortable. "Um..." he said. "I don't...I'm not...."

Roman retracted his handshake, but still kept a large grin on his face. "Well, if you don't have a name, I guess I'll have to give you one, Mr. Panic at the Everywhere."

The boy rolled his eyes and scowled, which means Roman clearly did something right. "So what, should I start calling you something stupid, too, like Romano?"

"Here's hoping that doesn't stick."

"Please, Romano, I'm trying to concentrate. I'm looking for the most idiotic person in the kingdom and...wait." He pointed at Roman. "I think I found him."

"Wow, that's harsh." Roman sighed. "I suppose I should probably help you find Dolos. Unfortunately. Although...I'm surprised you didn't ask one of the guards for help. They're always at the front gate. Trust me, I've tried getting past them before. Did not turn out well."

"Um, I...uh...didn't use the front gate."

"You what?!"

"Shut up!" The boy hissed. "I'm not supposed to tell anyone, but..." He glanced around, making sure no one else was listening. "There's a secret passage down in the West Wing corridor that leads straight into the woods. No one ever guards it. I mean, if you ever were looking to sneak out again or something, that's probably your best bet."

Roman could've hugged the stranger, he was that happy. Finally, a way to explore and avoid the guards at the same time.

"Well, when you're done with your errand to our resident royal pain," Roman said. "Maybe you could show me that secret passage?"

His new friend smirked, but shook his head. "I'm sorry, I can't. I want to, but-"

Before he could finish his thought, the two boys heard someone walking towards them. Roman's new friend tensed up, a look of terror on his face.

"You can't tell them I was here." He looked at Roman. "Just forget you ever saw me. Promise?"

"Promise." Roman stuttered. "But wait-."

And with that, the boy ran away. Roman didn't even have a chance to say goodbye. He hoped in vain that he might see him again, but he never did. He even tried stalking the secret passageway when he could. He would've brought the boy up to Logan, heck, even Dolos, but decided it best to keep his promise. Still, he'd always wondered what had happened to his brief friendship. And now he knew.

The boy's name was Virgil. And, despite the years, Virgil had remembered him, too.

Chapter  1   2   3   4   5   6

[distractionpie]

Fic writer tag

@aces-low​ tagged me in this great writers thing which is exactly the distraction I needed while home sick today and basically incapable of doing anything other than lay about feeling gross

What is your total word count on AO3?

712579 words

😲

Which seems like a lot but that’s padded by the fact I also cross post various tumblr fandom ask replies and only partially completed outlines when they aren’t really fic I just want to archive them somewhere reliable and organised.

How often do you write?

At the moment, not often. Maybe one or two ten-minute snatches of writing in the week and half hour at the weekend. A few months ago I would have said at least an hour every day but since I started a new job I haven’t had the time or energy for that. Hopefully once I get more comfortable in my routine I’ll be able to find better middle ground. (also once I a) get a new phone so it’s easier to write on the bus, or b) finally pass my driving test so I’m not losing so many hours per day to buses)

Do you have a routine for writing?

I tend to be more productive in a morning, which at the minute doesn’t work for me but there are many life improvements in the way that will help me get some of that time back so I may yet gain some of that time back. Unfortunately, my whole music, drinks, snacks, dig in for several hours of keyboard time does not exactly fit with the fact I’m current staying in the box room at my parents so I’m having to be flexible.

What are your favourite kinks/tropes/pairing?

Inverted power dynamics/characters who show an unexpected side of themselves when they’re intimate & FAKE DATING/MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE a.k.a anything that puts them in a situation of having to act like they’re in a relationship while also pining like hell because it’s not real

Do you have a favourite fic of yours?

My default is to think of the most recent stuff (The Take, I’m thinking of the Take), or at least unconsciously limit my thinking to stuff from the ships and the fandoms I’m actively interested in at the moment, but I think I would have to say that it is actually adoration de sauveteur  -  it was the first time I wrote a piece of fic that was both long and of a quality level that satisfied me (there’d been a few previous attempts but they tended to be meandering and heavy on the padding). I loved the whole process of writing it and to jump into a new fandom via a kink meme prompt shipping a guy who is half of the most popular slash pairings in the fandom with an OC and to receive the level of enthusiasm I did was a wild but brilliant experience and while there’s a lot of my older writing I look back on and cringe this one I’m still proud of and find the sections I’ve look at in the time since I’ve written in continue to be enjoyable. Also, working through my fear of a ‘mary sue’ type character and actually developing a leading OC and a supporting cast of OCs to match helped develop my characterisation skills a lot.

Your fic with the most kudos?

That would be And Bull Makes Three..., because writing the Dragon Age fandom totally blew away all my prior expectations about the level of support my writing can get. I still look back on the stats for this like WTF. Alas, it’s unfinished and I haven’t updated it since 2016 but it is not technically abandoned because I do still have a working document and the intention of writing an end…eventually.

Anything you don’t like about your writing?

Pacing and I’m often not very good at getting to the point. I often get bogged down in backstory that isn’t that relevant or ending up dragging out the ‘will they or won’t they’ phases for longer than is necessary just because it’s difficult to write the transition between the build-up and things actually happening. Transitional stuff in general really – if I want to move characters on from one thing to another I pretty much always just cut between scenes because the art of making one scene flow into another in a non-awkward way totally evades me.

Now something you do like?

I like (and I like to think I’m good at) writing non-PoV characters in a way that means the reader can still get a solid idea of what’s going on in their head even if they aren’t very expressive or the PoV character isn’t very perceptive *cough*asc-verse Web*cough* and I’m working a lot on being able to create a strong sense of mental voice for different PoV characters.

hmmmm... writerly people to tag: @icouldwritebooks, @auroargraves, @insightfulinsomniac, @you-oughta-know, @kokomobunny, and @anybody else who wants to do this

[barmeciide]

@thorn-kissed​ - Cutscene reached (Alice)

Selected Route: Uriel 

Progression: Currently moving towards good/perfect ending. 

Characters: Orpheus, Alice, Lilliale. 

    The honied aroma of copper wafts from the delicate glass held casually between the man’s fingers, and tickles Alice’s nose. The sleek, line-work tattoos on Orpheus’s fingers appear as if they’re crawling up and down his hand with every gentle roll of his wrist that makes the thick liquid just barely contained within sway softly against the edge; thick stains coating the rim of the glass where blood licks, and then tumbles down back the curve. There’s a moment where Alice’s eyes are drawn to it - not out of desperation or hunger; though a far younger vampire would have been driven to madness by now with how heavy the smell was in the small office, but rather out of a desire not to gaze upwards into the other’s eyes that he can almost feel stripping away every layer of skin from his frigid body and taut muscles. He knows Orpheus can feel his hesitation, and it’s not simply a thought or belief he harbors, but rather he knows, without a doubt that, to the other man, it’s quite tangible despite his best efforts to shove it deep within the recesses of his bones. Even without meeting his gaze, he knows how Orpheus is looking at him - can picture clearly within his own mind how he sits upon the velvet cushions of a chair that very well could be older than himself, behind a mahogany desk worth more than its weight in gold, the wine glass between his fingers while he leans his chin against his other hand. How scarlet locks fall over the prominent curves of his collarbones and lick at the skin of his exposed chest where his suit has been unbuttoned, is enough to tell him that much. Orpheus’s golden gaze has always been piecing, but he’s never felt the sense of distrust that oozes from it directed at himself until now. 

      “So, he found out?” Orpheus’s voice is always alluring deep, and it rumbles within the confines of the small room, but never seeps outside of it - not with how the walls are padded, and he can feel the influence of the other’s essence bleeding over every inch of this little world that’s his and his alone. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before he did.” He speaks casually, as if this is little more than a discussion about the weather or an amusing customer. To Orpheus, Alice imagines that’s all it is - a fleeting bit of entertainment that’s barely even deserving of his time or attention. Just little a game to keep himself occupied. That’s all it ever was to him, he thinks. But he knows he’s not much different. How many little ‘games’ of the other’s had he personally entertained since he had been turned? He’s lost count. There was a time when he had enjoyed it to a certain extent. After all, people made his skin crawl, and his lingering hatred of them had never quite left what was left of him, but it’s mellowed with time. And there was a part of him that couldn’t quite stomach the thought of doing the same thing again - just hundreds of years later. And oh he’s sickeningly aware of the irony of the fact that it’s his own fault Uriel is even in this situation to begin with. What if he hadn’t obeyed back then? What would have happened to them. Surely, the three of them would be long dead by now. 

     “Yes,” his voice is dry as it leaves his throat. He can taste ichor and bile on the back of his tongue as he forces out an answer. There’s a part of him that wants to lie, but knows it would be pointless. Orpheus would know. It wasn’t possible to keep a secret from a man knew your every thought, and the thoughts of everyone around you. He already knew. He likely wasn’t fishing for an answer, but it was best to give him one. Slowly, he lifts his head - long, blond hair falling in front of crimson irises that lack the humor and amusement that might have been there months or even weeks ago. But Orpheus’s expression hasn’t changed once - not since the day he had met the man. He always had a smooth smile on his face, and his eyes were always hauntingly hollow. There was always a trace of possessiveness reflected in the euphoric bliss that he regarded everything with. Everything is some carefully planned out game to him - the pieces are his to move as he wishes, and nothing happens outside of his control. It’s predictable. Alice knows because it’s always been that way. It’s one of the benefits of being an older member of the coven - knowing how Orpheus operates. What is and isn’t allowed, but is never spoken about. 

     “What a heartfelt reunion for someone who lacks a heart to even get the chance to have.” A laugh that isn’t a laugh echoes in the depths of Orpheus’s throat as he lifts the glass to his lips, and pours the contents down his throat - his tongue licking off the blood that clings to his fangs. A week ago, Alice might have laughed. A week ago, he might have found it amusing. Now, it just makes him feel empty, and he only nods his head slowly. “Alas, much as I enjoy listening to the panicked thoughts rushing through his head, they are becoming a bit...bothersome.” The sole of Orpheus’s boots click loudly against the hardwood flooring as he stands gracefully from his chair - glass still held between his fingers as he walks over to Alice. “It seems he’s feeling a bit conflicted as of late. I suppose it would be difficult to choose between your dead wife, and your sworn loyalty to me.” Alice feels a shudder run down his spine as Orpheus’s reaches out to run the tips of his fingers along his neck as he paces around him in a circle. “I mean, she’s already died once, so really, the choice should be painfully clear. But, still, my darling Uriel is struggling to make it.”   

     He feels the press of Orpheus’s nails against his skin, and the sensation of their tips digging into his flesh as warmth trickles out from his throat where the other man’s hand lingers. But he doesn’t so much as flinch, or shift his head to watch Orpheus. He doesn’t even move as the other leans in, and he feels him lick away the faint trace of blood from his skin. “I detest the idea of losing something that’s mine. So, what should we do this time? Should we burn her alive again? We could come up with something a bit more creative this time around. I am beginning to running out of materials, it’s so very difficult to come across creatures that can survive the process. Perhaps I should turn her, and use her as one of my test subjects?” He reaches out, cupping Alice’s chin between his fingers to force the other to look at him.

    “I don’t think that’s possible.” He’s surprised at how calm his voice is, and equally as relieved when Orpheus releases him, pacing back over to his desk to set the glass down upon it, but he can see hairline breaks in it that he knows very well could have been his own bones had Orpheus not harbored enough sense of mercy and level-headedness to walk away from him. 

     “I imagine, unfortunately, that you’re correct. A shame. He would have been able to stay with her forever if I could.” Orpheus speaks as if he would have been doing Uriel a great favor. “Oh well, kill her for me then. She’s an eyesore, and I can’t stand the sight of her anymore. Uriel’s always had terrible taste, and it shows.” He gags as he sits back down. “You’ve already killed her once before, it should be simple to do it again. You’re dismissed, I suspect you won’t fail me. After all, you never have before.” He waves his wrist, and Alice wastes no time slipping out from the room, and slamming the door shut behind him with as much grace as he can muster. If he had a beating heart, it would be racing, and if he had a working set of lungs, he imagined they would be heaving right now. But all he has are the memories of what those those things felt like, and that’s enough to make him take a few paces away before leaning his back against the wall, and digging his nails into the fabric of his shirt. 

     Never, in all of the years he’d been alive, had he ever been frightened of Orpheus. And it makes him wonder how Crow and Remus can be subjected to that man’s ire so often yet remain entirely sane when he holds all of their lives in his hands, and one simple click of his fingers is enough to crush them in whatever manner he so desires. With a shudder, he slides down the wall - thighs plopping awkwardly against the wooden hallway as he lifts his hands to ruffle up his silky hair. If he thinks too much about it, Orpheus could end his life then and there, but it’s impossible for him not to. If he doesn’t kill Melany, he’ll die. If he does, Uriel will never forgive him again. Uriel might very well die this time - isn’t it foolish of him to think that he cares about his own life more than he does about a wife he’s already watched die once before? And, this time, frankly, he doesn’t have any desire to kill her. He’d messed up, hadn’t he? He should have never reached out to her. He should have never let her go into that room. He had known Uriel would find out then and there, but he still brought her to his room. Why? Because he felt guilty. Because he wanted Uriel to be happy. 

      The sound of footsteps yanks him violently away from his racing thoughts, and his lips pull back on instinct - fangs glittering in the utter darkness that persists as his pupils narrow, and every muscle in his body contracts as he rises to his feet. But the tension in his shoulders ebbs as he listens more closely, and instead of red, he sees white. But those golden eyes are nearly the same - less full of ire and control, but still utterly unreadable. “Why are you out here, Lillie?” He doesn’t even try to force his voice to its naturally higher pitch, or push a smile onto his features as the other man stops beside him. “Are you running errands for Felicity again? I’m not in the mood to help her right now, so go ask Crow.” Yet, he feels a strange sense of relief not being left on his own, even if there’s still a budding sense of distrust. Lilliale’s position isn’t much different than his own - the option to disobey Orpheus didn’t exist amongst the coven to begin with.

      “You’ll make her sad if you say that,” Lilliale’s cheerful voice is a stark contrast to how Alice actually feels right now, and he can’t stop himself from sneering at the taller man. “Though, I’m sorry to inform you that’s not why I’m here. My room this is way, remember? Yours is on the other side.” He makes a haphazard, and rather showy display as he points out the directions by crossing his hands in front of his body. It takes Alice a moment to register that he’s right, and he quickly yanks himself from the wall, and slips past Lilliale only to feel the other’s hand reach out, and grab him firmly, but gently by the arm. 

       “What -” he growls, long nails flexing against his palm as crimson irises flare in the darkness, but there’s something about Lilliale that keeps him from lashing out.  

      “Will you answer a question for me?” A smile settles easily upon  Lilliale’s features when Alice nods, and he releases his hold on the other. “Tell me, would you die for Uriel?” 

      There’s a flicker of surprise in Alice’s eyes as they widen, and he feels as if the floor has fallen away from beneath his feet. Long lashes fluttering as he stares into the depths of the darkness that greets him -  Lilliale is gone. He can’t see him even as he whirls around in circles attempting to do so, nor can he hear or smell him - it was as if he had never been there at all. His name is on Alice’s tongue - tempted to call out to see if he had simply been a figment of his imagination, but he stops. His arm feels warm where Lilliale had grabbed him, and, on instinct, his frigid fingers move upwards to touch the fabric of his sleeve. Like Remus, Lilliale has always felt oddly warm. And that sudden realization unsettles him all the more as he stares down the hallway. The other’s question still ringing in his head long after he turns, and returns to the falsified safety of his own room.      

[angryhausfrau-writes]

Something Old and Something New - Chapter 8: Dinner...

“I feel like an idiot.”

BJ curls into Peg's side and she wraps her arms around him. And they're still standing right outside of the hotel room door, blocking the hallway. But her husband clearly needs this right now – and she won't be the one to pull away.

“I just – I just spent so long getting ready to see Hawkeye, you know? And then he wasn't there. It was Trapper!”

And BJ's voice is full of anguish. Peg holds him closer.

“I know dear, I know,” she soothes.

He had clearly been thrown for a loop. And she can understand why. He'd been both looking forward to the reunion and dreading it for weeks now. He'd stood in their hotel room tying and untying and retying his tie in an expression of nervous excitement – and a desire for everything to be perfect for his and Hawkeye's reunion. And that's been shot in the foot, now, hasn't it? But there's nothing either of them can do about it now.

And they are running a bit late at this point. Late enough that Trapper has disappeared downstairs with the wedding present and they're left standing alone in the empty hallway. Late enough that she doesn't have the time to comfort him like she wants to.

None of this is going how they wanted it to. But it will all turn out all right, she's sure. Because the two of them are here together and they'll figure things out - come hell or high water. So she holds BJ tight once more and then gentles his head out of the crook of her neck. A position that he'd had to contort himself into, bending his knees to reach – and that can't have been comfortable at all.

“BJ, look at me. You're not an idiot. And I'm sure Hawkeye is downstairs with the others, waiting for us.”

The “So let's get a move on, huh?” is silent but heavily implied. And he can't really argue with that – much as he just wants to spend the whole reception in his room where it's safe. Where he doesn't have to confront his feelings for Hawkeye. Where he doesn't have to have the coming awkward conversation of just what, exactly, those feelings are. Where he doesn't have to come face-to-face with Trapper – the lover of the man he's in love with, and who he just made an idiot out of himself in-front of.

At least things can't get any worse, impressions-wise. And Hawkeye's already seen him at pretty much his worst anyway and they're still friends.

“Ok, yeah. Let's head down.”

--

Trapper makes the long, awkward slog to the gift table at the front of the reception hall. And it feels like all the rich fuckers are staring at him – cussing him out with their eyes for daring to be late, and be him, and pollute their refinement with his presence. And Jesus fucking Christ, he hates Back Bay. Charles had better fucking appreciate this.

And he ain't feeling too fucking charitable towards BJ for making him this late – and therefor the center of attention like this - either.

But Trapper's had plenty of practice bullshitting his way through poncy parties where people just barely tolerate his presence – left over from his college days at Dartmouth and the yearly holiday shitshow with his ex-wife's family – so he keeps his back straight and his face blank and his seething pissed-offedness locked up tight.

He delivers the gift. And Max owes him so fucking big for this. But also, he's glad this is happening to him and not her and Soon Li. Cuz that would prolly get about a million times worse for them than it is for him. And Max would mouth off at someone – or Soon Li would, cuz she ain't one to be condescended to either. And then whatever rich fucker'd started it would get even more upset. And that wouldn't end well for anyone.

Trapper can see the whole scenario play out piece by piece – and it ends with Max and Soon Li getting kicked out. And then the party wouldn't be no fun at all. So it's just as well she's a conniving little bastard who knows just how to play him.

But he ain't gonna let it go that easy, either. Not when he can prolly knock her down another five percent or so on that lingerie price via guilt trip, anyway.

Task complete, Trapper swings by the bar cuz he's noticed that none of the tables have any drinks other than booze at them. And maybe Marjory made sure Hawkeye's got something he can drink - but he wouldn't bet on it, given that even the kids got champagne to toast the happy couple – whenever they actually show up. And some of the kids are clearly parroting their parents in describing the bouquet of the wine or whatever else bullshit. Which, Jesus Christ. Imagine being a wine snob at eight.

So anyway, Trapper gets Hawkeye a Shirley Temple, which nets him a weird look from the bartender, but it ain't like he gives a shit about what he thinks either. Thought even the reception's bartender is posher than just about anyone else Trapper's ever regularly interacted with. Only the best at this wedding, apparently.

And then finally, Hawk's drink in hand, he makes his way over to his designated table, and thank God that's over with. And thank God that they – all the MASH contingent, plus Letta and her husband – have been put at an out of the way table so none of the Emersons or Winchesters or Oakes will have to look at them. And maybe that should feel like a snub, but Trapper's honestly glad he won't have to put up with any of the sneers and glares he got walking into the reception while he's eating dinner.

--

“Hawk!” BJ exclaims and goes tearing across the ballroom toward a tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair and an old fashioned tuxedo, sitting next to a man who appears to be a priest. Which seems rather out of character for the description she has of Hawkeye Pierce. But the man stands at her husband's shout.

And responds with an equally exuberant, “Beej!” before getting pulled into a bear hug.

At least BJ's anxiety about seeing Hawkeye again appears to have abated.

Peg approaches more sedately than her husband, so they've broken apart by the time she gets close.

“The infamous Hawkeye Pierce, I presume?”

He looks different from the grainy black-and-white photos she's caught glimpses of in passing, when cleaning BJ's study or when they'd been passed around to her and Erin if BJ'd been telling bedtime stories about Korea and in a particularly nostalgic mood. The man in those photographs had looked gaunt and tired and overall worn down by the mundane horrors of war. This man here is vibrant and alive and full of the kind of childish mischief most people outgrow a decade or so earlier. But despite the differences, this man is undoubtedly Hawkeye.

He grins and holds out a hand. “And you must be Peg! It's wonderful to finally meet you in person.” Then his expression turns sly. “BJ, you've been holding out on me. Your stories didn't come close to doing her justice.”

Peg finds herself grinning despite herself. Hawkeye is quite the charmer - no wonder her husband had been so taken with him.

“Hey, hands off my wife! Go bother your own date.” BJ pretends affront.

“Would that I could, but alas, Margaret has run off to the powder room with Kat and half the other women at the table. They're either unionizing or planning a bank robbery.” He turns conspiratorially to Peg. “If you want to get in on the ground floor of the heist, I'd cut out now.”

Peg laughs. “I think I'll wait a few more years to start a life of crime. At least until the children are a little older.”

“I'm just surprised Margaret agreed to be seen with you,” BJ chimes in.

“Well, it was between me and Trapper – and Kat drew the short straw in the date department.” Hawkeye grins at Trapper, who's just arrived at the table, presumably from dropping off the wedding present.

“Ouch,” Trapper says, not sounding very hurt. “Just for that, you're getting your own drink next time, Hawkeye.”

But he's smiling as he hands over the glass of whatever it is. And Peg watches as their fingers brush and linger. And she sees how Trapper angles himself around Hawkeye, pressing against him in a way that would look innocuous if you didn't know better.

Peg hadn't been entirely certain that her husband wasn't reading too much into things. That Hawkeye and Trapper weren't simply very close friends, the way she assumed BJ and Hawkeye had been. Friends forged in war and terror – and closer than brothers for it.

But it turns out that BJ's in love with Hawkeye.

And then she'd thought that maybe BJ was reading too much into Trapper and Hawkeye's relationship because of how he felt about Hawkeye. Like if Hawkeye really was a homosexual and in a relationship with Trapper, then there was a chance for BJ too. And maybe it's all just wishful thinking.

But it's fairly obvious, now, that BJ was right. And that Hawkeye's relationship with Trapper is more than simple friendship. Which has some potentially unfortunate implications for BJ's chances with Hawkeye. Which Peg doesn't really know whether to be happy or disappointed about, she honestly doesn't.

And now the conversation has foundered with her focus on Trapper and Hawkeye – and on the two of them together– and BJ's focus on her reaction. So she endeavors to set those thoughts aside for now and return to the social niceties.

“Who's Kat?” Peg asks. BJ hadn't mentioned her in any of his stories about Korea. Maybe she left before he got there.

“Margaret's roommate,” Hawkeye supplies. With perhaps a touch of emphasis. Hmmm.

“So you're on a double date?”

Trapper laughs. “Just like old times. Though I don't remember them running out on us quite this fast in Korea.”

“That's just because there were fewer places to hide.” And that's how Peg meets Major Margaret Houlihan. BJ really was not exaggerating about her in his stories at all.

--

Finally, Charles and Marjory and all the rest of the wedding party show up – so Trapper'd been glared at for nothing. He guesses the rich get to decide how late is fashionable and how late is rude and everyone else just has to lump it. But their arrival seems to be the signal for everyone to sit down and shut up so that a succession of really boring people can make terrible speeches about how great Charles and/or Marjory are. All without really seeming to know them at all.

Trapper's a little jealous of Hawkeye, BJ, Peg, and the Padre cuz they're carrying on a silent conversation in sign language the whole time – even with the other three way down the table - and that looks like a lot more fun than trying to actually pay attention. But Trapper does have Kat whispering sarcastic commentary in his ear. And sure, it's mostly so he'll whisper it into Margaret's ear like some kinda lesbian to lesbian telegraph service. But he'll take what he can get at this point.

And God, he'd forgotten how much fun Kat is. Not that Margaret ain't a good time – but Kat has one hell of a sharp tongue and Trapper's counting on her running commentary to make this upper-crust shitshow of a wedding reception bearable. Since all the Back Bay snobs are gonna be gossiping about Trapper and his friends all night, he may as well get his own entertainment outta them.

And then Honoria joins their table after the speeches finish up and dinner gets started. And she's apparently stolen a bottle of top-shelf champagne from the head table to get their portion of the party started early.

“Shouldn't you be in the wedding party?” Hawkeye asks her after turning down a wine glass of champagne. “You know, since your brother is the one getting married.”

“And your dress looks an awful lot like a bridesmaid dress,” Trapper adds. “You on the lamb?”

“It-t's tr-true,” Honoria says, with a dramatic hand to her brow. “I confess, I've run aw-way from home.”

“They gonna come hunt you down?” Trapper's a little wary of causing more of a scene this early in the proceedings.

“Ooh, do you need a disguise?” Hawkeye asks, delighted at the prospect. “How bout you and Max swap outfits, you're about the same size.”

“And I look absolutely stunning in teal, it has to be said,” Max adds from down the table.

She laughs. “Th-thanks, but I doubt th-they mind I've gone missing. Less chance of embarrassing th-the family w-way over here.”

“I'm sure that's not true,” Margaret chimes in. “Charles always spoke very fondly of you, Honoria.”

“And you seem like a fun gal to spend time with,” Kat adds with intent.

Trapper bets her and Margaret will run off somewhere with Honoria the minute they can get away with it. Not that he can really blame them for jumping at a good time when it lands in front of them. He's just a little sore that his built in dance partner is gonna abandon him – given that was the whole point in getting a date to this shindig. He'll have to hope there's someone in the rest of herd of MASH vets and their partners that wants to take a spin around the dance floor.

“In fairness,” Hawkeye says, interrupting some pretty heavy eye contact between the three women, “Charles is too busy making eyes at Marjory to notice a herd of elephants stampeding through the ballroom – much less that his sister is missing.”

Trapper looks up at the happy couple. “I'll say this for 'em. They do genuinely seem to be in love.”

If Winchester gets to looking any sappier, he's gonna have little hearts coming outta his eyes like in a cartoon.

“Isn't it something,” Radar interjects in an awed tone.

“Radar! Come sit with us, it's been an eternity since I've seen you.” Hawkeye pats the seat next to him. They've all started playing musical chairs as various couples swap with each other, using the time it's taking for the servers to reach their table at the back of the room to catch up with everyone they've missed talking to, either upstairs or before the festivities got underway.

“You saw me upstairs ten minutes ago,” Radar grumbles under his breath. But he sits with them readily enough. And brings his date along as well.

Their whole table's completely ignoring the fancy little place cards set out for them – and given that Honoria's stolen a chair from some other table, that appears to be spreading across the whole room. Trapper can spot at least one surreptitious chair theft happening while the former owner is busy at the bar. And some of the guests are just baldly demanding others give up their seats since their own have gone missing and they're obviously much more important. It genuinely feels like things may come to blows – or the posh equivalent – at some point this evening. So at least there's that to look forward to.

And it's good to know that the 4077 can still sow chaos wherever they go. Though hopefully it doesn't get them booted out before dinner's even served.

And it's nice to catch up with Radar. He's changed a lot since Trapper'd last seen him – and even since Hawkeye had, apparently. And it ain't really a surprise. He'd been just a kid back in Korea, stuck in a shit situation with way too much on his shoulders. But now he's really come into himself, it seems like.

Radar talks about running the farm – and it sounds like him and Park Sung are doing a good job of it. Not that he's one to judge or anything. The depth of his experience with rural living amounts to going to visit Hawkeye's dad and a few semi-disastrous Boyscout camping trips as a kid. But he's glad Radar's happy. And his Ma's apparently doing fine too.

But mostly, Radar talks about Patricia – his date to this little shindig and who's been pulled into a conversation about nursing by Margaret and Kat. Leaving Radar to gush over how smart and pretty and all around wonderful she is - to Trapper and Hawkeye's amusement. To hear Radar talk, she's invented penicillin and polio vaccines all in one.

Finally, Radar pauses to take a breath and Hawkeye mock whispers, “Do I hear wedding bells?” And at Radar's blushing nod, he sniffs dramatically and pretends to wipe his eyes with a handkerchief. “They grow up so fast, don't they Trapper?”

“Seems like just yesterday we were conspiring to get him a date.”

“Yeah, after his fiance threw him over – jokes on her,” Hawkeye says, pinching Radar's cheek, “Radar's grown up to be quite the catch.”

“Oh, cut it out you guys. I ain't some dumb kid no more. And me and Patricia are engaged now, anyway. So I ain't thought about Lindy Sue in forever.”

“Engaged!” Hawkeye gasps, affronted. “And you didn't tell us? Does family mean nothing to you?”

Radar looks abashed and mumbles “I didn't figure you'd wanna come all the way out to Ottumwa for the wedding so I didn't bother sending nothing out. Id'a told you after I was actually hitched.”

And it makes sense, given Radar'd been left at the altar before. He wouldn't wanna jinx nothing by spreading things around. But it looks like both of them are in this thing for the long haul.

So Trapper throws an arm around his shoulders. “Radar, Radar, Radar. It's us.”

“Your Aunt and Uncle,” Hawkeye continues. “We threatened to adopt you.”

“And those threats ain't made lightly.”

“Of course we'd come to Iowa for the wedding.”

Radar blushes. It's a little embarrassing – them talking like they're his kinda parents still – but it's nice too. “Thanks you guys. I'll make sure to invite you once I know when it's happening.”

It sure won't be as grand as this one is. But it'd be real nice to have his friends there – Hawkeye and Trapper and maybe Max and Soon Li'd wanna come down for the wedding. It ain't that far from Toledo to Ottumwa. And maybe Colonel Potter'd wanna be there. He ain't Colonel Blake, but he'd done his best to look after Radar – just like Radar'd done his best to look after him. And it'd be real nice have the Father there, even if he'd have a pastor to officiate.

Radar leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, and lets himself open up to the future like a sunflower opening up to the sun. Till now, he'd been real careful to keep whatever it is lets him look squeezed shut tight, just in case he'd see something he don't wanna see. Like Patty leaving him like Lindy Su'd done – not that he's been thinkin on that or nothing. Or maybe he'd see some other kinda disaster befall them that'd keep 'em from getting hitched. And he's still scared of all that.

But here, with all his friends, it feels like things are gonna work out just fine. And like it ain't gonna hurt to let the future in.

Eventually, Radar and Patricia leave – running off to go talk to Max and the Padre about their engagement, looks like. And Trapper doesn't mind that. He knows they'll have time to chat again later if they want.

What he does mind is that BJ steals Radar's vacated seat, plopping himself right between him and Hawkeye.

BJ'd been kinda hovering in the background for a while now, like Hawkeye had suddenly gained a blond, over-earnest shadow. And Trapper figures he's probably missed seeing Hawkeye everyday like Trapper knows he had after getting home, so he can't begrudge them wanting to catch up. And he has a wallet full of kid pictures and enough public-appropriate stories from work they oughtta make it through dinner ok. If BJ even deigns to talk to him, that is.

He seems real fixed on talking to Hawkeye – and only Hawkeye. Margaret barely warrants a distracted nod and Trapper doesn't even get that.

But it ain't like they've ever been close, so he just shrugs it off and goes to talk to BJ's wife. She's small and blond and pretty – and bears a striking resemblance to Louise. It's a little uncanny, if Trapper's being honest.

Mrs. “Peg, call me Peg” Hunnicutt seems like a nice gal, though. Shame about her husband.

And that's maybe a little too catty. So he turns to engage Peg in conversation about her real estate career – and the interior decorating that goes along with it - cuz it seems polite and she's kinda being ignored by BJ, too. And maybe not his favorite topic – or one that he knows anything about, given that he'd pretty much left his house like Louise had had it, plus a few additions from Hawkeye and his dad – but it beats trying to horn in where he ain't wanted.

Seeing Hawkeye is... seeing Hawkeye is indescribable. BJ almost can't believe that he's real and here and sitting next to him. Close enough that BJ can feel Hawkeye – electric and chaotic and full of an infectious joy that's not exactly settling but that feels familiar like home and bright shiny new all at once. Magnetic in a way that makes BJ have to fight not to touch him, press against his side, throw an arm around his shoulders, pull him into another hug and just never let go.

He turns sideways a little in his seat to more fully face Hawkeye and it brings their knees bumping together under the table and it's like there's a live wire running through him lighting him up and he can't fucking stand it.

Can't keep hold of the thread of whatever story Hawkeye's telling because he's too busy watching the dance of his hands. Too busy feeling the press of his leg when he leans towards BJ during an especially emphatic point. Too busy looking at Hawkeye's face – split by a huge grin and with his eyes all crinkled up in mirth and shining with joy as he tells the punchline of a joke.

He can't bear to tear himself away.

And then Hawkeye's leaning behind BJ to talk to Trapper and the little world he's built around just the two of them comes crashing down. Because, oh yeah, there's other people in the room aside from him and Hawkeye.

All the ambient noise of the room rushes back in – including Hawkeye rattling his glass of ice meaningfully at Trapper.

Who's leaning around BJ to smirk at Hawkeye – and there's an intensity so very visible in his eyes. “Why Hawk, would you like another drink?”

Hawkeye effects a “who, me?” expression, which just prompts Trapper to roll his eyes and take the glass from him – hands brushing and lingering – and BJ has to turn away.

Trapper stands and turns to the ladies. “You want a drink, Maggie? Kat?”

Kat waves him away but Margaret orders, “Scotch and water, tall,” with all the strength and steel of a military command.

“Yes ma'am!” Trapper sketches a sarcastic little salute. And then he turns to Peg. “How 'bout you, Peg? What're you drinking?” And he seems very familiar, leaning towards her in a way BJ doesn't particularly like.

“I'll be buying Peg's drinks,” BJ interjects. Where does Trapper get off flirting with his wife?

Trapper looks a little taken aback – and maybe BJ shouldn't have been so quick to jump down his throat. It's just that things between him and Peg have been a little – not strained, never that – but different. Like they're standing at the precipice of something neither of them can see and trusting that everything will be ok if they jump. So BJ's maybe been a little protective of her.

Luckily, Trapper just shrugs and says, “C'mon then” over his shoulder as he heads to the bar. And he seems completely relaxed walking through the crowded room, even as BJ wilts a little under the bald stares of the other wedding guests.

Although some of his self-consciousness may have something to do with being alone with Trapper without the buffer of Hawkeye – or even Charles – to ease the conversation along. And the way Trapper's lounging at the bar, all broad shoulders and long, lean body – seeming perfectly at ease – doesn't help any. And neither does the way Trapper plucks the cherry out of Hawkeye's drink, puts the whole thing in his mouth, stem and all, before pulling the stem back out, tied in a perfect little knot - which he places back in the glass like some kind of trophy or calling card or something.

BJ squirms a little in what's probably jealousy.

He downs his double Scotch in one and orders another. But the feeling is still there whenever he catches a glance of Trapper out of the corner of his eye – still sprawling on his barstool like he owns the whole damn hotel.

And it doesn't help when they get back to the table and he puts a big, possessive hand on Hawkeye's shoulder as he hands over his drink. Yes, definitely jealousy - and nothing else. Because what else could it possibly be?

And jealousy is something he's been trying to be better about. But hasn't exactly been easy – particularly with Trapper right there in front of him, flaunting his closeness with Hawkeye.

“Don't forget to tip your waiter,” Trapper jokes as he hands over Margaret's Scotch.

“Oh, I'll give you a tip and a whole lot more later tonight.”

Hawkeye's lascivious whisper right into his ear makes Trapper almost forget where he is and who he's with. But all he says is, “I look forward to it.” And then turns his gaze towards Margaret and Kat – two much more socially acceptable targets for whatever the hell his expression looks like right now.

And Margaret just smiles knowingly at him, bless her. “I don't know, Trapper. You took an awfully long time bringing a lady a drink. I'm not sure I care for the service at this establishment.”

No, she wouldn't, would she.

He laughs. “It's not my fault some pompous asshole ordered a punch Romaine – to be made immediately, of course – right in the middle of the bartender making your drink. I had to sit there for fifteen goddamn minutes while the poor guy chipped ice.”

“Oh! Is that why my cherry's already been plucked?”

BJ chokes quietly on his drink.

“Sorry Hawk. I know how much you like to watch.”

Hawkeye opens his mouth for a rebuttal, but Margaret interrupts them by asking after the girls. Probably for the best, cuz they're being maybe a little too overt. BJ's giving them a kinda weird look, anyway. And the change in conversational topic means Trapper gets to show off Becky and Cathy's school pictures and a real nice snapshot from when they all went up to Maine to visit Hawkeye's dad.

Despite Hawkeye's insistence that Trapper loves his daughters more than just about anything else, BJ is still surprised when he pulls out a series of photos of his daughters and shows them to Margaret. Who passes them around to Kat and then Peg.

“Oh, Trapper, they're lovely!” Peg exclaims.

“That's Cathy.” Trapper leans over her to point out which daughter is which – and BJ has to stop himself from doing something stupid. Like tackling him from across the table.

“And that's Becky. She's smart as a whip – got that from my ex-wife, along with her looks, thank God.”

“Oh, I don't think you do too badly,” Hawkeye interjects glibly.

Trapper studiously ignores him. “And that's all of us at the beach in Maine with Hawk's dad and Steve and Millie.”

Peg laughs. “Here, BJ. You'll get a kick out of this.” She hands over the photo – and BJ's a little afraid of what might be in it to make Peg so certain he'll want to see it.

And oh boy. There's Hawkeye in swim trunks - and nothing else. And sure, BJ's seen him in his skivvies plenty – one of the dubious pleasures of living together in an army tent with no privacy and a roommate with even less shame. But this is different. This is... wow.

BJ's almost glad when the waiters show up to serve them dinner and he has to hand the photograph back to Trapper. But only almost. Because what he really wants to do is look at it long enough the planes and lines of Hawkeye's sunkissed skin are burned into his memory forever.

Maybe Hawkeye'd like to come out to California sometime – he's talked about it before in some of his letters. Then BJ would be the one throwing a casual arm over Hawkeye's naked shoulder. The one Hawkeye would lean into to keep his balance on the shifting sands.

Instead, it's Trapper that's standing there with his arm around Hawkeye's shoulders and with Hawkeye pressing into Trapper's side. Trapper standing there tan and built and – BJ will admit, but only under duress – attractive. The crooked grin and aviator sunglasses certainly don't detract from that impression and BJ wants to punch the non-photograph version right in his stupid, handsome face.

Because, the thing is, is that Trapper's not a bad looking guy, objectively speaking. BJ can see why Hawkeye might want to be with him – with his movie-star looks and his secretive little smirk. Flirtatiousness practically oozes out of him like an oil slick.

But that's the thing – he never seems sincere. Through all of their interactions – and now, through all of Trapper's interactions with Peg and Margaret and Kat and even Hawkeye – BJ has never once gotten the sense that Trapper has actually displayed a genuine emotion. He just sits there joking and flirting indiscriminately like none of it matters – like none of it means anything.

And BJ thinks Hawkeye deserves better.

Dinner's really nice. Lots of laughing and joking around and yelling down the table to pass the salt and elbowing each other in the ribs cuz they're all packed together like sardines. It's almost like being back in the mess tent – minus the accompanying horrors of the Korean war.

And they tell stories from Korea, all shouting over one another and arguing about how events actually transpired. BJ joins in for most of the ones from his tenure at the front. Including stories of pranks he'd played on Frank and Charles and even Hawkeye – which causes him to elbow BJ in the ribs while Trapper leans around him to grin at Hawkeye in silent laughter. And Margaret even chimes in with little tidbits about Frank Burns that none of the rest of them had even known about, so that's fun. Particularly the part about him having a weird thing for her feet. Just lovely. Hawkeye is so glad he's learned this little fact.

“Between Frank and feet and Ponobscott and fingers, I feel like you tend to attract a very peculiar class of man, Maggie,” Kat says.

So it's just as well I've given them up, now isn't it, her eyebrows seem to say in response. And it really, really is.

“Wonder what that says about us, Trap, given that she wanted to jump your bones and actually jumped mine.”

Trapper laughs. “Don't worry Margaret, Hawkeye's into completely normal things like getting stepped on by women in high heels. You have nothing to worry about there.”

BJ blushes as Hawkeye practically launches himself across his lap to slap a hand over Trapper's mouth. “Shut up, Trap. Now she's never gonna wear those leather hip boots around me.”

Kat raises an eyebrow at Margaret who just smiles demurely. She makes a mental note because that. That bears future investigation.

Meanwhile, Trapper has licked Hawkeye's hand in a bid to get it off his mouth. And poor BJ's looking a little squashed with Hawkeye still half in his lap. And a little red in the face.

Probably because Hawkeye is now exclaiming, “Gross, Trap. Stop that – I know where your mouth has been.”

Trapper waggles his eyebrows lecherously. “And I know where your hand's been.”

Hawkeye laughs and runs his wet hand through Trapper's hair to dry it off. And their faces are right in front of BJ's when Hawkeye's hand catches in Trapper's curly hair and it's like time stops. They're just staring into each other's eyes – expressions full of such naked desire – and it's like BJ's caught in some kind of sexually charged force-field. And he's got to get out from between them, he's just got to.

Luckily, Peg rescues him by nudging Trapper in the shoulder – conveniently knocking him and Hawkeye out of their trance – and saying, “Why don't you swap with BJ? I'd like to spend some time talking to my own husband tonight.”

And Trapper agrees readily enough. Probably because it means he gets to sit next to Hawkeye too. But BJ can't bring himself to mind too much, not when he's got Peg's hand on his thigh and Hawkeye and Trapper have stopped looking at each other like they want to devour one another. Though Trapper pretty obviously has his leg pressed into Hawkeye's under the table – the way BJ had until just moments ago.

But he doesn't really want to think about that right now. So he gets down to the business of eating dinner and lets the chatter and laughter blend into a wash of background noise. The only thing that's real is him and his fork and Peg's small, soft hand on his leg.

BJ's gone a little quiet, Hawkeye notices. Quiet like he'd gotten towards the end of his visit to Boston. But maybe that's just how he is now. Hawkeye himself had gone through a similar change after the war, so he's not one to judge. And he's more than capable of filling the silences with stories of the better parts of the war – helped along by Trapper, who remembers some good ones that Hawkeye has half forgotten about.

And even though BJ isn't saying much, Hawkeye's enjoying getting to sit next to him. Just sort of soaking in his presence. Because he has missed BJ a whole hell of a lot over the years since Korea. And they have an unspecified number of days after the reunion to visit with one another, anyway.

Maybe BJ will open up a little more when it's just the two of them. Well, the two of them plus Peg. Who's an absolute delight and Hawkeye can more than understand why BJ's completely and utterly besotted with her. Which Trapper obviously picks up on, cuz he tips Hawkeye a very knowing look when Peg starts talking about the injustice of the government mandated redlined neighborhoods in San Francisco.

She's truly a woman after his own heart. And he's really looking forward to getting to know her better over the next few days.

But the dinner conversation mostly stays light. Funny stories from work, or joking flirtation with the women at their table. And he and Trapper fall back into their little double act from Korea pretty easily – just treading the line of overt camp and humorous insinuation, with Maggie and Kat playing along happily enough – and Peg, once she figures out the game. And she's very good at it – which makes sense, given that she's married to a man who makes terrible puns on an hourly basis.

All in all, it's like being at a better version of the 4077. One without death or bombs or rats or death. Plus, the food's a whole hell of a lot better than army food. Not a single powdered egg in sight – and Hawkeye's more than grateful. Though all the talking he's doing means he doesn't have very much time for eating and he has to pawn the rest of his plate off to Trapper. Who's never exactly been shy about eating Hawkeye's food, invited to or not.

Trapper takes the plate of mushed together potatoes and vegetables – stirred together by Hawkeye as a pretense that he was actually eating the food, rather than just playing with it – with a grimace. But he ain't one to waste food. And it means something to Hawkeye to give it to him.

“You're lucky I love you,” Trapper whispers into Hawkeye's ear.

He throws his head back in a laugh. As if Trapper has said some uproariously funny joke, rather than a declaration of love – framed as a tease or not. And it lets him slap his hand down on Trapper's thigh – totally accidentally, of course, and not at all an excuse to touch him intimately in public. It's a gesture that absolutely doesn't end in a gentle caress of said thigh. Or in Trapper slapping a hand to Hawkeye's shoulder in shared mirth – a hand that ends up with the thumb stroking gently at the nape of his neck.

Hawkeye feels something inside him settle at the gesture. At the reminder that Trapper's here with him and they're home and that Korea is just funny stories and distant memories to be rehashed with friends. He bumps his shoulder gently against Trapper's in appreciation and understanding. And then steals his dessert.

“You just did all this so you could eat all my cake while I finished your vegetables, you little sneak,” Trapper says with a mock glare. It's obvious he doesn't really mind – and he ought to be used to Hawkeye stealing his dessert by now, anyway.

But Hawkeye's feeling generous, so he holds out his fork. “Fine, you can have one bite.”

“Wow, thanks, Hawk. One whole bite of my own cake.”

But he takes it anyway.

And they probably can't get away with much more than that in such a public setting. BJ's already giving them a weird look. But for now, it's enough.

[narrans]

One Shot | September Prompts

TWENTY | Please

“Ali, please, you need to get some sleep,” Joan pleaded with Ali, who was barely conscious while sitting upright. The other borrowers, with a little help from the team, had set up a temporary living area for the kids. They hadn’t anticipated rescuing so many, though they weren’t complaining, and the vast majority of them did not want to be separated from one another. Instead, the adults voted on taking turns staying with the children in case they needed anything – something the humans could not do unfortunately.

The little girl Ali brought in separately was still unconscious, but her breathing seemed to stabilize and become less labored. Her bandages were no longer bleeding profusely. Patton managed to give her water and even a little orange juice. She was sleeping soundly, but still needed to be monitored. It was late in the evening; Ali knew that much. A cold plate of food was to her right on a side table, but she hadn’t had an appetite for a while. She couldn’t even identify it out of the corner of her eyes. The adrenaline once coursing through her veins and keeping her upright was rapidly turning into a crash. Still, Ali shook her head and gave Joan a thoughtful grin.

“Not yet,” she muttered. “I can sleep later. I’ll only be up for a little while longer anyway. Just until her fever goes down a little more.” Ali wetted another piece of washcloth and switched it out for the one on the girl’s forehead.

“Ali,” Joan said, eyes rolling. “You’ve been up for basically almost three days with no sleep.”

“That is false,” corrected Ali. “I slept for a couple hours earlier today when I got in and took a nap before we headed out for day nine of observation.” Joan was not impressed.

“Okay. So, if we do the math, you’ve been awake for maybe fifteen to twenty hours for every one hour you slept? That’s assuming this unhealthy cycle of yours has lasted for around sixty hours or so.”

Ali rolled her shoulders and leaned her head to the side, letting the satisfying crack display her relative annoyance at being out-mathed while she was sleep deprived. “I’m fine.”

“Ali, please…”

“I said I’m fine. Just a little bit longer. Anyway, no one else is awake right now. Don’t think I didn’t notice everyone passed out on the couches. You are all just as tired as I am, so one of us has to take the hit for now. Seeing that I am currently doing something, I will stay awake.” Joan moaned, knowing Ali was beyond stubborn when she dug her heels in.

“Fine.” With that, Joan grabbed a nearby blanket and settled onto a nearby couch which was currently unoccupied. Within minutes, Ali could hear soft snoring. She smiled to herself and rubbed her dry eyes. It had been quite an eventful few days. The rescue, the observations, the potential court case, and, finally, her fight with Hickory. Well, less of a fight and more like a rant where Ali was personally attacked and tried to defend herself. Whatever it was, Ali was still disquieted. Hickory apparently hadn’t been seen by any of the borrowers she had interacted with or the other humans in the house.

Ali usually wouldn’t be worried. Hickory was prone to vanishing for a couple days here and there. Sometimes, she didn’t want to stay in her “room” which was on Ali’s shelf next to her bed and would go stay somewhere else. Ali never tried to pry where Hickory went, understanding the need for space from time to time. There were plenty of nooks in the house where Hickory could go. The attic. The basement. She could even stay with other borrowers if they didn’t mind her staying for a day or two. Unlike Hickory, Ali couldn’t slip away unseen unless she left the house.

Ali was worried this time. She knew Hickory. Ali knew Hickory’s preferences from thumbtacks to snacks, conversational topics to comfortable silences. Ali knew what could make Hickory happy and the things which tormented her in the silent, sinister parts of her mind. Ali was the only human, if not the only sentient person, who knew about Hickory’s past. While Hickory could put up a good front for the others, Ali knew why Hickory did the things she did when no one else had put it together. All of these things compiled together told Ali there were only a few things Hickory would have done after verbally assaulting Ali the way she did – and at least two of those things were not good.

Still, Ali could not initiate. It was stupid. It was complicated. It was Hickory. Ali found herself tangled in thought hours later. Ali doubted she could have snapped herself out of her mental loop if it weren’t for a few cautious taps to the top of her hand. Her eyes, unfocused and glazed with exhaustion, came back to her as did her other senses. A few blinks cleared away the cloud to reveal Patton standing mere inches from Ali’s hands. Instinctually, a smile tugged into place on Ali’s face.

“Hey Patton,” said Ali, her voice barely above a whisper. She hadn’t realized how long she had been out of it, staring blankly at the edge of the counter. Patton smiled and backed away bashfully.

“Hey Ali. Sorry to bother you,” Patton said. He seemed less tired than earlier. Ali could only attribute it to either a good sleep or something of Virgil’s doing. At any rate, it was good to see Patton with some pep in his step.

“You’re never a bother, Patton. What can I do for you?” asked Ali after a difficult yawn suppression.

“Actually, it’s what can I do for you,” Patton replied. “I know you’ve been up for a long time. You need some rest, even if it’s just for a few hours. Everyone left a couple hours ago, or so Perci told me. Even Thomas is asleep. It’s your turn.” Ali hummed disapprovingly just before suppressing another yawn.

“Patton…”

“There’s no arguing with me, kiddo,” said Patton in the sweetest, stern-demand Ali had ever heard in her life. She almost chuckled when she stopped herself short, not wanting to seem disrespectful. “Now. You told Joan you were going to wait until her fever went down. I just checked her cheeks and she’s not hardly as warm as when she arrived. I’ll stay awake and keep an eye on her. You can drag that couch over here or sleep in your room. Choose what you’d like, but you are getting some sleep, now.” Ali found herself quite impressed with Patton’s authoritative disposition, especially because his demands were caring and said so sweetly. It reminded her of a father speaking to a young child; which, in some ways, was probably a good summation of her current mental state.

“Okay. I’ll get some rest on the condition that you will wake me if she wakes up or if something happens to her. Promise?” Ali, maintaining slow movements, raised her finger for Patton to shake, which he did with a glad smile.

“Promise. Now, get some sleep.” Ali did not realize how stiff her body was after sitting for so many unmoving hours. She didn’t want to be too far in case Patton needed her attention, but the ground was an unforgiving surface for sleeping. As a compromise to herself, Ali tugged two cushions from the sofa close to the counter. She felt like a toddler as she walked with a blanket over her shoulder and collapsed onto the cushions. Within a fraction of a second, Ali was drawn into a deep, dreamless sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Weightless abyss. Warmth. Peace. It felt endless. The darkness, often unnerving, served as a barrier to the outside world. Ali felt like she never wanted to leave. She could have slept for days if she allowed herself such a delight. Alas, no such thing could be allowed. There was too much to do. Too much to see. Too many people who needed help. These thoughts leaked into the silent abyss, disturbing the silence. Ali rolled over from the darkness back to consciousness. From where she was on her cushions, she could see the beginnings of dawn lightening the room. Ali estimated she was probably only asleep for three or four hours, but they had been heavenly hours. She was thoroughly tempted to turn right back into the darkness just behind her eyelids when a sound caught her ear.

Ali moved cautiously as she sat up once she verified the sound was not too close to herself. The last thing she needed was to accidentally roll over onto someone. The sound repeated and Ali soon realized what the sound was. It was Patton. He was sitting beside the glove where Ali left the girl. Ali’s heart stopped in her chest. Had something happened. Refraining from rushing to Patton’s side, Ali calmed herself with a breath and prepared herself.

“Patton?” she called quietly. Instantly, Patton’s head whirled around. His glasses were slightly smudged with tears, eyes red. “What’s wrong? Is she…” Ali couldn’t bare to continue her thought; and, thankfully, she didn’t have to finish. Patton quickly shook his head and removed his glasses to wipe them clean.

“No, she’s okay. Sleeping soundly,” Patton reassured between sniffles. Relief flooded Ali’s body, sending a shockwave of newfound energy through her. There was no chance of her returning to sleep now. Instead, she stretched and resumed her position on her chair.

“Are… you okay?” asked Ali. Patton glanced up at her and placed his glasses back onto his head.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Sorry for bothering you. I just…” He turned his head back to the slumbering child.

“Don’t be sorry,” said Ali. She rubbed what was left of her sleep from her eyes. “What’s on your mind? Feel like talking about it? You don’t have to, of course.” Patton nodded, his slightly curled mess of hair bouncing up and down.

“I know. Thanks,” he muttered. “It’s just… there are so many of them. I knew things were bad, but this…. They don’t have their families, their homes. They’re out here all on their own. I know some of them are older and they’ll probably be alright to start living on their own, but there are the others and there are just so many…” Ali could hear Patton’s voice was straining to keep even and clear. He averted his gaze and wiped his eyes again. “Sorry. I… just can’t seem to stop crying. Feeling sad is one thing, but crying is a little different.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Ali repeated with a thoughtful smile. “It’s good to cry sometimes. It’s a healthy release for the body. Plus, it shows how much you care. There’s no shame in being tender hearted. Honestly, I think it’s one of your strongest and most charming qualities.” Patton glanced up at Ali, a glowing smile laced with tears on his face.

“Thank you, Ali.” A gentle silence filled the room. It was the perfect morning silence; one that accompanies the early morning hours before the world wakes. Patton looked back to the child, some thought rising in his mind. “Ali? I… well… I don’t know exactly who to talk to, but…”

“Talk to? About what?” prompted Ali, a slight concern audible in her voice.

“Well.” Patton began playing with the edges of his poncho. “Where are the kids going to go? I mean… who will look after them?” Ali had to admit, Patton had a very valid point. They hadn’t anticipated so many children of varying ages, though they were not complaining. If Ali were being honest with herself, she would have considered themselves lucky if they rescued a dozen from that awful place.

“Well,” she said within a sigh. “I know Roman and Remus mentioned having some of the kids stay with them, but that was before we knew how many. Why?”

“Well, Virgil and I talked and we want to help out. I know they’re scared and would rather be with their own families, but… I don’t know… even if it’s not forever, maybe they’d like to have a home. And, maybe, Virgil and I could give them that.”

“You want to foster and adopt some of the kids?” asked Ali. Patton’s head turned to her, slightly tilted in confusion.

“Foster?” he asked.

“Yeah, foster. Adopt would be the kids being a permanent member of your family. Fostering is like that, but if their parents are found they can be reunited. That’s a severe oversimplification, but that’s the gist,” explained Ali. Patton nodded excitedly.

“Then, yes. We’d like to do something like that.”

“That’s great,” Ali winced at the slight raising of her excited voice when Patton had not. “Umm… I don’t think there is anyone to talk to honestly. We’re sort of playing by ear,” said Ali. “Do you want to be in charge of that, Patton? Finding homes and families for the kids?” Just as Patton smiled, the first rays of sunlight crested over the horizon and illuminated the living room. Ali though the timing serendipitous.

“I would love to,” he beamed.

“That’s settled then. I guess I’ll let Thomas and the others know just so when the kids find homes we don’t panic when they’re gone. We should probably wait a couple days before letting the kids loose, just in case, but there shouldn’t be any issues.” The smile on Patton’s face could not be slapped away. After a few more minutes of sitting in excited anticipation, Patton left Ali so he could begin planning his rounds and let Virgil know the good news.

The timing was good. The next shift of borrowers arrived to relieve those who had stayed the night with the children just as Patton left. Ali could hear rustles from inside the bags as the children, undoubtedly woken by the adults leaving, became curious and apprehensive. Ali realized, suddenly, that she was probably the only human awake in the house and that her being there in the same room prevented the children from looking about and exploring. All of the volunteers knew that the children were not allowed off of the table until they had regained their strength and their injuries were assessed. Still, that did not prevent them from walking about the tables and counters which were set up as the initial workstation.

Unwilling to leave her critical condition patient, Ali carefully scooped the glove into her palms and decided to move to the coffee table and couch whose cushions she robbed hours earlier. It was just far enough so the others shouldn’t feel threatened while letting Ali keep an ear out for any emergencies. The girl seemed to be sleeping soundly and hadn’t woken since the day before, not that Ali was surprised. Ali had made it only two or three steps away when she heard sprinting footsteps and a sharp, demanding shout.

“You leave her alone!” Ali glanced to the table to see a boy, maybe in his early to mid-teens based on what Ali knew about borrower height and age, sprint from the perceived protection of the bag to the edge of the table and glare up at her. His hair was a dark caramel brown like his eyes and they burned with anger and fear. “Let her go!” Ali, bewildered, knelt to be at eye-level with the child. Ali could see he was trembling, but fiercely determined.

“I’m sorry. Is this a friend of yours?” asked Ali softly. The boy’s features hardened as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

“GIVE HER BACK!” he shouted. Ali glanced down at the girl and then back to the boy.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Ali said soothingly. “I’m not taking her. At least, not far. She’s still not feeling well and needs to rest. We’re just going over there, okay?” Ali directed her eyes to the nearby sofa, which did not satisfy the boy.

“She can sleep over here,” argued the boy as he clenched his fists. “Now, put her down!” One of the other borrowers, Perci, jogged across the table and stood at the child’s side, placing an arm around the boy.

“Hello, sorry to intrude. Is there a problem here?” said Perci, her eyes darting quickly to Ali and trying to read the situation. The boy shrugged off Perci’s arm from his shoulder, scowling and taking a few steps away.

“Yes! This human is taking away Vi!” the boy pointed accusingly at Ali. Perci glanced just over the table to see the sleeping girl. She was aware of the girl’s condition and combed her fingers through her own short, dirty-blonde hair.

“Vi? Is that her name?” Ali realized she had spoken aloud when the boy audibly growled at her.

“Don’t call her that! Only her friends call her that.” Ali nodded apologetically.

“I’m sorry,” Ali said softly, a statement which seemed to surprise the boy. Perci glanced to Ali, not sure what how to proceed. Ali needed to establish trust. Alarming the others by not listening and taking one of their own away from them, even though it wasn’t true, was not the way to do things. Ali, with a quick nod, gave a slight smile to Perci and looked back to the boy. “Okay. I’m going to set her right here. Is that alright?” The boy’s eyes narrowed skeptically, but he nodded his approval.

While Ali raised her hands with the girl, she spoke softly to the boy. “Now, it’s important to let her sleep, okay? So, don’t try to wake her. She has a few severe injuries she’s recovering from.” Ali laid the glove just in front of the boy, who cautiously approached and knelt by the girl called Vi’s side. He seemed to understand Ali’s instructions as he did not try to wake Vi and, instead, visually inspected her to ensure she was still in one piece. Ali leaned back onto her heels and watched the boy’s interactions. He didn’t seem to be related to Vi. Their facial features were not similar and their hair color was vastly different, her hair being a very pale blonde from what Ali could tell and his being a rich brown. The boy reached out and clasped Vi’s hand in his own. The strength he seemed to exude moments before was waning. His shoulders were shaking slightly. He also seemed to be fighting tears as he stared at Vi’s pale face. Perci, who was still standing nearby, took a few steps back to give the boy some space.

“W… will she…” He didn’t seem to know how to finish his thought. Ali hoped he was leaning toward the more positive side as she replied.

“She’ll be alright,” encouraged Ali. “She will wake up. Her body is just recovering. If she’s not up by this afternoon on her own, we’ll try waking her up.” The boy wiped his nose on the back of his hand, refusing to allow his eyes to leave the girl’s fragile frame. Ali tried to catch the boy’s eye, something he was actively avoiding. “Would you feel up to helping your friend better?” This caught his attention. He glanced at Ali, obviously apprehensive but eager.

“What do I need to do?” he said with as much confidence as he could muster.

“Well, she needs to stay hydrated, but she can’t drink on her own. After she rests for a little while longer, you could help her do that,” replied Ali. “You wet a paper towel and let it drip on her lips and in her mouth. That, alone, will help her tremendously. Perci or one of the other adults can show you.” The boy glanced over his shoulder at Perci who was still supervising the interaction.

They sat in silence for nearly five minutes. Ali could see some of the children peaking their heads out, surveying the scene around them. She could hear the encouraging words and soothing comments. She also couldn’t help but notice the nervous glances from the shadows. It was time. Ali spotted a tall side table over by the television. It was lightweight, but stable. Ali stood slowly and brought the table between the cushions she used as a bed and the main table.

“I have a compromise,” she said after resuming her kneeling stance. The boy’s eyes narrowed cynically. “I need to be able to monitor your friend in case there are any changes, but I want you to feel like you can keep an eye on her too.”

“Then just leave her here,” stated the boy shortly.

“Unfortunately, I can’t monitor her without watching. I’m also making the others nervous by being here.” Ali nodded her head toward where the other children were. “If she’s on this table here, we’ll both be able to check up on her. Okay?” The boy seemed reluctant, but Perci, thank goodness, stepped in and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Ali won’t let anything happen to your friend. She’s one of the good ones.” The boy’s shoulders sagged just before he puffed out his chest got to his feet. It was apparent he was forcing himself to accept he couldn’t do anything at the moment to help his friend.

“You let me know the second she wakes up. Understood?” Ali nodded obediently.

“Absolutely,” reassured Ali. He turned his head away, looking slightly bashful suddenly.

“Tell… tell her that Axel is really worried and that I’ll do anything to help her get better.” He spoke so softly Ali almost missed it. She nodded again as Perci stepped up and guided Axel back toward the others. Ali, once again, lifted the glove the girl was on and, this time, placed her on the table by the cushions. [What an interesting boy. Axel. Certainly has some spunk] Ali thought as she sat and leaned against the wall. The moment she was out of sight, the sounds of the children exploring and walking about began. There were hesitant giggles and curious awes as the Shelter was explained and questions were answered. A head would peer over the edge from time to time, but no one other than Axel dared say anything to her. Roman and Remus made an appearance after an hour or so and, soon after, Thomas began rummaging around in the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

Much like the night, breakfast was uneventful and Ali found her mind wandering once again. Even though the girl, Vi, wasn’t awake, she upheld her promise and returned her to the table for Axel and Persi to supervise. Ali admired Axel’s determination and selflessness. He was obviously terrified of the notion of being with humans but pushed these things aside to help his friend. He kept cool towels on Vi’s head and was especially delicate when giving her something to drink. Persi nodded, assuring she would keep an eye out, while Ali left to help Thomas in the kitchen.

“Morning,” he greeted. There was a pep in his voice indicating he already had some sort of caffeinated beverage this morning or had a fantastic sleep, one of the two. Ali smiled, but flinched as she caught her reflection. She looked like a train wreck.

“Morning,” she replied. Her voice sounded deeper than usual.

“Did you get any sleep?” The emphasis he placed on the words indicated both concern and teasing sarcasm.

“Sure, let’s call it that. Yeah, I pulled some cushions over after Patton relieved me. Might’ve gotten three or four hours. Not sure. Anyway, the girl is still passed out cold, but her fever seems to be breaking. One of the kids called her Vi. I think that’s her name, but I’m not sure.” Ali poured herself some coffee and heated it in the microwave while fetching some things to make it sweeter. She hated bitter coffee.

“Good to hear.” There was a sudden roar of laughter followed by Roman and Remus’s playful, bantering shouts. “That is also good to hear,” muttered Thomas. Ali hummed in acknowledgment as she doctored up her coffee and enjoyed the way it warmed her fingertips. The ribbons of steam lifted in the air from the caffeinated brew. The humans listened to the seemingly pleasant but faint conversation in the next room over.

Then, like a pressing weight on your lungs, something unpleasant filled the space between Thomas and Ali.

“Have you heard anything from…”

“No, I haven’t heard anything. Probably won’t,” muttered Ali, knowing who Thomas was referring to. Ali cracked her neck uncomfortably and turned toward the stairs. “Whelp, not to be rude, but I need to bathe. See ya on the other side.”

“Ali.” Thomas’s voice indicated his disapproval of her walking away from the conversation.

“Thomas.” Ali returned using the same tone with a hint of annoyance.

“You can’t avoid this.”

“I’m not trying to,” stated Ali, her back still to Thomas.

“Sooner or later, you’ll have to see her again.”

“And I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.” Thomas stared disbelievingly at Ali.

“You didn’t even go back to your room last night,” pointed out Thomas.

“Because I was keeping an eye on Vi,” explained Ali.

“Right, that’s the only reason?”

“That’s the only reason.” There was a deliberate beat of silence followed by Thomas’s sigh.

“Look, I’m not trying to pick a fight first thing in the morning. I don’t mean to sound patronizing and I’m not… I’m a Hufflepuff by nature and don’t seek conflict for kicks. I just want to make sure that you’re both all right.” Ali had to agree with him. “Just… please. Just talk to her.”