#up in the clouds 1965

[inmyworldblr]

Nirjan Saikate (1963) // Akash Kusum (1965) // film poster comparison

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

Nirjan Saikate (The Desolate Beach) - dir, Tapan Sinha

Akash Kusum (Up in the Clouds) - dir. Mrinal Sen

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

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

I don't know if you ever received this ask or had this idea before but here goes nothing Since Ghost already met Jade's family, what if she meets his? ....angst material. Sorry not sorry.

Oh my God... Anon... You sparked something in me, and I cannot go to sleep now without posting this. Thank you so much for the idea.

(I think I'm gonna make a full on comic out of this, and I will make an art at some point for this fic, but let's use this lovely GIF of Ghost first)

She's The One

Jade meets Ghost's family.

Pairing : Simon “Ghost” Riley x Charlotte “Jade” Le Jardin (OC) Word Count : ~ 1.8k words Warning : Medium to heavy angst and mentions of death, but ends with a full on fluff because you know me mate I want Ghost to be happy ok.

Title and story inspired by the song 'She's The One' by Robbie Williams

"...How's your family, Simon?" 

Jade asked Ghost. They had been having a small outing, which included watching the cinema together and going around the streetside shops to find new wardrobes for Ghost to wear. He initially thought that it was unnecessary, but as Jade insisted, he went anyway – as long as he could spend his off-duty time with her.  

He'd met her parents, and though he was apprehensive about it at first, they turned out to be pleasant and strong people. It was such an unfamiliar feeling for him, to have a family to come home to, a supportive family and kind and can take care of their own. He's foreign to that concept.

Ghost just stayed silent to her question, his expression which was usually unreadable turned sorrowful, his eyes gazing down at the pavements they walked. She thought she should change the subject before Ghost muttered,

"You want to see them now?" 

Jade opened her eyes wide in surprise, not expecting him to say anything about meeting his family this fast, and the way he said 'now'...

The woman knew Ghost wouldn't ask her that question if he was adamant as he was a straightforward person. And so, she answered, "Of course, if you don't mind it." He then proceeded to enter his car that was parked not far from where they just watched a movie in a cinema, not forgetting to open the passenger door for Jade beforehand. 

They drove for a full 30 minutes of silence, save for the sound soft songs on the radio. As Ghost drove, Jade looked out the window and understood that they were going to a familiar place that she had passed by a few times in her life. He drove to the nearest available parking area, parking his car flawlessly before stopping the car engine, leaving the both of them in complete silence. 

Jade felt the atmosphere around him grow heavy, his hands still on the steering wheel as if he was still pondering whether or not he wanted to get out of the car. He let out a soft sigh, took his keys and got out of the car. Jade got out of her own and looked at the surrounding area.

Cemetery.

The sun had disappeared behind the heavy grey clouds that constantly covered the England skies. Tiny drops of water had touched her cheek, in such a way it reflected Ghost's inner thoughts right now. 

The man looked at her, "Over here." He walked with Jade following right behind him. After about 10 minutes of walking and treading through the tall grasses, Ghost stopped in front of a group of gravestones, four of them, which were placed more tightly together than the other. The grasses were tidily short, a sign that the keepers attended to these graves properly.

Jade then looked down, reading the engravings on the stones, and her heart shattered to pieces.

"Susan Riley, November 17th, 1965 - December 24th, 2017"

"Thomas Riley, July 21st, 1990 - December 24th, 2017"

"Elizabeth Riley, May 8th, 1991 - December 24th, 2017"

"Joseph Riley, March 19th, 2013 - December 24th, 2017"

It was his mother's birthday. 

She looked up to find Ghost's eyes gazing down at the names as well, noticing that the ground he was standing on was right at the front of his mother's grave. No tears in sight, only sadness, and as an MI6 agent of two decades, she could deduce an expression of regret. Jade didn't need to wonder why, as the dates of their deaths were all the same - the reason he hid his identity, lived as no one, avoided any relationship with anyone, and the reason why he was adamant about meeting her parents – His past came to haunt, and it's target was not him. 

Jade couldn't say anything. What could she say? That she's sorry this happened? She knew Ghost hated that phrase the most, of someone pitying him, that they wished things could be different. But what use is it to wish? It happened. His entire family died because something happened during one of his missions, and his family paid the price for it.

As if on cue, she heard a small sniff from him the same second the raindrops started to grow more frequent, falling harder, creating white noises and wet spots on their clothes. Being the Londoner she was, knowing that sunny days were never really sunny, Jade fished out her floral purple umbrella, holding it above Ghost's head beside her, making sure to cover his broad shoulders fully as her left shoulder grew wet. 

She saw his face, and it was enough reason to stay silent and let him grieve. She didn't know if this was the first time he'd visited their graves after years or if he always come here at some time every year, but no matter which one the answer was, if she could see one thing, it was that his tears never seemed to run out after more than a decade. 

Jade let him cry, the sound of his sobs completely drowned by the white noises of the heavy rain. 

She knew that he wasn't much for any physical touch, nonetheless, she lifted her other hand softly and rubbed at his back, going up and down in an attempt to soothe his sorrow. And after a minute of him not flinching away from her touch, Jade mustered up her will to slowly encircle her arm around his own on his side, their sides touching as she rubbed his bicep, and going even further as she leaned her head to touch his shoulder. 

Ghost's shoulder still shook for a few minutes as he cried his heart out, Jade kept doing what she did as he let his sorrow out. 

Soon after, another surprise hit her when she heard and saw that the rain started to slow down, albeit still going down on both of them. Her other arm started to grow sore after moments of holding the umbrella high to accommodate his height, yet what alleviated the pain was the fact that she felt a small weight on her head, realizing that Ghost had eased his cries, now only soft sniffs, and that he leaned his head on top of hers as well.

He still stayed silent, not a word spoken ever since they arrived, but she knew that this was a good sign that he knew that she would be there for him, even when he was vulnerable.

"Happy birthday, Mrs. Riley." 

Jade muttered softly, the man beside her still looking down on his mother's grave even though he was slightly dazed at her words. 

"This is our first meeting, but I can tell that you were a kind person, and an even more amazing mother and grandmother."

He then glanced at Jade as she continued, "Your son is a very skilled and intelligent man, traits which I assume he got from you. He's confident, a great leader-- oh! And he's handsome as well, so that's a plus." 

That prompted a scoff out of his mouth. Nevertheless, she went on. "He's not much of a social person. He's a little bit intense and stiff - We can work on that. He shot my hand once! I have the scar to prove it. His choices of words are sometimes foul, though, again, we could always work on that." Jade joked lightheartedly, seeing him softly smile above her.

"But if there's one thing about him that I love, is that he's a strong man with a warm heart, and I don't have to assume to know that he got it from you." Jade continued. "Your son is the strongest man I know, and I will stop at nothing to protect him and make him happy."

Ghost looked down at her, astounded at her words. "Thank you for bringing him into this world. Happy birthday, Mrs. Riley." 

As she finished her message, Jade looked up with a soft smile, "I'll be sure to bring some flowers the next time we visit, and every year after that." 

She thought he was going to say something, until the arm that was intertwined with hers moved, though nervously, gliding across her back and found its home on Jade's shoulder, before lightly pressing and pulling her towards him. Jade blushed, not only at the warmth of his body but also at the fact that he initiated the touch. 

"Thank you, Lottie." He muttered in his deep voice, "So much." 

"Anytime, Love." 

After about 15 minutes of standing in front of the graves, the rain had stopped, and the sun showed up to light the rest of the day as the sky turned orange. Jade had stored the wet umbrella back in its container and hung it on her wrist before she walked back to the car per his request. Jade figured he wanted some alone time with his family, and so she obliged.

"How's she, Mum? She's a beautiful bird, isn't she?" 

Ghost finally spoke, his hands tucked inside his pockets. He then glanced at his brother's grave, smirking. "What about you, Tommy? You think she's the one?" He asked no one, not expecting any answer anyway, yet he just wanted to let it out.

"I thought I'm gonna bite the dust on some fucking rathole somewhere, and that was what I wished at some point, but..." Ghost sighed, shifting his weight on his hip, "I kind of want to die an old man, after living my life to the fullest with her-- Fuck, I can't believe I'm saying this." Ghost chuckled at his own words, not expecting it to be this heartfelt. "I'm arse over tit for her. Yeah, you're gonna laugh at me for this Tommy, but at least I didn't laugh when you said the same thing about Beth." 

"And Mum, knowing you, I think you'd like her. She's a bit like you, in a way." Ghost confessed, still eyeing her name on her gravestone, "She cares too much. In a good way, and I find it endearing." He suddenly recalled the memories he had with Jade, from the first moment they met to this moment, replaying them over and over and being surprised about how much she reminded him of his mother. 

"I want to protect her with all my life. I love her, Mum."

And with that, a burden on his shoulders felt like no more. He'd never said those words to anyone, and he might be insane to be in love with someone considering how he'd lived his life, but he'd made a promise to protect her, and if he'd be a fool, then a fool he would become.

"Anyway, she's waiting back there, and I'm hungry. So I'm going to leave you now." Ghost then stood up straight, his hands still in his pockets. He glanced at every single one of the gravestones, before looking at his mother's.

"Happy birthday, Mum." 

-----

(All of the Riley's birthdays are entirely made-up. Their date of death was also made up, but I remembered there were something with Christmas, so I'll just place December 24th to make my heart hurt more) ಥ_ಥ

Anyway, thank you for reading, and hope you love this! (❁´◡`❁)

[psychwxrdd]

Chapter II

The collector (1965)

Summary: Rafe Cameron is obsessed with y/n. Unable to make any normal contact, he decides to add her to his "collection" of pretty, preserved objects, in the hope that if he keeps her captive long enough, she will grow to love him.

REWRITTED: sorry for everyone who read it for the first time and saw "miranda" instead of "y/n", miranda is the name of the original girl in the book and movie, i automatically writted it!

It finally happened ten days later, as often happens with butterflies. What I mean is that sometimes we go to a place where we think we will find a rare specimen, and nothing happens, but some other time, when we are not looking, we see a wonderful specimen on a flower, right in front of our nose - offered with a spoon, as they say.

That night, I was outside the subway station, as usual, with the car hidden in a side street. The day had been pleasant and warm enough, but almost suddenly it had started to rain and thunder. I then saw her climb the steps of the station, without a cape or any other protection. She was only wearing a skirt and blouse. I went after her, knowing that it would be of no use, as I had no idea what she was doing. Then, suddenly, she turned onto a larger street and headed towards a cinema. Came in. I immediately understood what had happened. Y/n had called home saying that it was raining a lot and that she was going to a movie to give the rain time to pass.

I knew then that my moment had come, unless someone came to meet her. As soon as she entered, I asked the doorman what time the film ended. Within two hours. I took a serious risk, perhaps to give fate a chance to stop me. I went into a restaurant and had a copious dinner. I then went to get the car and put it in a place where I could watch the cinema. I didn't know what to expect, it was possible that a friend would come and pick her up. I felt as if I were going down a river full of jumps and rapids: maybe I would run into a rock or, on the other hand, maybe I would escape safely. Y/n left the cinema alone, exactly two hours later. The rain had stopped and it was getting dark. The sky was full of clouds. I saw her walking home. I put the car in motion and overtook her, stopping at a place where she would have to pass. It was the place where her street curved and joined another. On one side, there were only trees and bushes and, on the other, a huge house on a vast plot of land. I believe the house was abandoned. The rest of the path was all lit up. Only this portion of the street remained in the dark. It was the only place that suited me.

A minute passed. She must have been appearing, walking quickly, as was her wont. If the night had been clear, I don't know what she would have done. But this wind blowing through the trees helped me. I saw Y/n and I also saw that there was no other person in the entire street. She passed me. How curious...

— I'm sorry — I told her — Do you know anything about dogs?

Y/n stopped, very surprised. - Why? she asked.

“A horrible thing happened,” I replied. — I ran over a dog and I don't know what to do. He's not dead. I looked at the back of the car, with a worried expression.

—Oh! Poor animal — Y/n commented. She approached me to see the dog, just as I had expected.

— There's no blood — I told her — but the dog can't move.

Y/n was now near the back door of the car, and I took a step back as if to let her see. She bent down to peer into the underside of the car. I quickly looked across the street. I didn't see a single person and decided to take action. I held her with one arm and, with the other hand, I took the cotton pad soaked in chloroform from my pocket and pressed it tightly against her mouth and nose. Y/n was so surprised that she didn't even scream, although she struggled mightily, writhing to try and free herself.

She started coughing and losing strength. I looked around me: nobody. I prepared to run away if someone suddenly appeared. Suddenly, Y/n became motionless — inanimate — I had to support her so she wouldn't fall. Not without difficulty, I dragged her into the rear compartment of the car. I closed the doors and laid her on the cane. Y/n was mine, and I felt very excited, knowing that she had managed to carry out my plans without, after all, encountering any major problems. Then, now calmer, with methodical and well-studied gestures, I placed the gag in her mouth and, as planned, tied her to the bed with the straps she had bought for that purpose. When I concluded the work, I went to sit and vote. All of that hadn't taken more than a minute. I put the car in gear and drove slowly to a place I knew.

Once there, I stopped again, examining Y/n's inert body more closely. I tied her better, so that she could not scream or beat with her hands and feet, also taking care to check that there was no possibility of her hurting herself. She was still unconscious, but she was breathing, albeit somewhat hoarsely, as if she had a cold, and that reassured me. I turned off the main road as I had planned, and on a small, lonely side road, I stopped the car to examine it. I placed the flashlight at a point where it illuminated the entire interior of the car. She was awake. Her eyes were wide open, but they didn't look scared. They even had a proud expression, as if she had decided not to look scared, no matter what.

“Don't be afraid,” I told her. — I won't hurt you." Y/n continued to stare at me. I felt truly embarrassed, not knowing what was going on.

- Feel good? Want something? I asked my darling, although, of course, they were stupid questions. What I really wanted to ask was if she wanted to leave for a moment. Y/n started shaking her head, and I quickly realized that she was telling me that the gag was hurting her.

“I'm going to take off the gag,” I replied. — We're a long way from the city, and if you scream, no one will hear you. But if you don't behave well, I'll put the gag back on you, understand?"

Y/n nodded, and I removed the gag, as she promised. At the same moment, she turned to her side as far as the straps would allow and vomited. It was horrible. The smell of chloroform and vomit mixed together and made me feel immensely nauseous. Y/n said nothing, limiting herself to coughing. I lost my mind; I didn't know what to do. I suddenly felt that I needed to get home quickly and I put the gag over her mouth again. Y/n struggled. I heard her say in a hoarse, anguished tone:

“No. no!" It was terrible, but I forced myself to continue, because I knew deep down that the best thing would be to get home as quickly as possible. I started the car again and we left. We arrived home shortly after ten thirty. I put the car in the garage and looked around to make sure nothing had happened during my absence, even though I knew very well that nothing could have happened. But all precautions were few. I went down to the basement, carefully examining Y/n's room: it wasn't very stuffy, as I had left the door open to air it out. I had slept in it one night to see if it had enough air, and it did. I had left everything ready to make tea and toast. The small apartment looked very comfortable and even elegant.

Finally, the big moment had arrived. I went back to the garage and opened the back door of the car. Everything went according to my plans. I untied her and made her sit down. She kicked around for a while, and I had to warn her that if she didn't stay still, I would be forced to use the chloroform again (which I showed her), but that it wouldn't do her any harm if she remained still. That calmed her down. I lifted her in my arms and carried her to the cellar without any difficulty. She was light like a feather, my little fairy. She struggled a little at the entrance to the room, however, there was nothing she could do to escape. I laid her on the bed. The work was done. Y/n's face looked weak, but there was no fear in her eyes. Strange. Y/n just looked at me, waiting for me to explain everything.

— This will be your room — I informed her. — Do as I tell you, and you will not come to any harm. It's not worth shouting. Your voice won't be heard outside, and in any case, there won't be anyone to hear you. I'll leave you alone now, you has biscuits and sandwiches here and, if you like, you can make tea or chocolate. I'll come visit you tomorrow morning."

I said, caressing her hair slightly. The hair i wanted to touch so badly, for so long... She was so beautiful. I felt my eyes watering, i couldn't believe i finally had her. But for tonight, she needs to figure some things out, and i'll give her time to do it.

taglist: @pocozyc-april @h34rtsformilli 💕

[danskjavlarna]

"The dying lady’s name is a low cloud made of ectoplasm, made of play dough, made of grey cellophane crumpled by a deaf child, made of steam from a boiling kettle that got up a full head, hauled up anchor and steamed away, to the north, to Cape Rienga, of course" (Jeffrey Harpeng).

  "It was impossible for me to put on shoes."  From We Can Read Magic and Make-believe Book Two by Gerrard & McInnes, 1965.

It's been said that we still have only the crudest understanding of ghosts. Here are a thousand vintage ghosts I've invited over.

[sepdet]

Holy fuck y'all

Flickr account: NASA on the Commons

I haven't seen some of these photos in decades, and some I've never seen, and anyways

Crew of shuttle Atlantis playing peekaboo with crew of old Russian space station Mir (RIP) Nov 24, 1995

Q: why do most space photos showing spacecraft have no stars?

Discovery's maneuvering thrusters angled for pitch up, main engines at low burn, July 6, 2006

Discovery pulling in to dock with ISS, July 6, 2006

Endeavour departs ISS, March 24, 2008— note how bright the shadows are from the sun-glare off clouds.

Discovery over Southwest coast of Morocco as ISS and Discovery bid farewell and take photos of one another for final time on March 7, 2011.

Hint: Is it day or night in these photos?

Astronaut Charles M. Duke drilling, photographed by John W. Young (Hey, he flew on the first space shuttle!) April 21, 1972.

Pilot Harrison Schmidt bagging what they hope is a lava sample, Apollo 17, Dec 13, 1972.

International Space Station taken by Discovery undocking March 25, 2009.

Stars don't show in most photos of spacecraft because sunlight illuminates surfaces far more brightly than distant stars shine. In fact, sunlight in Earth's orbit is brighter in space, since air scatters enough light rays to turn their wavelength blue.

Columbia 😭 liftoff STS-50, June 25, 1992. Gods I miss ya, little sister.

But the sun covers less sky (or, to put it another way, the photons it emits kerp spreading out over an increasingly large sphere of space) for Mars and the outer planets, so its light is dimmer, until it's just another star.

Enhanced contrast version of first image of another planet, Mars by Mariner 3, July 15, 1965. 6 years before you were born doesn't feel that long ago... does it? Does it? How dare it start feeling that way to me! ;)

There's so many more amazing images on that channel, including planets/moons. Go look. Cool stuff.

[morbidology]

It was the 9th of October, 1965, and 14-year-old Elsie Frost and was spending the afternoon at Snapethorpe School’s Sailing Club in Lupset, Wakefield, with her friends. At around 4PM, Elsie left to walk the short distance home. Typically, she would walk home with friends but on this afternoon, she wanted to avoid the canal towpath. She had just got a new pair of shoes and knew that route would be muddy due to earlier rain.

As Elsie was walking through the tunnel below the railway line at Horbury, she was savagely attacked. She was stabbed in the head, hand, and back. The stab wound to her back pieced her heart. Due to the stab wound on her hand, it was evident that the teenager had attempted to defend herself against the frenzied attack. Unfortunately, it was unfruitful and she died due to shock and blood loss.

A manhunt for the killer was underway immediately. It became the largest manhunt that Wakefild would ever see, with the army even becoming involved. A couple of months after the shocking murder, 33-year-old Ian Bernard Spencer was declared to be guilty by the coroner. He was innocent, he professed, and this claim was corroborated by family members who said they were at home with Ian that afternoon. Ian was eventually acquitted of the murder but always remained under a cloud of suspicion. Police would frequently show up to his home whenever a murder took place in the area and Ian took to writing his daily activities down in a book.

One of the main theories is that Elsie stumbled across two men engaging in homosexual activities, which was illegal in Britain at the time. Another theory is that Elsie had a secret boyfriend who may have been involved. In 2016, an 78-year-old Peter Pickering was arrested in connection with Elsie’s murder. He was bailed out of jail and then re-arrested again in March or 2017. The case still remains unsolved. Elsie’s parents both went to the grave without knowing who killed their daughter or why.

[a-froger-epic]

1965 - What a year for Roger!

(In which I invite you to write fic about that time Roger's official girlfriend possibly tried to beat up his unofficial girlfriend. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

January - Roger joins "Johnny Quale and the Reactions". He is fifteen, about two years younger than his band mates. (Source: Queen in Cornwall)

February - Roger starts dating Eileen Wright after meeting her at a Reaction concert in Falmouth. She recalls their relationship as quite chaste, and him as a "very gentle person" and not "a raunchy bloke". (Source: Queen - The Early Years). It must be true, because Roger remembers that his first proper kiss happened only with the next girl he started dating, Jill. (Source)

Aww, you might think, that doesn't sound like the ladies' man Roger the fandom knows and loves! Is it all just rumours? Er, well... read on.

March - Johnny Quale and the Reactions come fourth in the Rock and Rhythm championship of Cornwall. Roger is voted Best Musician. (Source) Which I think is actually really impressive for the youngest member of a group and the drummer, at that. Bet he did some impressive singing while drumming.

May - Roger meets Jill Johnson at a concert. She's a singer with a folk band and a year younger than him (which makes her fourteen). "Roger was sitting next to us in the back row and we left together. It was that night, or the next, that he took me to the local funfair [...]. And I believe the next night I went to one of his gigs with him. From then on it was a pretty regular thing." Not an exclusive thing though. "I knew one or two girls that he was involved with. One tried to beat me up at a dance in Falmouth!" (Source: Queen in Cornwall) Wait, did she say Falmouth? :O Eileen?!?

This is pure speculation, I have no idea whether it was Eileen. But if it was, I have a feeling Eileen was not, in fact, aware of any of the other girls. Because whoever tried to beat up Jill probably was under the impression that Roger was very much taken and exclusive with them!

September - Johnny Quale leaves The Reaction after a fight over whether they should play a gig when there is an Elvis film being screened at the same time, as you do. (Source: Queen in Cornwall)

And so, just over half a year after he joins a group where everyone is older than him, Roger pretty much becomes their drummer/lead singer. Picture the ecstatic, cocky grin. Picture it.

October - Roger goes to see The Who in concert. According to Eileen (who is still his girlfriend!? Have they kissed yet? Who knows!) Roger tries to catch Keith's drumsticks and "walked out of the concert on cloud nine". (Source: Queen - The Early Years)

Christmas - The Reaction play at a school dance (source: Queen in Cornwall) and Eileen breaks up with Roger. (Source: Queen - The Early Years)

Oh dear. Did someone finally tell Eileen about the other one or two girls? Ah, well. Roger doesn't look too broken up about it. (The picture is from the school dance.)

[sebssunshine]

ive been infected with logan sargeant brain rot so take some vampire!logan this fine evening

January 1st 1965 

Logan's first thought as he wakes up is a memory, one of him as a kid. The first time his dad took him hunting; the coppery smell of blood in the crisp new england air.

For his first few moments of consciousness Logan thinks he's back there, in those woods, standing in front of a deer bleeding out through a bullet hole in its skull. When he finally peels his eyes open it hits him; The previous night rushing back at him like a tidal wave. The party, the keg stand, the cute guy with dark hair making eyes at him from across the room. Stumbling through the woods, Logan's hand in his. The soft kisses and the sharp bite against his neck. 

The sun is just starting to peek out from behind the cloud cover and Logan moves to cover his eyes. The light hurts, it's not quite a burning sensation but it's definitely not pleasant. He gets up swaying a little before thumping down again into a patch of moss in the shade of a tree. He feels different then he did the night before; weirdly lighter. Logan shrugs off his letterman jacket, the gray green stained with blotches of rust, and chucks it about as far away from him as possible. The cold doesn't seem to bother him anymore. He scrubs his hands over his face and tries again to stand up. He still sways a bit but remains upright this time. Looking around Logan starts to walk, keeping in the shade of the trees; trying to retrace his drunken steps from the previous night. Eventually he stumbles across a stream, clear crisp water not yet frozen by the winter. Logan looks down at his reflection, he smiles confirming what had been rattling around in his brain since he woke up. His two front canines have elongated into sharp points and his eyes have turned from their usual blue green to a pale yellow. 

He leans down kneeling next to the water, runs his tongue over the tips of his teeth– his fangs; and grins. 

“Hell yeah.” 

[usafphantom2]

SR-71 pilot recalls when a KC-135Q crew flew through a thunderstorm with their tanker’s throttles frozen to refuel his Blackbird.

The KC-135Q

It’s impossible to overemphasise the essential role played by the KC-135Q tanker crews, without whom successful prosecution of the SR-71 Blackbird mission would have been impossible. As told by Paul F Crickmore in his book Lockheed Blackbird: Beyond the Secret Missions (Revised Edition), it became apparent to Strategic Air Command (SAC) that the tanker force dedicated to supporting SR-71 operations would need to be expanded beyond the original 21 Q-model aircraft and in 1967 the decision was made to modify an additional 35 aircraft. Some 20 KC-135As from the 70th AREFS, 43rd BW at Little Rock AFB, Arkansas, and 15 from the 306th AREFS, 306th BW at McCoy AFB, Florida were therefore converted.

SR-71 T-Shirts

CLICK HERE to see The Aviation Geek Club contributor Linda Sheffield’s T-shirt designs! Linda has a personal relationship with the SR-71 because her father Butch Sheffield flew the Blackbird from test flight in 1965 until 1973. Butch’s Granddaughter’s Lisa Burroughs and Susan Miller are graphic designers. They designed most of the merchandise that is for sale on Threadless. A percentage of the profits go to Flight Test Museum at Edwards Air Force Base. This nonprofit charity is personal to the Sheffield family because they are raising money to house SR-71, #955. This was the first Blackbird that Butch Sheffield flew on Oct. 4, 1965.

The only crews qualified to refuel the SR-71 Blackbird

KC-135Q crews and their aircraft were unique from the rest of the Air Force in several ways. As explained by Col. Richard H. Graham, a former Blackbird pilot, in his book SR-71 The Complete Illustrated History of THE BLACKBIRD The World’s Highest, Fastest Plane, their aircrews in fact were the only one certified in Blackbird’s specific radio-silent rendezvous procedures, and their boom operators were the only ones qualified to refuel the SR-71. The Q-model tankers had special plumbing between their fuel tanks, allowing them to transfer JP-4 and JP-7 fuel between various tanks. Their engine could burn transfer JP-4 or JP-7 fuel. If the SR-71 landed somewhere JP-7 fuel was not available, the Q-model tankers flew in with the fuel and, through the use of transfer hoses on the ground, were able to refuel the SR-71.

No SR-71 story would be complete without KC-135Q

No story on the SR-71 would be complete without an understanding and appreciation of just how valuable the KC-135Q model tankers and their crews were to the successful and safe completion of every mission.

It suffices to say that an SR-71 never ran out of gas, as proved by the following story told by former Blackbird pilot David Peters.

‘There are many stories of the loyalty, bravery and reliability of our Q tanker guys. This is a great one for sure.

The story of the SR-71 Blackbird that pitched up and collided with a KC-135Q tanker during an air refueling over El Paso

KC-135Q crews bravery

‘Ed Bethart and I were flying a mission out of Kadena and it was definitely thunderstorm season. We were in heavy clouds headed to the tanker after takeoff and as we got DF and distance contact, we couldn’t see a thing. As we closed in, we had our 2000 ft altitude separation and at a mile had no contact. So, we told the guys to recheck their altimeter setting because we were coming up a thousand and in 1/2 mile. They confirmed their setting and altitude and airspeed so we moved up and in.

‘Still nothing.

‘Restated the whole thing and that we would come up 500 and close to a 1/4 mile. Still nothing then like bursting through a curtain there he was right where he said he was.’

Throttles frozeni

He continues;

‘We closed for hook up and got contact. I noticed that I kept ducking my head beside something was hitting the windscreen. It was ice falling off the tanker.

‘I said “Hey Teddy (Ted Bittel) you have Ice coming off.” About that time Ed says “we are at 290 kts and descending.” Of course, Teddy could hear that on the boom interphone and he says “yes we have had the throttles frozen for the last half hour so we are trying to get the speed up for when you get heavier.” It all worked out and we got filled up.

KC-135R print

This print is available in multiple sizes from AircraftProfilePrints.com – CLICK HERE TO GET YOURS. KC-135R Stratotanker 161st Air Refueling Wing, 197th Air Refueling Squadron “Copperheads”, 63-8038 – Arizona Air National Guard – Sky Harbor ANG Base, AZ

‘However, the weather was so bad, when we tried to climb out, we hear very heavy turbulence, rain and lightning. Tried three times to accel but got violent unstarts each time. I tried going to manual inlets to open up and try to make it but it just couldn’t do it so we had to abort and return to Kadena.

A 20 lb block of ice

’In the debrief the maintenance guys came in and showed us that the wave guide antennas in the nose were gone totally eroded by the rain. Then Chief Kelly came in and dropped a 20 lb block of ice on the table. He said it came from the flight control mixer quadrant.’

Peters concludes;

‘So, another of those stories where circumstances were incredibly difficult to the point of losing the mission but not because our incredible Q guys weren’t there for us.’

Be sure to check out Linda Sheffield Miller (Col Richard (Butch) Sheffield’s daughter, Col. Sheffield was an SR-71 Reconnaissance Systems Officer) Twitter Page Habubrats SR-71 and Facebook Page Born into the Wilde Blue Yonder for awesome Blackbird’s photos and stories.

Photo credit: U.S. Air Force

[sylviaplathink]

via @ErikaLovesLit on Twitter

...

ELM

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root; It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there. Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness? Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it. Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse. All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously, Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf, Echoing, echoing. Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons? This is rain now, the big hush. And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic. I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets. Scorched to the root My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires. Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs. A wind of such violence Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek. The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radience scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her. I let her go. I let her go Diminshed and flat, as after radical surgery. How your bad dreams possess and endow me. I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love. I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrevables? Is it for such I agitate my heart? I am incapable of more knowledge. What is this, this face So murderous in its strangle of branches?— Its snaky acids kiss. It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults That kill, that kill, that kill.

—written 19 April 1962, in Ariel, 1965

[gvfgal]

Bound- Chapter One

Prologue

A/n: Welcome welcome. Take a seat, buckle up, & enjoy <3

No warnings this chapter!

Word Count: 4K

March 13, 1977

Nashville, Tennessee

“To another wonderful show in another wonderful city,” Josh raised his glass in a toast as the band and their team stood around a table at the crowded bar.

“Cheers,” everyone shouted in unison before knocking back their shots.

Jake’s face hardly faltered as he did so, more than used to the burning sensation that the alcohol brought.

Sam clapped a large hand on his big brother’s shoulder, “you were on fucking fire out there, Jake. Probably one of your best shows yet.”

Jake grinned lazily, “only up from here, brother.”

The celebration rolled on, many more drinks being knocked back, and though Jake was thoroughly enjoying himself, he was just about ready to turn in for the night.

He was the only one seated at the table, watching as his friends and brothers joked around while he sipped his neat whiskey, but as his eyes scanned the bar, he stopped and locked his sights on the door.

It couldn’t be…

You were laughing as you entered the crowded bar, your arm tangled with the arm of another man that Jake didn’t recognize.

A tidal wave of emotions began to wash over him as he watched you, such a different version of the girl he once loved, and still loved.

The confidence radiated off of you as you strolled through the bar with your guy, smiling wide and waving at people you recognized. Even the way you were dressed was a stark contrast to what Jake was used to seeing you in, it was truly a sight to behold.

He didn’t know what to do with himself in that moment. Part of him wanted to run to you and take you in his arms, kiss you and beg you to come back to him. Another part of him wanting to cower away in the corner, ashamed for the mistakes he made that drove you away from him, the mistakes that brought a brutal end to the beautiful memories you guys shared so many years ago.

Oh, those beautiful memories.

Jake shot up from the table, knocking his glass onto the floor to shatter at his feet.

Your eyes followed the crashing sound, and as your eyes met his, your world was once again turned upside down.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Five years ago…

June 1st, 1972

Townsend, Tennessee

You looked out into the vast field that stretched beyond the porch of your home, inhaling the country air that you loved so dearly. Usually, the field would be overflowing with life, all of your family’s farm animals grazing about. But the heat was sweltering on this particular June afternoon, and the grass, which was usually a bold green against the blue sky, had been dried out by the sun’s brutality, causing the animals to seek shelter within the barn; making your view fairly boring.

You sat on an overturned bucket underneath the shade of your porch, your long cotton sundress shaded in perriwinkle hiked up every so slightly, feet bare, cracking pecans into a wicker basket. You had taken your portable radio that usually sat in the windowsill of the kitchen, and now had it placed on the old wooden table behind you. You hummed quietly along to the Janis Joplin song that played through the static while your mom sat in her usual rocking chair positioned behind you, occupied with her own basket of pecans.

Beginning to grow bored of the task at hand, you dropped your nut cracker onto the ground in front of you, standing with a loud mewling stretch.

Off in the distance, you could hear the faint sound of a car engine approaching from the main road, and you stretched on your toes to try and see as far as you possibly could, trying to catch a glimpse of who it could’ve been.

Suddenly, beyond the cloud of dust that was being kicked up, you saw that familiar 1965 Ford F100 with slightly rusted midnight blue paint clambering its way down the dirt path, and it took all your strength to hold back the smile that threatened to capture your features.

You chose instead to let a small smirk creep its way to the surface.

“Jakes here,” you spoke calmly to your mom, although you felt like shouting it with glee, and your eyes never strayed from his approaching vehicle.

Your mom stood from her spot too, gathering the pecans she had successfully shelled.

“I’ll go get your father,” she called back as she entered the house, wearing her own smirk that you didn’t catch.

She shook her head mumbling to herself, “that girl is head over heels.”

Your mom was fully aware of the huge crush that you had on Jake, truthfully she noticed it the first day Jake and his family rolled around. Call it mother’s intuition.

But even after all the time that has passed, and the years you spent in another state for college, seeing his face still gave you that feeling.

Like the drop from the peak of a rollercoaster, that’s how you’d describe it.

Jake’s engine idled as he parked, and you leaned against the post on the house, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, eyeing him as he exited his truck.

He had on a pair of bootcut jeans (that hugged his legs and backside perfectly, you had to admit), with a muscle shirt tucked into it, a leather belt with a large buckle holding everything in place.

A very worn flannel shirt hung on his shoulders loosely, the red material practically see through. The black cowboy hat that he grabbed from his passenger seat matched his black (surprisingly clean) boots, he looked like walking sex.

You let out a silent wisp of air before he could notice before clearing your throat.

“Hey Jake.”

It came out a lot softer than you intended, and you cursed yourself for sounding so pathetic.

You grinned through it anyhow.

He slammed the door of his truck shut, smiling at you broadly as he looked up at you on the porch.

As he fixed his hat on his head, you could swear you saw his eyes drop down to your lips, and briefly, oh so briefly, down to your chest, but that might’ve been wishful thinking.

“Howdy,” Jake tipped his hat as he approached you.

How cliché that a country Tennessee boy greeted you with a “howdy”, yet for some reason, the way it sounded rolling off his tongue struck you right in the heart, you could’ve grabbed your chest in a dramatic fashion from the way it pained you.

Out of things to say, you simply watched as he made his way up onto the porch leaning opposite of you on the other post, his smile never leaving.

“It’s a hot one, ain’t it?”

His face was alight with the way he smiled, and you couldn’t manage to form words.

You nodded softly with a bashful smile. Your display of shyness made Jake chuckle.

“Still ever the shy one. I like your dress.”

You looked down at your attire. Even though it was plain, it was one of your favorite dresses.

“Thank you, Jacob.”

He laughed at you calling him his full name, then turned to look out over the field that you had been admiring just minutes before. A warm breeze that came through caused his wavy, untamed locks to blowout behind him from under his hat, and you swear the entire scene needed to be captured and blown up into a large print so that rich snobs could bid millions just to have it hanging in their homes.

You opened your mouth to say something, what exactly, you were unsure of, but just as you began to form words, your loud father swung the creaky porch door open.

“Jacob Kizka,” his voice boomed as he grabbed up Jake’s hand and shook it roughly like only your father could.

“Mr. Y/l/n, good to see ya sir.”

The aggressive handshake didn’t seem to bother him any.

“Let’s go around back and I’ll show ya where that fence needs patching,” your father directed, getting straight to business.

Before following behind your dad, Jake turned to your mom and gave her a tip of his hat, “Mrs. Y/l/n”, he then turned to you, his smirk suddenly reappearing on his face, “Y/n.”

With that he turned and made his exit, and you almost couldn’t help but take a long hard look at his ass as he walked away.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Jake had spent the entirety of his afternoon repairing your fence, and you spent the entirety of your afternoon watching him.

From the window above the sink in the kitchen, you had the perfect view of him as he worked tirelessly on the task, and you had come up with every excuse possible, to spend as much time in the kitchen as you could, to steal as many glances as you could.

And now that the sun had begun setting, it was time for you and your mom to prepare dinner.

Perfect.

You stood at the sink, scrubbing away at a pot that had to be spotless by now, watching as Jake tossed tools into his tool bag.

He’d shed his flannel a few hours back when the heat of the day approached, and his muscle shirt clung tightly to his form due to the full sheet of sweat that coated his body.

You could feel your mouth slowly begin to salivate as you watched his muscles flex upon making different movements, and when he stood taught and ran a hand through his hair, head thrown back to face the sky, the picture of some sexy men’s care commercial, the pot you were vigorously scrubbing hit the sink with a loud clank, startling you out of your trance.

“Sorry,” you looked over your shoulder to apologize, and when you turned back to the window, Jacob had suddenly disappeared.

Slightly disappointed that your show had come to a close, you grabbed up the pot you had over cleaned and moved it to the stove where your mom already had her hand out for it.

The echo of boots hitting the wooden panels of the floor sounded through the house, and before you knew it, Jake was standing in the entryway of the kitchen, slightly sweaty, with his flannel thrown over his shoulder.

He shot you an unreadable expression, one that froze you even further into the ground, and as hard as you tried, you couldn’t pull your eyes from his face.

There was a smear of dirt across his right cheek, underneath his eye, and you imagined for a moment, sitting on his lap in the bathroom, wiping the day's work from his perfect face.

“Fence is all fixed up,” he spoke to your mom, who’s back was still turned as she slaved over the stove, yet his eyes stayed trained on your figure.

“Oh Jacob I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your help,” your mom exclaimed, still oblivious to the stare down you and Jake were having.

“You know my husband always says he can do those things, and always ends up calling you” she continued as she finished mashing potatoes and dropping a slab of butter down into the pot. She wiped her hands on a rag then turned to face the two of you.

You averted your gaze quickly and busied yourself with another pointless task, Jake smirking at your back.

“Why don’t you join us for dinner,” your mom continued, “there’s plenty to go around.”

You grimaced, as much as you were enjoying being around Jake, you didn’t think you could take the closeness much longer. With every minute passing you became more and more unraveled. Soon enough you were sure to lose your ability to speak all together.

“That sounds like a damn good idea to me,” your dad bellowed as he entered the kitchen, rubbing over his stomach.

Jake very much noticed your reaction to the invitation, but it only made him want to accept it that much more.

“I think I’d like that.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Dinner was pretty quiet on your end. Your parents engaged Jake in conversation for the most part, and you’d chime in with the occasional head nod every once in a while to appear as if you were engaged. When Jake asked you questions about Berkeley and the Peace Corps, your answers were short and to the point.

Other than being ridiculously shy, you were slightly irritated at the way that Jake was getting a kick out of your uneasiness. All through dinner he was sending you shit eating grins, or staring at you as your eyes bounced around the room, refusing to look at him, chuckling all the while.

He thought it was funny that after all these years, you still acted like that bashful 5 year old he met all those years ago. He found it cute. Endearing. It reminded him of simpler times, times when he could hardly get enough of you.

And hell, sitting here now, he felt as if he still couldn’t get enough.

“So Jake, you and the boys still rockin’ the house down?” your dad wiped his face with his napkin.

Jake smiled, “still rockin’. We actually have a gig tonight at the Blues Corner,” he turned to you then, “you know you could come y/n. The boys would love to see you.”

“Oh that sounds like a wonderful idea, y/n.”

The table was quiet as everyone watched you, waiting for your answer. You tumbled a million different excuses around in your head, but at the end of the day, none of them were believable.

Then it hit you, it had been years since you’ve been able to hear Jake play, and the feeling that the memory brought you had you rather eager to experience it again.

You sighed, “sure, why not? Sounds fun.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

After dinner, Jake said his goodbyes and told you he’d be back by 9 to pick you up. You helped your mom clean the table then raced up the stairs to get ready.

You don’t know how you did it, but you managed to pull it all together by 9pm sharp. Your hair was in its usual curly state, bangs hanging just above your eyes. Your dress was clover green, hanging loosely at your mid thigh with light brown embroidery on the trim. The sleeves were flared, and you threw a brown vest over the top, completing the look with your trusty brown cowboy boots.

As you spritzed perfume along your collarbone, you saw Jakes headlights pulling back up in the driveway. Grabbing your brown fringe saddle bag from the back of your door, you gave yourself one final glance in the mirror, nodding at your appearance.

“I’m out. I’ll see y’all later,” you called to your parents as you jogged down the stairs towards the door.

They were sitting in their twin arm chairs in front of the Tv, your dad nursing a beer and your mom working away at a sudoku puzzle as the news lulled in the background.

“Be safe,” your dad called back.

“Have fun,” your mom added.

Jake was standing beside the passenger side of his truck as you exited, dressed a little more debonair in a pair of black jeans and a blue linen shirt. Only a few buttons towards the bottom were fastened, and he had an array of necklaces decorating his chest, and his long hair was pulled into a bun at the base of his head, a black brimmed hat on top.

You’d never seen him dressed like this before, but you liked it very much. He looked so much more mature than you remembered him last, more of a man than the silly teenager you were used to.

You knew you were staring, but you just couldn’t will yourself to look away.

As you approached the car, Jake pulled your door open for you, giving you a nod, “you look gorgeous, y/n,” he complimented with a shy grin.

You smiled back, “thank you. Not so bad yourself Jacob.”

He shook his head, closing the door behind you once you were in.

“Jacob,” he chortled under his breath.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The drive was slightly awkward. You sat looking out the window as Jake flipped back and forth between radio stations, then fiddling with the air vents, anything to keep himself busy.

After the silence between you became unbearable for Jake, he spoke up, “so,” he cleared his throat, “are you excited to see us play? It’s been awhile.”

You pulled your head to look over at him with a half grin, “yeah, I am actually. I miss the days when I got to watch you guys for hours.”

Jake beamed, sounding distant as he recalled those memories, “you used to love it.”

“I did. I just hope you guys have gotten better,” you jabbed.

Jake laughed out loud, “oh come on, we weren’t that bad. I was just always nervous to play in front of you, that’s all.”

You felt blush rising to your cheeks, “you were nervous?”

Jake looked at you briefly before looking back at the road, “yeah. You made me nervous, I wasn’t used to playing for pretty girls just yet.”

“But now you are?” you teased further.

He smirked, “I guess I’ll find out tonight.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“I don’t believe my eyes. Y/n y/l/n in the flesh,” Josh shouted loudly as Jake approached the stage with you.

You couldn’t help but smile seeing your old friend again. Josh looked a lot more mature too, only his hair was a mess of curls instead of long like his twin’s.

“Sammy, Dan, come check this out,” he continued as he threw an arm over your shoulder and pulled you in for a squeeze, “it’s good to see you, mama.”

“Good to see you too, Josh,” you hugged him back. As Sam and Danny approached you, your eyes bucked.

“Holy shit you two got tall.”

They enveloped you in a group hug, sandwiching you between their towering frames.

“That, or you’re shrinking,” Sam laughed, “but you’re still pretty, so that’s what matters.”

“And Danny, your hair,” you reached up and pulled at one of his bouncy curls that hung at his shoulders.

“I was inspired by you,” he shrugged.

Jake aided you in ordering drinks for the group, and you all hung around as the boys set up their equipment, talking and catching up on time lost.

After about half an hour, it was time for the boys to perform, you had the best seat in the house, right in front of where Jake stood tuning his guitar.

Finally, Josh tapped on the mic and got the attention of the slightly crowded bar, “good evening everyone, you all look lovely tonight. We’re Greta Van Fleet uh, and we’re gonna rock with you guys for a little while, is that alright?”

Someone in the bar whistled loudly, and the rest of the room erupted into cheers.

Danny let off a four count with his drumsticks, Jake strummed the first note on his guitar, and the room was filled with a funky upbeat tune.

You were completely mesmerized as Josh belted out a long run, all of the boys completely engulfed in the music. You didn’t recognize the song, so you figured it was something they had written themselves, and it was incredible.

Sure, they had always been pretty good, but this was unlike anything you’d ever seen or heard before. From every note that Josh hit, every pluck Sam and Jake made on their instruments, down to every strike Danny landed on his drum set, it was perfection.

You could see it clear as day, the four brothers, up on a big stage, playing to adoring crowds as they jammed together like they always had. It was enough to bring tears to your eyes.

Throughout the few songs they performed, Jake’s eyes would constantly find yours, one time you even swore he sent you a quick wink.

And although you were enjoying seeing all of them up there, you were completely raptured with Jake.

He had acquired a thin sheen of sweat over time, partly from the blinding stage lights and partly from how intensely he was playing.

His hair, which he had freed from his hat and bun before the show, was sticking to the sides of his face, and everytime he threw his head back, his face contorting as he produced beautiful sounds from his Gibson, your legs squeezed together a little tighter.

Jacob Thomas Kiszka was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen, that was a fact.

The boys finished their set with a rendition of Elvis’ ‘That’s Alright Mama’ that had everyone in the bar rocking to the beat, Josh animatedly whining on stage as he crooned the notes out

The bar was buzzing with excitement as the boys bid farewell from the stage, and after a thousand thank yous and handshakes, they were finally returned to you.

“Time for shots,” Sam cheered, “I’m ready to fucking party.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You hadn’t been this drunk in a long time, and you were a giggling mess in Jake’s passenger seat as he drove the two of you home after the bar.

It ended up being the most fun you’ve had in awhile, Jake and the boys, as usual, bringing you out of your shell more than anyone else ever could.

Jake was by your side all night, talking and laughing with you as you shared your many stories from your college days.

He had forgotten how much fun it was to be with you, and for a moment that night, he felt guilty for the way you guys grew apart in highschool, wishing so badly he could rewind the clock and redo it the right way.

But right now, as you sat in his passenger seat, as beautiful as you’d ever been, all he felt was gratefulness.

“What are you snickerin’ about over there,” he teased as he glanced over at you.

You had discarded your boots and had your feet kicked up on the dashboard.

“I just can’t believe you guys were that fuckin’ amazing,” your words were slightly slurred.

Jake smiled, “you really liked it?”

“Liked it,” you sat up and looked directly at him, no longer laughing, “Jake I loved it. I’m serious, I've never heard anything like it. The way you guys just commande the room from start to finish… It's amazing. I mean you guys seriously need to be playing on big stages. Huge venues. Small town bars don’t do you guys justice.”

“Well, that’s the plan. Hopefully we can make it happen.”

Your eyes were glued to his profile, “I think you can do anything you put your mind to Jake.”

He turned to look at you, your eyes locking momentarily.

Jake swallowed hardly before turning on his blinker and turning into your property.

You were silent the rest of the way as he pulled in front of your house, undoing his seat belt and coming around to get your door.

You allowed yourself a moment to gain your balance, before walking alongside Jake to your front door.

Perhaps it was the alcohol that made you bold enough to say what you did next.

“Still walking me all the way to my door like we’re in the fourth grade?”

Jake scoffed nervously, looking down at his feet, “yeah. Guess some things never change, huh?”

You smiled at his shyness, deciding against giving him a hard time, “I had a lot of fun tonight, Jake. Thanks for the invite.”

“I had fun too,” he looked back up at you, “I’m glad you came. It was nice looking out and seeing your face again.”

It was your turn to be nervous now, and you fiddled with the fringe on your purse.

After a moment of lingering silence, Jake spoke up again, reaching out to squeeze your hand gently, “you take care, alright? I’ll see you around.”

“You too, Jake.”

His eyes dropped to your lips momentarily, before looking back into your eyes, letting go of your hand.

“Night.”

“Goodnight, Jake.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Chapter Two

[lovingsylvia]

.

Patti Smith reads Sylvia Plath’s poem

THE MOON AND THE YEW TREE

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God, Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility. Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place Separated from my house by a row of headstones. I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky— Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection. At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape. The eyes lift after it and find the moon. The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. How I would like to believe in tendernes— The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering Blue and mystical over the face of the stars. Inside the church, the saints will all be blue, Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews, Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.

—Sylvia Plath, 22 October 1961, in: Ariel, 1965

[sweet-villain]

I Will Always Love You~2~ Eddie Munson

Part 1

Tags : m-rae23 ~ palomam18 ~eddiesprincess86~ irish-newzealand-idian-dutch~ igmentofquinn ~ figmentofquinn ~gloomybrieyxb~hqtetsurou ~ theintimatewriter ~ randomstory56 @maystecc

Summary : You aren't dead and your aren't yourself, the gang along with Eddie try to understand the new you.

Robin wipes her cheeks that were stained with tears as she places your favorite flower on your grave stone. She is kneeling on her knees as she reads the words.

Y/N L/N

1965-1986

She walked with such beauty

A sob escapes from her as she fisted the grass between her fingers. She didn't get to say goodbye. The last thing you talked to her was how you finally was getting over Eddie, she was happy for you but she didn't know you would put your life on the line for her, for Steve, for Dustin, for Nancy, for every one else including Eddie.

" You left me.." she whimpers. A hand lays on her shoulder as she turns pushing her face into the person's chest. The person's head leans on hers and she looks though her glossy tears seeing it was Steve.

" She's really gone" Steve mumbles looking at the sky hoping you were watching them as they morned you.

They all put together a funeral for you. They all pitched in for you to have a grave stone. Steve let out fresh tears stained his cheeks as he reads the words on your grave stone. The grave is surrounded with pictures of you with the gang, some with Dustin, some with Hellfire club, some with you and Steve, some with Robin and Steve, one of you and Nancy with Jonathan. One with you, El and Max. One of you and Will, one with Hopper and many more of you and Eddie. There were flowers spread, candles and one of Eddie's rings is on the grave stone. The one you always played with whenever you took his hand in your own.

Steve clenches his eyes like he could hear your laughter as the wind blew.

You woke up gasping for air clenching your chest as a sudden thirst poked your throat.

Go on Y/N and tell them Hawkins will fall, I will be back. Kill Y/N. Kill, em all

A voice knocked in your head as you groaned gripping your head standing up.

" Eddie! Dustin! Steve! Robin! Nancy!" you shouted looking around at the red clouded sky and hearing silence. They left you. You glanced down at your chest seeing the red stained shirt but when you lifted up your shirt, there were no scars. You saw the smoothness of your skin.

You're alive. How?

You clenched your eyes once more feeling that burning sensation of something. You were hungry and you were angry. You had to find a way back to Hawkins. Back to your friends.

Eddie lit up a cigarette as he sat in his van leaning against the seat as his eyes looked out the window seeing the familiar tree that you would lean against to read Lord Of The Rings. Eddie would find you there legs perched up with the hair blowing in the wind and he would see the small smile on your face as you read.

His bookworm.

The air didn't even feel the same around him. The leaves and the tree looked lonely without you presence. The ground was wetter underneath his feet as he stepped out of the van. The jingle of his chain was the only thing that was heard through the air as he made his way to the long brown like tree that stood tall with orange red like leaves hanging from there as it overlooked him.

He laid his hand on the tree tracing it until he reaches a familiar carving. It was your initials and his, together with a heart around it and he looked away feeling tears begging to come out. He lets them as he closes his eyes.

" Eddie!" you squealed running around the tree as Eddie chased you around it. Your giggle made his heart swell with happiness watching you run away with him.

" I'm going to get you" he laughs as he lounges at you as the two of you fall to the ground with leaves in both of your hairs. He glances down at you. You looked so beautiful. He took a mental picture.

You gaze up at him lovingly placing a hand on his cheek. He leaned down capturing your lips with his. A sudden idea came to him as he pulled away and rushed to his feet.

" Eddie?" you asked him curious what the metal head had planned. You stood up shaking the leaves off of you as you followed him watching as he took his knife out from inside of his vest and started to crave something in the tree.

" What are you doing, lover boy?" he chuckled at the nickname as he said " you'll see" and you waited watching him carve the tree. You got bored of watching him and went to kick the leaves with your feet until he was done.

" Y/N" he called you over, becking you with his fingers. You slowly made your way over to him and gasped. It had your initials and his together with a heart.

" Oh Eddie this is-" his cheeks paint the color red as he puts the knife away being shy. He wanted to show you he loved you and this was going to be forever.

You grabbed a hold of his vest tugging him closer as he stumbled, his cheeks are still painted red as he looks at you searching, searching for something. When he finds it, he leans in.

" I love you Y/N" he says it to you. This was the first time he says it. Your heart swell with happiness as you crash your lips against his.

" I love you too, Eddie" you whispered against his lips " Forever" you added before kissing him again.

So much for forever

Eddie slides down the tree putting his hands on his face as his shoulder shake feeling his hands wet from the tears that keep shedding.

God, he missed you. Why couldn't it been him? He wanted you back. Why did you decide to be a hero and leave him? One last kiss to him wasn't enough. He needed you.

He removes his hands from his face as he looks up the orange red leave covered tree as he screams, " Give her back to me!" he kicks the leaves underneath his feet as more tears shed down his cheeks.

-

Steve walks into his bedroom shoving his jacket off of him and throws it to the ground feeling tears begging to shed down his cheeks. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it and giving it a tug as he stands there, hands shaking.

His heart is in two. He would never get the chance to have you call him " Stevie" or hear your laughter. He glances at the picture on his dresser. It was a picture of you, Robin and him at Scoops Ahoy working behind the counter. But you sat on the counter with a mouthful of ice cream and some on your noise as Steve was looking at you while Robin made a funny face pulling her mouth. Dustin had taken the picture and it became one of Steve's favorites.

He laughs through his tears thinking of the memory.

" Stevie, stop looking at me. You need to look at the camera!" you squeal as Steve poked your side making you get ice cream on your nose. He laughs as he looks at you.

" You two are such big dingus" Robin rolls her eyes but there was a smile on her face.

You had a bowl of your favorite ice cream in your hands as you sat on the counter in your Scoops Ahoy work outfit kicking your legs against the counter.

" Hey!" Robin swatted your legs while Steve kept looking at you.

" If I do this, I get free ice cream. Right?" Dustin asks, " Henderson just take the picture" Steve says as he averts his eyes from you for a moment and looks at Dustin.

" There is a line waiting, you know" Erica behind Dustin says. She rolls her eyes at you, Steve and Robin.

" Okay, one, two.....three!" Dustin took the picture and you had a mouthful of ice cream around your mouth and nose while Robin pulled a silly face with her eyes crossed and mouth wide with her fingers. Steve couldn't help but look at you to capture the happy moment of your life. You loved working with your best friends.

He takes the picture off his dresser as his finger traces your face, a drop of his tear lands on the picture and he doesn't whip it off as he sniffles, closing his eyes.

" Come back.." he puts the picture to his chest as he grasp it tight with his hands.

They all wished you come back, that you hadn't made the choice that you made. But they will all come to realize soon that wishes are too good to be true.

-

Wayne has gone to work leaving Eddie to lay in his bed staring up at the ceiling. His thoughts filled with you. How you used to lay with him, tell him about your day, trace random patters on his skin, trace the words I love you, how you looked deeply into his eyes telling him he deserved so much love in the world, that you would give it to him and you two talked about the future.

The light flickered besides him and his head turned in curiosity. Were the lights about to go out? Did Wayne pay the electric bill. The light flickered again and this time Eddie sat up from his bed as his heat raced looking into the dark hallway.

" Eddie" the sound of his name ran through his room. It was familiar.

" Eddie" it called out to him, again. But this time more clearer. His eyes got wide as he noticed the voice. Yours. His palms started to get sweaty and he glides them down his sweatpants as his body shakes. His brown eyes lock into the darkness in the hallway.

" Oh dear Eddie Munson" the voice sang, the light flickered again and he gasped as the hallway flickered and a figure stood there.

" W-what d-do you-ou w-want?" he asks moving back against his bed, gripping on the sheet. His heart was racing. The light flickered again and there you stood in the hallway with a smirk on your face.

" Eddie" you spoke in an empty tone. You took a step back. He clenched his eyes shut and open them again but you were still there. Something about it made him stand on his feet, his hands shaking by his side and eyes wide. His breathing picked up and you could hear the sound of his heart beat.

" Happy to see me, Munson?" you asked, taking a step into his room. There you stood.

His eyes grew wide as saucers as he took a step back watching as you took a step forward. His breathe is uneven feeling his heart sink to his stomach. He can't believe what he is seeing. Is he dreaming? He rubs his eyes over and over as you stood in front of him.

But, you no longer had the soft loving look on your face. Your hair is a bit darker, your skin had black veins on your face. They weren't big or small but visible. Your lips were pale pink than the normal color you had. You looked different and Eddie can feel there is a sense of darkness in you.

This wasn't you. But it was.

" You left me" you finally say, your voice holding venom as you glare at him. He stumbled back bumping over his feet landing on the ground as he stared at you, fear in his eyes.

" Be afraid Eddie" you chuckled, darkly. " Oh, you pretty silly boy. Look at you, loss at words. Poor baby" you clapped your hands together and he notices the black small like veins on your hands too.

What happened to you in the Upside Down?

His breathing picked up with his mouth a jar. He took notice of your mouth when you laughed, two pointed teeth. Your eyes had a tint of red.

" You-u a-aren't here" he manages to say. You smirk at him than a frown replaces your smirk. He closed his eyes and open his eyes and you were gone.

But he heard the whisper, your voice " hope you sleep good tonight, Edward" then he hears you laugh, it's not the one he loves.

Your feet plant near a familiar home and eyes look at the familiar BMW parked in the driveway. You had hope Steve was ready to see you.

With a small black mist, you were gone. Steve was home watching a movie when the light flickered, he slide off the bed as he looked around.

" Not again" he mumbles racing out to his car to get the bat but he stops in his tracks once he hears the familiar of your voice, " Stevie..."

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. You weren't here.

" Stevie.." it called out to him again. He races back inside the house slamming the door shot with his back to it.

" Stevie..." it called out to him and this time he saw a figure in his kitchen. He stared at it. You could hear the sound of his heart racing.

He watched as you came into the light and he gasped at the sight of you.

" No..." he shook his head. " No.." he continued, hands shaking as he clutched to the door with his life. He clenched his eyes shut and open them. Your head was tilted with your mouth a jar, he saw the little pointed teeth, he saw the veins covered your face with the little glow of red in your eyes.

" You died.." Steve says as he shakes his head. You scoffed waving to yourself, " Do I look dead to you, Harrington?"

" But I saw you!" he shouted, his eyes holding anger as you took a step back. " And you left me there to die, Stevie.. " you clicked your tongue at the roof of your mouth.

" What happened to you?" He asks releasing the door as he turned his body to you. He held himself back still, fearful you might hurt him. You noticed it.

" I'm not going to hurt you, Stevie" you tell him, frowning at his stance. Throwing a hand up, " I would never hurt you, my best friend" you say.

" You're not my best friend!" he yelled. He sees the flash of hurt in your eyes for a brief moment but then it disappears. " Shame" you respond.

" What happened to you?" Steve asks again. You snorted, " I came back as the undead" you motioned to yourself. You had better stretch at the moment after finding yourself you wanted to feed now, you saw yourself in the mirror of someone's house you entered. Your hair was darker, your skin had black veins around your face, your eyes held the dark red in them, your mouth had two fangs in them and you had better hearing, thirst for blood and you felt good.

" This isn't right. You're suppose to be dead!" he screams, tears prickling his eyes. You nod.

" No anymore" you licked your lips, chuckling as his eyes grow wide as they drop to his mouth. " Are those.." he motioned his hand to his mouth then to yours.

He watches as you open your mouth swiping the tongue over your two pointed teeth. He struggles to find ways to speak but he holds himself up as he watches a new you stand before his eye.

" We had funeral for you" he says. You nod, " I know you did. I saw"

Steve doesn't like this new you. He is scared and races to his room without a blink of an eye, locking the door as he grabs the radio.

" We have a problem. Over" he says. He keeps trying until he hears Dustin's voice.

" What's going on? Over" Steve taps his finger on the radio as he debates his next words and those next words make the gang's blood run cold.

"Y/N is alive and downstairs in my living room. Over"

" What? How?!" was all he heard over the radio. Eddie confirms that's it true once his voice comes on the radio.

-

The gang all stares as you with their eyes wide watching you pick at your nails like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"We need to call Hopper and Joyce"

Your eyes fly open at them and they all take a step back, swallowing the lump in my throat.

" We're going to thrown one big party that I'm back?"you snorted, shaking your head.

" Sorry to ruin your fun" Suddenly you fall to your knees and grip your head, closing your eyes as your hands cover your head. You can hear your friends shout at you as worry crosses their face.

Tell them, tell them Hawkins will fall. I will be back, kill em. Kill em for me Y/N. Prove to me you're worth living

The voice seeps your mind. You knew it was Vecna but you whimper in pain feeling your body is on fire. You stumble back in pain as your eyes ajust to the faces of your friends.

" Y/N" Eddie takes a step forward placing a hand on your shoulder. Before they could question you or anything or Eddie can ask anything else, you are no where to be seen.

You couldn't kill your friends, you rather die one more time than have them suffer. You didn't love Eddie, but your friends meant the world to you. You had to protect them even if it means you had to die, one more time.

But could they handle losing you one more time?

[cellarfulofnose]

gonna change my way of thinking

@smallsnzplz prompt #12. Baby, won't you light my fire?

1965

George had been at this party for twenty-five minutes now, and he'd already firmly made up his mind that it was time to leave. When he rose from the chaise longue, those next to him didn't hold on to his clothes or try and persuade him to stay--not that they didn't care, they just couldn't possibly expect that he was actually leaving for the night. In their eyes, he was just getting up to top off his drink.

No, coming out tonight had been a mistake. He'd have been less bored if he just stayed in and tried to map the ceiling. Better to jump ship now and cut his losses.

He found himself heading for the balcony instead of the door, reaching in his pockets. A quick smoke before he left wasn't guaranteed to make him feel better, true. But he wasn't likely to feel any better without one.

Someone else was already out there, he quickly realized, just a slender silhouette against the night-light city. George bristled for a moment at the idea of having to share his solitude, but--it was Dylan. All angles in his suit, his mane pointing every direction.

George forgot to be shy. He shut the glass door to the balcony and planted his elbows on the railing next to Dylan. "Hi, Bob," he grinned. "Didn't know you were here."

Bob blinked at him. He broke into a lopsided smile and rubbed guiltily at his eyes. "Heya, George." His voice was thick. He coughed, clearly not intentional but well-needed, by the cutting sound of it.

"What're you doing out here?" George asked. A silly question, maybe. It hadn't been much of a party. They were alike in that way, him and Dylan. No strangers to celebration, but their tolerance for dull and draining outings, exceedingly low. George had only stepped out to collect himself for a moment before leaving. Maybe he'd been too hasty.

"Oh, I'm. You know." Bob looked down, smiled and shook his head, as if warning George that no satisfactory answer would come. "Had to get into some fresh air." He cleared his throat in one quick blast, his emphasis almost poetic.

He didn't look quite well. Not pale or flushed, as with flu or fever. But his jaw was tight, his face slightly pinched. Especially around the eyes. Stiff, uncomfortable. Like he was in pain and just barely biting it down.

George looked him over once more, curious. "D'you mind if I smoke?"

Bob turned toward him. When he saw the cigarette George offered, his eyes did a funny sort of dance over it, thinking. Weighing factors George couldn't see. He wet his lips. "No. No, I'll--" He paused, just for a moment, as he reached for it, but took it between his fingers. "I'll, um--thank you."

George obliged with a nod. Lit Bob's first. He took a deep pull and felt his head clear, his blood cool.

Bob sputtered--smoke bloomed out of his mouth. Another short cough dispersed the cloud. Bob was frozen, his eyes shut tight, his lips pressed into a line. He didn't breathe in or out.

"You all right?"

Bob batted at the air between them; to wave George away or clear the smoke, he couldn't tell. "'S just the--" He didn't seem to be able to get more than three words out at a time. Despite his clenched throat, the words arrived on the backs of little, stuttering coughs. "It's just--God, think it's--gonna..."

There was a moment when he didn't cough or speak, just stayed frozen like that, and even George hardly dared breathe.

Bob made another vague fanning gesture with his empty hand, then hastily covered his mouth with the wrist of his smoking hand. He buckled forward with three twitchy, smoky sneezes.

"kch'SCHt!...KsHhew...kghshchew!"

After every sneeze, he'd seize up again, breathless and motionless, until the next one spat out of him like a cough. Once it was obvious he was in the clear, though, he lowered his arm and let his shoulders fall. "Give me a break," he scoffed, feathers ruffled.

"Bless you," George offered. He'd been meaning to find an alternative that was less overtly Christian, but it'd do.

A grin broke through Bob's dour visage. "Much obliged." He sniffled.

He'd only taken another teensy-weensy puff, however, before he was back to coughing. It wasn't a smoker's cough, tangled and rattling, from the bottom of his lungs. Rather, it sounded...shallow. Spasmodic. One quick, sharp burst after another, curling his slight frame again and again.

Bob didn't seem put off by it, but George felt a touch of concern. He was just about to ask if Bob was feeling all right when someone else spoke first.

"So you just don't care? Is that it?"

Bob hissed Shit through his teeth and flicked his cigarette into the night, before either of them had time to turn around. George glanced at Bob, looked to the door, and felt a huge smile lift his face.

Joan Baez stood in the doorway with a drink in her hand and bracelets on her slender wrists. Her lips were drawn together, not quite a smile. Not the joyful, toothy smile she sported sometimes. No, it was put on. Her eyes were tired. Dark molasses, sweet and sad. She was wispy and utterly beautiful.

"Joan." George crossed to the door and cupped a hand at her shoulder.

Joan tilted her head, and he bent to kiss her on the cheek. "Oh, George," she sighed softly. Her voice was heavy, even though her smile had grown to resemble a real one. "How are you, honey?"

"Fine, thanks. You look lovely, you always do."

"Oh..." She looked down, embarrassment in her smile, her voice trailing as if to dismiss him. "You Liverpool boys." She shied away from compliments, but George would never stop giving them. She was angelic; she deserved to hear it.

Bob coughed.

George and Joan turned to look at him. He blinked and worked his mouth, eyes darting nervously. "Hi, Joan," he said with a crooked grin.

"Hello, Bob," she said coolly. No shadow of her smile remained.

Bob faltered for a second, then shuffled over to give her a kiss.

Joan turned her cheek amenably. George heard her sigh through her nose. "You smell like a damn casino," she said, low.

Bob's lips never met her cheek. He leaned down, then hesitated--then panted out a fluttering breath.

George felt Joan shiver and cringe away from the cool air blown at her neck. Bob let go of her arm and spun away too. He shoved the flat of his hand under his nose. His breath came in gasps that tipped his head back, back, back...

The building sneeze abruptly let him go. He exhaled with a light vocal hum, a whimper of uncertainty, as if he didn't believe it wasn't coming.

Joan took a deep breath. She didn't seem to have the patience for him to get his bearings. "You told me you quit." She addressed the remark to the ground, but finished looking up at him.

"I don't--ahem..." Bob floundered under her gaze, rubbing his nose as he turned around. "I don't believe I ever said that." He wouldn't look at them.

Joan laughed. It was more of a scoff. She dropped her gaze again, for a moment, and blinked a few times. When she looked up at George, her eyes were wet.

"We're a couple of old fools, Georgie," she smiled sadly. It wasn't clear if George or Bob was the other fool implicated in her statement, but it broke George's heart. He didn't understand what Bob had done to upset her so. It didn't feel right to ask.

Joan squeezed George's hand. "Always nice talkin' to you." Her fingers slipped away. She swung the door open.

"You're leaving?" George asked.

By way of an answer, she said, "Hope you know a good doctor." The door clicked shut, cutting off the heat and the sound of the party.

Straight away, George frowned. There was something Bob wasn't telling him. "Why'd you tell her you quit smoking?"

"Oh, that was..." Bob rolled his eyes and shook his head. "She's just, I-I wouldn't let her bother you too much." Guilt crept across his face.

"She sounded pretty broken up about something."

"Aw, don't be..." Bob meandered away from George's scrutiny. Halfway to the balcony, a sudden sharp sneeze whipped him forward. He started to straighten but sneezed again, bent over his shoes. It made him stumble, briefly. He began to cough.

"Are you ill?"

"No," Bob snapped in between coughs.

George held his frown, waiting to be convinced.

Bob caught his breath and leaned on the balcony. "I got--ahem--allergies. Allergic sensitivity to..."

"Cigarette smoke?"

"Tobacco," Bob spoke, rolling over the word as if tasting it for the first time.

"Well I wouldn't have lit up if you'd told me," George said, somewhat exasperated and a little ashamed, as he dropped his cig and crushed it under his boot.

"Hey, why'd you-, you don't need to do that." Bob started to push off the railing, but once he saw that there was nothing to do to stop George, he settled back down. He coughed--George thought it sounded miffed.

George joined him on the edge of the balcony again. "Why was Joan crying? And what was all that about the doctor?"

Bob chewed his fingernail.

---

Two Weeks Before the Party

Joan woke facing the wall. Her back was cold.

When she turned over, Bob was slouched at the edge of the bed, facing the small window on the opposite wall. Wisps of smoke curled away from him. Joan couldn't see the cigarette until he leaned stiffly to tap out the ash in the dish on the nightstand.

His hair didn't look too different in the mornings than it did the rest of the time, but today the early light caught the frizz in an especially saint-like way, igniting a glowing ring around his head. Maybe the smoke was from pontifical incense, then. Still smelled like tobacco to Joan.

He sniffed and sighed occasionally, once causing a small Eeyore-cloud to puff up around his head. Joan could see his ribs through his back when he breathed in, sometimes. It sounded like a chore.

She reached out to say hello by grazing her nails up his bare back. He cooed with pleasure and curled his spine, as if to meet her there sooner. Joan didn't mind--she'd always loved cats. He was already prickled with cold, but after a few scratches, goosebumps had risen on his arms and even his sides. Faint pink stripes appeared in the wake of her nails before long, crisscrossing his pale skin. Lashes to go with the halo.

Now she scratched his scalp, feeling his curls spring between her fingers. He rippled with a shiver of pleasure, and just like that, she was good and bothered already. (Despite the early morning, despite herself.) She found it sweet. He was sensitive. Everything he felt, he felt so profoundly. He couldn't hide it. Didn't try.

"How'd you sleep?" Joan asked.

Bob exhaled lightly, the ghost of a laugh. "I slept."

She kissed his shoulder, sympathetic. She'd barely slept, either. The hotel bed was lavish, but it wasn't home.

Bob turned his head when he felt her kiss, baring his puffy eyes and hawkish profile. He leaned in for a proper kiss, and Joan met him with a quiet sigh. He tasted sharp and smoke-dirty. Not pleasant or unpleasant, just an instant, indelible memory.

He was breathing hard through his nose, though it came out as no more than a light flutter against her cheek. A little whistly, plugged up some. It was no great wonder if he had a stuffy nose. He was dried out from drinking last night, dried out from the hotel air conditioner, and the smoke couldn't exactly help.

Bob pulled away to clumsily dig his knuckles into his eye sockets. He pressed at the gap between his brows, the bony bridge of his nose, frowning hard. Nothing he did seemed to relieve the pressure.

It was the smokes, Joan was convinced. For days now he'd woken up with a cigarette and a sinus headache, in that order. He'd snort and hawk as he brushed his teeth or shaved, then sniffle for a few hours. It was noticeable enough that a total stranger approached them yesterday in hopes of scoring coke, but oddly, Bob didn't seem to notice. At least not enough to complain, for which Joan supposed she should be grateful.

And he snored now, too.

"Your head hurt?" she asked.

Bob emerged for a moment and unburied his hands from his eyes. "Just need some coffee." He went back to rubbing.

They managed to wrench themselves from the bed. It was no mean feat--they were naked as babies, and the cold room seemed to warn them back under the covers. But Joan snuggled into her robe, and Bob slunk into the bathroom for a scalding hot shower. As she loaded the coffee maker, she listened to Bob blow his nose sleepily. The water switched on, swallowing any sound that might've come after.

Joan ordered toast and fruit to the room. Bob took a few bites of a strawberry, at her coaxing, but wouldn't try the toast. Once he'd downed his coffee, though, he seemed restless to leave. They didn't have any shows until next week, and he wanted a look around the city. Joan could take or leave Albany. She'd seen it before--it didn't impress her.

She'd never seen it with Bob, though, so they walked arm in arm until he drifted into a secondhand clothing shop. The shop owner greeted them with such cordial indifference, she knew they hadn't been recognized. Or else the owner was being especially gracious and wanted to grant them some privacy. Either way, a blessing.

Bob gravitated toward the back of the shop where jackets hung at twice their height. Joan flipped through a few hangers on a round garment rack, stopping cold when she came face to face with a fox fur. She stared at its carved-out snout. Its little plastic marble eyes seemed to stare even harder back.

She glanced at Bob and draped it over her shoulders.

It took a moment for his attention to return to her, but when he saw the animal hanging at her chest, his eyes widened.

"No, Mr. Bond," she purred, cradling and stroking the creature's head like it was a Persian cat. "I expect you to die."

Bob snickered and gave the fox a few pats. From then on, it was Joan's mission to distract him from his shopping by modeling whatever she could find to set him giggling. The scarf she wrapped tight around her ears like a babushka seemed to pull the most weight.

"I can take one of the coats down, if you like."

The shop owner didn't look pleased to see them fiddling with her merchandise. Bob shot Joan a look--heaven help her, she almost broke. He'd never been able to hide a smile, and right now he looked fit to burst. Joan cleared her throat and discreetly slipped off the scarf.

"Oh, yeah, thank you," said Bob, managing not to laugh. "I'd appreciate it."

Bob indicated a heavy wool one. The shop owner plucked it from the rack using a hook on a pole. As they stood, waiting for her to ring it up, Joan settled next to him, hip to hip, so she could rub gentle circles on the small of his back.

He sucked in a breath. Joan could feel the ridge of his spine against her palm. She thought he was just doing the cat act again, arching to get close to her. But instead of sighing it back out, he gasped once more.

She looked over. His mouth had started to drop open. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, looking so heavy he could barely keep them open. His nostrils flared out; subtle, graceful even. But then his nose scrunched into a snarl, furrowing his brow, and all right, she got it--this was a sneeze. It was trying to be, anyway.

A tiny hitch of breath, a huge gulp of air, and then it was:

"hhyyyssschiw!"

He didn't so much cover it as catch it, in loosely cupped hands about a half-foot away from his face. He'd had the wherewithal, at least, to turn away from the counter (and nearly into Joan, bending perpendicular across her line of vision). The shop owner blessed him, offhand, and began stuffing the jacket into a bag.

"Oh, my god," Bob groaned, with the weak and weary relief of a man who'd just finished a race.

Joan snaked an arm around him as he sagged against her. "Enjoying yourself?" There was light warning in her voice. Bob didn't seem to be able to realize it, but he was very expressive sometimes, regardless of whether the situation called for it. They'd get looks sometimes--if he got in a particularly good stretch, or she rubbed his hair, he'd hum and moan with all the abandon due a honeymoon suite. A department store--for example--not so much.

Bob wiped his hands down the front of his shirt. (At this, Joan could only summon pity, not disgust.) "I been waitin' on that, I can't tell you." He sniffled. "Since I got out of bed."

Joan held her tongue until they had paid and left. Once outside, she ventured, "Think you might be getting a cold?"

"I d'know." Bob didn't sound bothered one way or the other, but he started sniffing again, as if talking about it had stirred up whatever ailed him. "Or it's just the change in the, changin' weather. Am I warm?"

He stuck his head in her face, candid and earnest, like a big flop-eared dog.

Joan covered his forehead with her palm. It was brisk out, her hands were cold, but he didn't feel hot. Course, one didn't need a fever to be sick.

She let him off the hook anyway.

On the way back to the hotel, they cut through a park. There was still snow on the ground in patches, many times melted and re-frozen, but they found a dry bench under a tree to sit down for a while. Joan sang Scottish folk songs over the bagpipe drone of Bob's harmonica. Some of best old union songs were Scottish, she thought. At least genetically. Scratched out of the Appalachian hills like the coal that kept their skies dark. She thought of Pete Seeger and held Bob's hand tight. They walked back.

Bob stuffed a cigarette between his lips. Joan watched, wondering whether that would prove to be a good idea. He was still sniffling--granted, it was chilly out; at this point, her nose was running a little. She swiped at it self-consciously with the edge of her finger.

"You got a..." Bob made a wrist-flicking gesture that was probably supposed to approximate lighting a match.

"Sorry."

Bob wasn't deterred. He let go of her arm to swoop down upon a couple they'd just passed, a man and a woman. They shared a brief exchange before Bob trotted back to her, smoke billowing in the cool air.

"Friends of yours?" Joan teased, sliding her arm into his.

Bob blew smoke out his nose and chuckled. "Oh, them, yeah. We were--" He coughed lightly, just a skip of breath. "We...we, uh...--'chhhiuh!"

Joan didn't get much warning that he was about to sneeze (nor did he, she supposed, just enough to duck his head down against the arm she wasn't holding).

He kept talking, even as his voice tightened toward another one. "Played together in the sc- the school... --'tchshhyiu! school orchestra." He'd snapped forward into the sleeve of his smoking hand, sharper than last time, tugging on her a bit. He sniffed mightily and groaned a short ugh.

Joan squeezed his arm. "Bless you, bless you." It felt the right time to interrogate him. She added, "Why you think you're--" just as Bob shook his head and huffed, "Somethin's makin' me sneeze. God."

Joan stared, with some degree of disbelief, as he took another long pull and let it filter through his twitching nostrils. "You think it's 'cause you keep blowing smoke out your nose?"

Bob sniffed bitterly. "Always done that." He coughed, rapid and irritated.

Joan fought down a smile. "Must not bother you, then."

Bob was silent a moment, and she recognized it as the heavy, frowning silence of trying to scrape together a reply. He opened his mouth and shut it again.

Then he opened his mouth and sneezed, twice.

"hhht'sschew!" A long, uncertain pause. "ah'CHshhiw!"

Joan raised her eyebrows to see him flick the still-smoldering butt into the gutter. "'Something', huh?"

"Well," Bob snuffled, "whatever it is, it's exasper-- exacerbated by this...particular brand."

Joan frowned at him. "Of cigarettes?"

"Too much..." Bob shook his head. "Somethin' in 'em."

"Tobacco," Joan said after a beat.

They had gone another two blocks by the time Bob got out, "Menthol," and fully stopped walking to gear up for a sneeze that never came.

(Bob didn't smoke menthols, but Joan didn't bring that up.)

He coughed and dripped his way back to the hotel; not a worrying amount, but more than could be waved away as cold-weather sniffles. His breath caught in his throat every few blocks, but only on the steps of the hotel did the long-awaited sneeze arrive: by pursing his lips, he'd forced it to come snorting, scraping, out his nose. He seemed a little tousled by it, and Joan walked the rest of the flight with her hand at his back, as if to keep him from falling down the stairs.

He didn't light another cigarette.

Back in the room, he tapped the half-empty box against his palm. Impatient music-making. He eyed it thoughtfully as it smacked his hand over and over, but didn't open it.

---

The phone rang. Joan was perched at the desk, trying to write by lamplight, so she answered it. It was Albert, talking logistics. Timetables and cars and press and cops for the weekend show.

"What about you? Can you make it at that time, Bob? Is he there?"

Bob, propped against the headboard, looked up from massaging his eye sockets.

"Yeah, Al, he's here," Joan said, "we can both hear you."

"He's in the room with you?"

"Yes, he's right here. We'll both be there at that time."

"Do you need me to repeat anything?"

"No, I've..." Joan glanced down at her notes. In her haste, she'd written their itinerary on her letter to her sister. "I've got it all right here. It's all taken down," she said, trying not to let a frustrated sigh color her voice.

Albert chuckled. "Too bad you've got a gig, or else I'd hire you as my secretary."

Shame blazed in Joan's chest, rose up her throat. Bob smiled behind his hand, even as his eyes widened in shock. She didn't fault him for a smile of discomfort.

"Well," she laughed smoothly, "if this whole 'folk singer' routine goes kaput, I guess I'll have to hit the pavement."

Albert laughed raucously and made her promise to keep him in mind, in that event. Joan wasn't sure what words they exchanged before she hung up. Damn her, she was smiling now too. What was the defining feature of absurdity? An effort so abjectly pointless it's funny?

She looked at Bob in time to catch him, palm over his mouth, tossing his head back as he gulped something down. Her skin buzzed to consider the edge an upper would give her, but she didn't ask--she wouldn't weather the crash.

"Aspirin," Bob explained, slightly sheepish, after a few moments under her gaze.

For the moment, Joan didn't care whether he was telling the truth. "Your head hurtin' you again?"

"Oh, I'll be all right." He looked down but couldn't bite back a smile.

"Well, c'mere." Joan switched off the lamp and sidled up next to him on the bed. Her open hands, spread loosely over her lap, were enough to compel Bob to rest his head on her thighs. First position, they ought to have called it; a danse à deux more natural than breathing.

To Bob, it seemed, breathing came less naturally than a lot of things. It sounded heavy, labored, as air squeaked through his nose, though he looked content. Joan traced her fingertips over his knife-edge features. She smoothed his eyebrows and watched the tightness in his face fade to peace. He hummed every once in a while, high and soft and completely involuntary. Before long, he was breathing through his mouth. Rasping, but clearer.

Joan continued to stroke his hair long after she was certain he was asleep. It really wasn't an upper, then.

She was getting hungry.

---

Joan licked a butter-light flake of croissant off her finger and went back to her letter. She'd been forced to start from scratch after using the other letter as a day planner, but writing was much easier here, in the little café just outside the hotel. It was very Greenwich--for Albany. Sitting and scribbling away on the patio of a coffeehouse, surrounded by long hair and turtlenecks.

The waitress was friendly. Even shared a few words with Joan in Spanish. Hey, there was an idea--waitressing. If this whole 'folk singer' routine goes kaput...

Joan sealed the envelope and slipped it into her inner jacket pocket. She'd finished her croissant and tea, but she felt reluctant to get up just yet. Bob didn't wake when she left, not even when she lifted his head gingerly from her lap and set it on a pillow. Would he be awake by now? She doubted it. Maybe it was aspirin he took. Maybe it wasn't.

She looked up--there he was on the sidewalk, striding her way.

Joan sat up straight. "Bob?"

He was coming from the opposite direction of the hotel just behind her--he'd been out somewhere. As he neared within a stone's throw, he gasped fiercely, threw a hand over his nose, and pitched forward with a flurry of sneezes--one, two, three, four in a row, quick, shivery.

"Oh, my god--" Joan started to push her chair back to stand, but Bob collapsed into the chair opposite her. His eyes were streaming. Red-lined and fogged-out. He was still holding his nose, but it looked red, too.

"Where'd you go?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

"I, uh." Bob cleared his throat gently. He had his hand wedged awkwardly under his nose, allowing him to speak without obscuring his vowels too badly. "There's a little corner store down there. Snf! I got ahhh'h--hh...! --ktschhyew! I bought a couple of different-- different brands- szChshh'yuh! --'sschyiw! --'kschhw!" One sneeze seemed to punch all the air out of his chest, but they kept coming even as he lost his breath, whispery and strained.

Joan knew what he was going to say as soon as she heard different brands. She still couldn't stop herself from rubbing her brow and sighing in disbelief when he finally got out, "...of cigarettes." He'd smoked a handful on his way over, then. Inspired.

"Gee, Bob," Joan said flatly. "And how'd that work out for you?"

Bob let out a scoff, which finished as a choking cough. "Yeah--ahem. Pretty...snf! Pretty brainy, huh?" There might've been a smile behind his hand.

Joan softened. No point in telling him what he already knew. I told you so tempted, but she didn't bite. "Well. Are you--"

"kgh'Chshrt!"

Bob shrank with a shoulder-hunching sneeze and froze behind his hand. It had the horrible, unmistakable sound of a sudden mess. He sat there blinking.

"Bless you." Joan resented the mother-hennish urge that clawed at her heart, demanding that she take him in her arms and nurse him back to health. "Do you want...I mean, are you hungry, or--"

Bob shook her knife and fork off her napkin and raised it to gingerly wipe his face and hand. He blew his nose softly, folding and re-folding it to find a clean corner.

Though he was as discreet as Joan supposed one could be with these things, people were giving them looks now. Was it any wonder? Bob looked like a tuberculosis case even on his most sun-tanned days. In his present state, he could pass for Patient Zero of the black plague. Joan had learned to ignore stares, but she felt an odd compassion for the nervous patrons. He was dressed well enough, at least, that she was fairly confident they wouldn't actually be kicked out.

When his lungs were good and empty from blowing his nose, he sneezed once again, little more than a twitch and a short bark of a cough. His chest filled and he gave a real cough, good and hacking, into the napkin.

Joan continued to ignore the onlookers. "Bless you. You're not hungry or anything? You just came here for the atmosphere?"

Bob shook his head. When he spoke, he was already fighting against the next volley of sneezes. "I don'...hhhhI don't...!" He crushed the napkin to a ball in his fist and sneezed four--five--six times in a row, barely muffled by the cloth.

"Jesus Christ--"

"I don't have the key," Bob said into the napkin. Coughed.

"What?"

"Snrff. I don't have the room key, I don't have--"

"Oh, my god." Joan's chair legs made an awful sound on the stone patio as she stood. She could just kick herself. "Sorry. Let's go."

She slapped a couple of bills down next to her plate and breezed out of the café. Bob followed, taking the napkin with him.

---

Put mildly, Bob wasn't happy with the prognosis.

Yeah, that sounds like an allergy, the doctor had said, and Joan was inclined to believe him. One of Albert's crew knew a guy whose brother was an otolaryngologist ("Ear, nose and throat," Albert sheepishly explained, after struggling over his Latin for an eternity). When they got him on the phone, Joan did most of the talking. It wasn't until the doctor's advice that Bob really started to pipe up.

"I'd recommend just staying away from smoke for a month, see if that helps. So that's no cigarettes, and try to avoid it secondhand if you can. I know it's everywhere," the doctor added apologetically, as though the phone line had transmitted Bob's expression of disgusted surprise. "Just, avoid it where possible."

"Everybody--no, listen, everybody thinks they know what they're talking about," Bob carried on, despite Joan's attempt to quiet him for a moment. The doctor was saying something else.

"Have you been feeling any tightness in your chest?"

Joan looked at him, expectant.

Bob shook his head with an almost disdainful expression. "Tightness," he repeated, as if he didn't understand. Or didn't think the question worthy of an answer.

"Any wheezing?" the doctor prompted.

Joan and Bob shared another look. "No..."

"No--no."

"No." Over each other a few times. She wanted to believe the doctor got the message.

Bob, she would discover, hadn't gotten the message at all. Soon after they hung up, he popped a few Benadryl and lit a cigarette. With the predictability of a jack-in-the-box, he fell into ridiculous fits of sneezing. Panting, choking, tears spilling down his face. Though it was possible they'd lost a sort of...edge, after a certain point. If it grieved him, he didn't show it. He was swept into a sudden writing trance, then proceeded to fall asleep at his chair.

Joan reached down to move the ashtray, and its silvery trail of wasted smoke, to another room. When she stood close to him, she thought she heard--there it was again. She listened closely.

It wasn't the nasal rattle of a budding snore. This was from the mouth--the lungs. A slight whistle when he exhaled. Like the passageway was too narrow. Like it was blocked.

His inhale dragged too, creaked and groaned like old wood. But so faintly. Only if she was listening for it.

Joan's throat felt hot. She swallowed. As soon as she'd sequestered the ashtray, she crept up and pressed her ear to his chest. She felt his heartbeat--slow. She smelled smoke and sweat and hotel aftershave. She heard--well, she didn't know what she heard. Didn't even know what to listen for; she wasn't a doctor. All she could tell was that he was still breathing.

She lingered on his sleeping chest a while longer than she had to.

---

They didn't argue about Bob quitting.

Oh, they came close. Joan made her side known plainly, and as well as he could, so did Bob. But at all costs, they did not argue.

The first day without a cigarette was worse than the days that followed. Without nicotine as a downer, Bob was nothing but buzz. Coffee and speed. They were hounded once by reporters. His answers were unintelligible. Most of them were questions.

The doctor's warning had been right: secondhand smoke was everywhere. Joan felt almost sick that she hadn't noticed how ubiquitous it was until Bob's allergy flared up, but every restaurant, every sidewalk, every elevator had become a site of bio-warfare. It wasn't as bad secondhand; Bob left most places sounding like he had a mild cold. But between the withdrawal and the slow drip of coughing-sniffling-sneezing, he became downright ornery. The weekend show was close enough now that they didn't have much time alone, outside of rehearsals. He seemed tense when it was just them, but he never snapped at her. With the road crew, though, he couldn't put on a polite face. He mouthed off to some people and flat-out ignored others. Joan only got one complaint, a low-energy What's *his* problem? from a girl with a camera.

"He's off cigarettes," Joan explained, once Bob had left the room.

The girl snorted. "Somebody oughta put him back on 'em."

Joan hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep to answer that with anything more than a tight smile. Nobody else complained to her outright, which should've been a comfort, but to Joan was a sign that they didn't find his behavior uncharacteristic.

He was eating a lot more. Not three square meals, but enough so that his figure didn't continue to hollow out, and without any outside encouragement. But he paid for his newfound appetite in sleeplessness. He hadn't slept since his Benadryl nap a few days prior. Tonight, though, he joined her in bed for some reason. Optimism, maybe. Joan decided to be hopeful too. She kissed him goodnight and rolled over, preparing to listen to him toss and turn.

Instead, he pressed into her from behind, wrapped himself around her like a glove. Nuzzled into her neck.

"Hi," she said sleepily. This certainly wasn't how she expected the evening to go. Maybe, with cigarettes out of the equation, he needed an outlet for stress. She put her hand on his, over her sternum, and reached up to curl her fingers through his hair.

Bob as good as purred. Around snuffling breaths, heavy with lingering congestion, he began muttering wonderful nonsense into her shoulder. How nice she looked. How cold the room was, and letting her fill in the blanks as to how they could remedy that.

Joan's breath caught when he grabbed her breast. His hands shook, lack of nicotine, but his touch was so delicate. Almost naïve, the way he felt around as if searching for something. Her chest was small enough that he could graze over both her nipples with the same hand; gently, gently, just the very tip. Heat spilled through her. Joan found herself panting. Almost as heavily as he was.

Bob gave her a sloppy kiss under the ear, and Joan let out a soft "Oh" half-against the pillow. It gave her a washing, tingling chill, the way he played with her. Dry and wet, warm and cold by turns. He mouthed and kissed and bit at her ear, and she shuddered, melted. Her hips shifted, tried to move, a little taste of friction for them both.

"Baby." Bob rubbed against her. His breath wavered with effort. "Joan, you're so pretty." His hand appeared between her legs, where heat was pooling, and stroked her. Brushed across the smooth skin of her thighs. He'd graze over the wet patch darkening her underwear, so casually it could've been an accident, and she shivered, trying not to whimper.

Then he reached under her waistband, fingertips stroking down, and Joan cried out. She felt raw--like an exposed wire--

"Fuck." Bob was whining, squirming like it was him getting touched, getting felt up, played with. "C'n I? Joan?" His hips rose into her urgently, disobedient little nudges on her ass, like an ill-trained dog.

Joan was breathless. "Yeah, just, come here--come here."

She rolled onto her back and reached out for his face in the darkness. They kissed frantically, through shaking breaths and the occasional catch of teeth. It seemed like mere moments before Bob was scrambling to his hands and knees, moving down the bed. He hovered just an inch over her, so close to the wet spot that the warm fluff of his breath was enough to press her head back into the pillow. She took a breath to beg, but then he dragged his raptor's nose over her beating clit and rubbed messily. Joan gasped and almost choked out a sob. When he mouthed at her over the thin cotton, she began to call his name in a hushed, prayerful whisper. Words abandoned her altogether when he yanked her underwear down and off and kissed her bare. She moaned like a tramp. Her body wasn't her own. She bucked against his face as his tongue covered her, stealing little strokes until he was practically still, the better to let her rock herself to bliss on his mouth.

"Oh," Joan wept. Meant to be a warning, but not soon enough. She came, hard and tall, and it seemed to stretch on and on, stripping her down to nothing.

When her moans feathered out to tired sighs, Bob was on top of her again, planting his wet lips on hers.

"Let me--honey, let me catch my breath," she panted.

As if inspired by the notion, Bob sat back on his heels and coughed unforgivingly. Something snagged wetly in his chest. It sounded bad.

"You all right?" Joan's glow was quickly leaving her. The world rushed back in, too real again.

"Yeah--" Bob tried to say, but too soon to avoid being interrupted by the last bout of coughing. "'M okay."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm all right."

Joan nodded at the pillow next to her, and Bob lay down.

She didn't toy with him, as he'd done. It was sorely tempting--the sounds he'd make, if she drew it out, they only got prettier the more strung-out he got. But that wasn't what he was asking for, in his way. Not tonight. He lay on his side, and she pulled his shorts down, left them bunched around one ankle.

He was staggeringly hard, she thought as she took him in her mouth. A side effect of giving up smoking? The pressure on her palate had her eyes watering a bit, but something drove her forward. The vital feeling of his blood thumping under his skin. She knew he wouldn't last.

Bob keened and swore and shook like a sheet of paper. He clutched her head with both hands, but she was careful and practiced; it didn't hurt her. After just a minute, maybe two, he drew a hopeful gasp and sighed, purely euphoric. Then he was coming in her mouth, enduring gentle tremors, finally pulling her off with a whine of over-touched pain.

They nested together for a while after, piled chest to damp chest. It was nice. Cozy. By the time she grew sleepy, they'd drifted to their respective sides of the bed. But sleep didn't come as easily as she thought it might.

In the middle of the night, impossibly late, the mattress shifted and Bob sat up. Joan waited and listened, but he didn't rise. He just breathed.

He was straining. Wheezing.

Joan listened until she couldn't anymore. She rolled over to--she didn't know what. Rub his back, take a few breaths with him? She'd all but worn through asking him if he was all right. But as she moved, he was already laying down, and his breathing was quiet again.

She nestled against his back, one arm curled tight around him, and kissed his head.

---

One Week Before the Party

The day of the show got off to a bad start.

It was hard enough trying to keep Bob away from cigarettes. They could just forget about the rest of the crew. Albert had circulated a memo, whatever that meant, but no one seemed to have gotten it. More times a day than she could count, Joan found herself asking someone if they could please finish that outside. One out of every five obliged. The rest tended to look at her like she had three heads, but as soon as Bob demanded to know (between scattered sneezes) where they got off, who they thought they were, they'd slink off in shame to find an ashtray.

Their chauffeur to the venue was just the latest in a long line. He chucked his cigarette out the window with no more complaint than a sour look, but the car was already so full of smoke it made Joan queasy.

"Does your window roll down?" Bob asked, pinched. He couldn't get his open.

"Can we--" Joan's wouldn't budge. "Do the windows open back here?" she called to the driver, trying not to sound frantic.

He glanced at them through the rearview. "Not on the door. Try the fly window."

Bob pushed the quarter glass open. Cool air hit Joan's face, and the stench of tobacco thinned, but it was too late. Breathing in clouds of smoke, in such an enclosed space, was just asking for trouble.

"hhhhh-! aht'chshhff! --h'chhhh! --ch'yssh'hfh!"

Bob shoved his face into the inside breast of his jacket. His sneezes were slightly muffled, but Joan could hear protest in each one. She touched his arm in sympathy. From these past few days, she'd learned he didn't want her to compound his humiliation by saying--

"Bless you," the driver said kindly.

Joan could see only Bob's eyes, glowering wetly at the front seat over the lining of his jacket. She imagined he was piecing together a jangling poem about hypocrites; the sort of people who'll give you a faceful of smoke and then bless you when you sneeze. Sixteen bars of harmonica, et cetera.

"See what lot of good it's doing me?" Bob emerged from his curtain with a sniffle. "Quitting?"

Joan gave him a long look, then turned away. "Well, as bad as it is, it'd be even worse if you were--"

Bob gave a shuddering gasp, building up to a particularly urgent-sounding sneeze, but as soon as his throat closed, it petered out to nothing. He huffed angrily and pawed at his nose. "Wouldn't be all nuts all the time," he muttered. "Shakin' and all this shit..."

"Well, I'm sorry you're miserable, Bob. You'd rather be hacking out a lung? Trying to catch your breath--"

"You know," Bob interrupted, pointing an accusing finger at her, "I don't know that that's strictly your biih...hh-- hiz-szschhiuh! your bihh... --'kschhyew! ah'ktschuhh!" He'd dived into his hands, forgoing his jacket lining or even his sleeve, for some reason.

"Bless you," said the driver. They ignored him.

Joan didn't know why, but she waited for Bob to gather himself with a few more sniffles and coughs before he managed, "Don't know that's any of your business. What I do. What I, what I want." He wasn't even looking at her.

It was the withdrawal. It was the stress of his symptoms and their everpresent trigger. Joan knew these things, but right now, she didn't care. She'd run out of patience. "No. You're right, it's not." She faced calmly straight ahead. "Don't need to be telling anyone not to light up around you, either."

Bob looked out the window.

Joan watched his head turn, then swiveled around to face her own. "Go ahead and smoke 'til your lips turn blue. You can have an asthmatic attack, for all I care."

The car stopped. They'd reached the venue.

---

With a prelude like that, it came as no surprise that the show was an utter wash. They didn't sound too bad. In fact, Joan thought she must be crazy to imagine there was some difference in the way Bob sang. Something lackluster, some underlying resentment. It had to be imagined on her end. She felt dizzy when they sang into the same microphone, close enough to smell that, for once, there wasn't a trace of smoke on his breath. She wasn't putting on a fake smile for the crowd, she just couldn't help it. It was a natural reaction to having lights in your face and people in front of you. But something was off. It was affecting the band, too. Joan couldn't point to any one missed cue or flat note or anything of substance, really. She just...felt it. Like polluted air. Something was wrong.

No, she decided, once they finally broke free of the stage, it was all in her head. She was creating problems where there were none, projecting her own misery onto other people.

She found Albert in the dressing room, wearing an intensely uncomfortable expression. "That was a train wreck," he announced.

Joan laughed and agreed, entirely on reflex. At least she wasn't crazy.

They took separate cars. Separate rooms.

Joan was asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. Besides the joint she'd burned through on the car ride over, she was thoroughly exhausted from the show. Everything that had happened that day--but mostly the show.

She didn't think about Bob. She didn't cry about him, either, as she climbed into bed alone. But she dreamt about him. It was mostly replays of the concert, tape loops of memory being wrung through the mangle of her brain.

She dreamt he appeared in her room. Tried to talk to her, but she couldn't make out what he was saying. She dreamt he laid down next to her. The heat and weight of his body, clear as day. His hand, smoothing her hair away from her face...

"Joanie."

There he was, flesh and blood. Joan must have jumped a mile. Bob shrank to see her flinch away from him, but he stayed where he was. "Hey."

When she didn't answer, he went on. "Can't sleep."

Joan stared into his freezing eyes and felt her own heat up with tears. She raised the comforter. He climbed inside and huddled against her, his back to her chest. She scratched his scalp, his back, his upper arm, alternating so as not to wear out his nerves. When he began to snore, she stopped.

---

Joan must have fallen asleep at some point, too. She woke up and Bob was gone. There was a brief unpleasant, world-tilting moment where she couldn't tell if he'd ever been there, but then she heard a sound from the adjacent bathroom. It was him, no question.

He was sneezing over and over and over, in rapid clusters of five and six, then scattered. Rinse and repeat. They sounded strangely quiet--strangled. Cut-off. He was holding them in. Her stomach turned with sympathy. He didn't need to shut himself away. Sleep wasn't so precious. And after this week, Lord knows, she didn't mind. But he clearly wanted privacy, so she gave it to him.

He started coughing too, short and clipped. The sound was dull, dampened--that which couldn't be stifled must be muffled, she guessed.

There was a period of silence that she almost believed would last. But then he launched into a fit of--Joan couldn't say what. It was impossible to tell the escaped sneezes from the stray coughs, coming on top of each other at once, impotent for lack of breath. She thought about what she'd said. The sounds she'd heard from his lungs. She had to check on him.

He coughed loudly, so deep and long it sounded violent, and she rose from the bed. She wouldn't ask him if he was all right. She'd offer water, maybe some more pills. She'd--

Bob's head whirled around at the sound of the bathroom door opening. He sat on the edge of the tub, under the open window. One hand kept a towel pressed tight to his mouth and nose. The other held a cigarette, trailing lazy smoke.

Oh.

A long silence. Bob blinked and lowered the towel. "Didn't think you'd--" he coughed, "--want to be in here." His voice was worn to shreds, almost nothing.

Joan leaned against the doorway, taking it all in. No words came to her.

Bob went for it again. "Did I wake you?" He must have tried to wait for an answer, but bless him, his eyes were already closing before he'd gotten the last word out. With barely a skip of breath, he buried his nose in the towel and sneezed repeatedly, every one smothered, suppressed. Joan couldn't see the point in it. Was it penitence? Self-flagellation? There certainly wasn't any point in trying to be quiet now--if he ever had been trying. If he hadn't, on some level, wanted to be caught.

He wasn't coyly avoiding eye contact. He blinked up at her, waiting for a reaction. His blue eyes shone almost green against the bleary redness that came with tears.

Joan gave him nothing. Right up until he lowered the towel and moved to raise the cigarette to his lips. "Put that out before you kill yourself," she said, so sudden she couldn't have stopped it.

Bob might've said something, but he pressed his lips together and coughed through his nose, tensing up tight. He braced hard, as if trying not to let it rattle him apart. But more kept coming, rapid and shallow coughs, too close together to let him get a breath in. When he did inhale, Joan heard the deathly scrape of air trying to flow through a too-narrow passage. Then he coughed it right back out again.

He dropped the towel and reached out bizarrely, grasping at something that wasn't there. Blind, he flicked his other hand and the cigarette sailed into the tub.

Joan swallowed. She marched over and bent down to pick it up. It was out, at least. No longer emitting smoke.

"Joan."

It was so soft, so feeble. She looked at him and immediately felt a sense of unease. One hand was curled over his mouth, the other splayed over his breastbone. He clawed at his shirt and took a breath, just a small gulp, not enough. "C'n breathe."

"What?"

"I can't--" he gasped again, sharper but just as ineffective. "Can't breathe." It was as if getting the words out, in combination with the weak, sputtering cough that followed, broke some kind of dam in him, and the next moment he was trembling, his face screwed up in terror and pain, clutching his chest as if to tear it open and let the air in. He fought to take in air, his fruitless breaths rising with the sound of panic.

"Okay. Hey." Joan dropped to his side in an instant. She cupped his lower back and squeezed his hand, hard. "You're gonna be all right. Can you try: in through your nose, out through your mouth?" She demonstrated.

Bob sucked in a thin, wheezing breath through his nostrils, then pushed out a wobbling exhale. It quickly dissolved into a violent sob, and he was gulping again, fresh tears raining down his reddened face. He coughed, an awful, ripping sound.

"That's all right, honey, we're gonna try again." Joan's pulse pounded so hard in her throat, she felt her head might burst. She was operating on pure survival. "Like this." She inhaled through her nose, blew it smoothly back out through rounded lips.

Bob gave a sniffly inhale, waterlogged from crying, and exploded with a rattling cough.

"Hey, honey, listen to me." Her voice was soft. "You're gonna be all right. Okay? I got you." In through her nose, out through her mouth.

Bob tried once more to copy her. When he made it through one breath cycle without coughing or crying, she stood to fling the window open all the way, then slipped her hand back into his.

"I'm s--"

"Honey, shhh, it's okay, try not to talk."

Bob touched his nose and gave an odd, breathy shudder. She supposed it was the vestige of a sneeze, without enough air to expel anything. He coughed. Inhale, exhale. "I'm--I'm-- sorry."

The apology set him crying again. Joan shushed him, chanting it's all right, it's all right.

But it wasn't. He was still wheezing, coughing, choking on his own snot and tears. He sounded like he was drowning on land, and it wasn't getting any better. His hand was eerily cold. The nails, a faint purplish-blue.

Joan stood.

Bob looked up at her in confusion, then horror, then anger as she separated their bodies. She quickly began. "You're going to be all right. Honey--look at me. You'll be all right. I'll be right back. I'm gonna go get you an inhaler." She didn't know where. She didn't know how. But it was that, or leave it up to fate.

Tears dripped off Bob's nose and jaw. He let out a strangled cough and nodded. He had no fight left in him.

"Okay." In through her nose, out through her mouth. "I'll be right back."

Albert picked up the phone on the second ring. Relief flooded Joan. "Bob's having an asthma attack. We need a rescue inhaler," she panted.

"...We don't have a rescue inhaler."

"Well, you need to get one. Now. If you can't get one, call an ambulance. And call me."

A hacking cough sounded from the bathroom. In any case, Bob was still breathing.

Albert stumbled over his words. "All--all--all right."

Joan slammed the phone down, unlocked the door to her room, and raced back into the bathroom.

Someone tumbled in mere minutes later holding a little plastic tube. Joan shook the canister and positioned her finger over Bob's on the button.

"Breathe out."

Bob shakily emptied his lungs, then pressed, breathed in all he could, held it--

"That's fine," said the crew member who'd volunteered her inhaler. Someone's assistant of barely nineteen.

At her words, Bob let his breath out. He coughed frightfully hard straight away; deep and crackling, then a horrible bark like a baying hound.

"That's good," the assistant explained to Joan. "He's getting it out."

It was true that his cough, which earlier seemed to only irritate him more, was now rattling a good deal of obstruction loose from his lungs. Which was--Joan supposed, in the grand scheme of things--good.

After an interval of about a minute, Bob took another puff. This, too, was met with raucous coughing, but when it cleared, the wheezing had stopped. The color was back in his fingertips.

Joan thanked and embraced the girl (whose name was Sheila), kissed her on the cheek, and sent her back to bed, along with her inhaler.

"You saved a life tonight," Joan said, as a farewell.

Sheila forced a smile as she left. She didn't seem keen to talk about it.

Bob blew his nose into the towel and mopped his face dry. He was still crying, if you could call it that; just shedding tears. The albuterol had given him the shakes, but he looked abjectly worn out, used up.

With a heavy sigh, Joan sat next to him once more. "You wanna come lie down?"

Bob shook his head. "Chest gets all tight when I lie down."

It couldn't be a new development. She didn't have the energy to demand to know why he hadn't told her sooner. "Okay," she said instead, and cradled the back of his head.

Sniffling, he leaned over to rest on her shoulder. Falling teardrops speckled her blouse.

She didn't say I told you so.

---

The Night of the Party

George felt bile rise in his throat as Bob finished describing the events of the night. No wonder Joan had left crying. Whoever got stuck playing Bob's nursemaid tonight, it wasn't going to be her.

"Then you told her you'd quit?" he asked.

Bob paused in chewing at his thumbnail and made an underhanded gesture, a one-handed shrug. "Yes." There was a touch of embarrassment in his voice, but it wasn't serious. He was smiling a little bit. Maybe a nervous reflex, maybe he thought this conversation beneath him.

...Right then, thought George. It was smoke Bob wanted, was it? And damn the consequences.

George fished out his lighter and ignited a fresh cigarette.

Bob gave him a funny look. When George turned his way and took a step toward him, he slunk backward, into the corner of the railing. "I guess no one's here to ask you not to do that."

"Guess not." George had him blocked in, his boots on either side of Bob's.

Bob sniffed anxiously. "What're you, uh..."

George drew on his cig until his lungs couldn't take any more. Then he blew the whole lot in Bob's face.

"George--!" Bob spluttered. He shrank himself away as well as he could, but the railing kept him from retreating. He twisted to the side and coughed into his jacket.

"Tell me to stop, then." George went on puffing and blowing, covering Bob in smoke.

Bob wrenched in a shivering gasp and choked off a pair of sneezes.

"Come on, if you care what happens to you. Tell me to stop, be a man about it." More smoke.

"ah-kTSchhoo!" He couldn't contain it. "S-stop--!"

George immediately tossed his cig and stepped back. Bob wilted forward, coughing miserably at the ground. If George felt a pang of guilt, he had only to think of Joan, and it was gone.

At length, Bob got himself together--stiffened--sneezed. "Why the hell'd you do that?" he rasped, dragging his sleeve under his nose.

"Why shouldn't I?" George snapped. "You're only doing it to yourself, why shouldn't I?"

Bob snorted. "Oh, that's real..." He shook his head and scowled at nothing. "Real cute."

"D'you have any idea how scared she must have been?" George heard his voice break. He wasn't shouting that loud. He cleared his throat.

"You know, for someone who claims to care so much about--about her, and me--and..." Bob had taken a step toward George. "Who asked you to, huh?"

George closed the gap between them and wrapped Bob in a crushing embrace.

"Mm." Bob let out a whining sound of protest, or maybe surrender.

George held him as tight as he could. "You stupid git," he said into Bob's shoulder.

"I'm sorry--"

"Save it for her."

"I know. God. I'm...snf!"

George patted Bob's back, partially just to shut him up. They clung to each other for a while, with the occasional sway or shuffling step when one of them leaned too far.

It was obvious when they pulled apart that Bob had been crying. Although, George realized with a smirk, his sniffly nose and red-rimmed eyes could easily be explained away as allergies. Not that anyone at the party would dare to point it out.

"Drive you home," said George.

Bob answered with a bashful smile. George pocketed his lighter, threw an arm around Bob's shoulders, and led him through the glass door.

[iseefour]

Designs for my Superstar Pizzaplex and Observatory AU, which is basically an AU where the Daycare Attendants and the Glamrocks switch roles. So DCA are performers and the Glamrocks take care of the daycare.

The designs are based on 1960s and 1990s space age fashion.

Earth was based on the costumes of Lost In Space (1965). I made her hair shorter and curling up at her shoulders to match the popular hair styles with the era, but still fluffy and cloud like. It's a light blue body suit with a darker blue and green A line dress and green boots.

Sun was inspired by casual fashion of late 1960s which had a lot of bright colored jump suits layered with turtle necks. I originally wanted to do something more resembling the Beatles iconic outfits (cause performers), but I thought heavy patterns would clash with the solid color blocking the others had. So he has an orange suit and cream sweater.

Moon is inspired by the outfits in Eiffel 65's I'm Blue cause I thought that was funny. His outfit follows the 1980-90s space age fashion which had a lot of metalics and angular shapes in clothing.

Lunar is based on the costumes in Zenon, so late 1990s space age fashion with really bright color blocking. He's wearing a space helmet with a light purple, dark purple, and light blue space suit.

I kind of wish I made Earth's bow yellow because then they all would have yellow in the design. Moon has a yellow moon on his hat and Lunar has yellow accents on the space helmet.

I still need to draw Bloodmoon and Eclipse in this AU but I've been struggling to come up with something for them.

They don't have faces cause I can't draw them.

[bestfrozentreats2]

Godfrey - The Trip (Long Version) (1965 psychedelic garage)

Godfrey's legendary 1965 Sunset Strip psychedelic-garage take on Kim Fowley's "The Trip", in an extended version that combines the two variations on the same song into one. Image is of the Hollywood Cinerama and the Sunset Strip back in 1967, since this song came from that scene. 

“ It's that time babe, it's time to take a trip! To take a trip! Gotta leave this place, and all the rat race. You gotta take a trip to somewhere else. Up to the mountains And parks with fountains Where there's sunny weather, we'll get together. Everything's so pretty, miles from any city. Just you and I, and the big blue sky above mountains high. No more will we punch the clock, all day and night we can rock. We'll build a path, that'll be never sad. The music will be loud, only the in-crowd will be allowed. Yeah! let's take a trip, let's take a trip. It'll be top. It'll be top. Hey let's go now! Let's hit the road babe! Fasten your seatbelt, let's hit the road! Hey here we go! Let's take a trip, let's take a trip. I'll drive the car 'til we get far. Far away, hey hey. Feelin' good! No more frustration, a lifelong vacation. Let's take a trip! I feel so hip. Oh, oh yeah! Look around, at the people, in the town No goal, no soul. They'll never be, positively free, like you and me. Come on babe, ah come on babe We're almost there. Summertime's here kiddies, and it's time to take a trip. To take a trip! This world's so bad, you feel so sad. You gotta take a trip into a world so glad. A world of frogs And green fountains And flying dogs And silver cats And emerald rats And purple clouds And faceless crowds And walls of glass, that never pass. And pictures hanging upside down You won't ask where you are. You and your girl, and all your friends Will all be there 

Oh yeah! Let's take a trip! Let's take a trip! TNT, SOS, HOB, TOP It's Top! It's top! Hey here we go now! Let's climb some mountains everybody! Get on your walking shoes, let's climb some mountains! Now here we go Let's take a trip, let's take a trip Let's start to dream, just close your eyes. It's groovy now, yeah! Soaking. Cause I'm swimming in the new year It's all around, let's take a trip Right from the ground Oh, oh yeah, let's take a trip It's really hip No one will know What goes on Just you and me, and the dreams we see. 

Come on baby, ah come on baby You're doing it right, just put your head back. You're doing it right, just put your head back.”