#whereas with writing its very easy because i can just lie in bed

[accidentally-in-fictional-love]

Things I Noticed While Writing Light The Fuse: Part 5, Episode 2

Turns out I had a lot to say again

He's returned! And this is why I gave the Phoenixes their own private room lol okay so other than this room, which is clearly for the patrons to have fun in since there's a giant speaker in the corner, and the single motel room from ep1 we never see where these guys sleep. If they had their own trailers, Ethan might've been able to steal a couch from one of them, and if he had his own trailer then obviously he would've had his own bed.

Of course, that doesn't get him to the bar in five easy steps whereas crashing in this room does, so it's good for filming, but the Phoenixes live here along with everyone else, and they're always changing as they become Brawlers, so having one big room they can move their stuff in and out of (like a motel hehe) until they get their own permanent trailer makes sense to me! I'll make a visual layout of their room at some point since I see it very clearly in my head, so that'll go in its own post since I have limited images here

Matty looks great in this outfit btw 🥰

Johnson's been back for two seconds and already he's reminding me why I love him the most 🥰 but I love this bit, Matty's highpitched giggle that makes me insane with how cute he is, him admitting he was scared and thought he really did it this time, Johnson vibing the whole way up to the bar and saying he wasn't scared at all before acting as their bartender, and Ethan just barely awake and following like usual

Can't or don't, Matty? ;w; there's a big difference

You're so weird that's so mean I'm in love with you

Johnson not getting it in the least, Matty saying that and then it not even being real and Ethan not agreeing lmao what a shot

The switch from Ethan telling the lie in the last shots, to telling the truth and getting uncomfortable, to Johnson picking up on that and changing the subject with a glance to Matty, and Matty taking the topic a lot more seriously than before always gets me. It really feels like Johnson wanted to hear the truth more than the story, just with the way he was watching him before steering the topic, like that look to Matty was because he knew how he'd feel about all this

Look at this expression. He's not about to joke around here. Matty takes family so seriously, he's completely bought into Burt's promise and to hear Ethan talk about his family treating him like that has him serious, protective. I nearly wrote this scene in his POV because I really wanted to get into his head while Ethan was saying all this, maybe I'll call back to it when I'm writing season 2 because this feels like such a key moment to how he feels about him and him being one of them

This expression too, this is someone who knows this is exactly who Ethan is and that he belongs with them and he's waiting for Matty to say the same, that's how I see this

You know how I keep saying I'm gunna cry and we all know I'm only half joking? Yeah I teared up rewatching this scene again. It's only episode 2 and already Matty has fully accepted Ethan as theirs, part of the family. This isn't even ship talk this is them all drinking to the fact that Ethan belongs there and they both believe it. It's these scenes that make me love them so much and make me so damn emotional over them, why I think about them and instantly try not to start sobbing in public, and that's no joke.

The music here is also so beautiful, this is such a beautiful moment

This is the face of a man who's starting to realize that they genuinely care about him here more than in Detroit ;w;

Phew, ended up giffing pretty much this entire scene again! I never know what I'm going to say about these apart from a few scenes, so it's been very surprisingly to me how many gifs I've had to make so far. I really thought they'd be more rare as I point out other things, but I guess I should've expected it since I'm predictable in how much I love them heheh see you tomorrow for episode 3~ 💛❤️💙

[lovelyirony]

From the angst list: "I never loved you" with WinterIron if you're up for it? :)

Bucky takes a long look at the screen. 

“Why me of all of us? Why can’t Nat do it?” 

“You’re the closest to his type, whereas I am not,” Natasha says, looking particularly miffed. “At least, that’s what Bruce said.” 

“And I’m the smart one on this team for this one,” Bruce says, sliding his glasses down his nose. “Stark likes tall, dark, and handsome. Also potentially someone who could kill him.” 

“I can kill a man! You’ve seen me do it dozens of times!” 

“And as satisfying as it is each time, still not who we need,” Bruce says. “You can be part of clean-up.” 

“Why exactly are we doing this again?” Bucky asks. “Not saying it’s not necessary, but I’m assuming we can get past security.” 

“Ix-nay on that,” Maria says, frowning. “We’re getting Tony out of the weapons distribution game. He’s been selling under the table to a group called Ten Rings, and we need that shut down. Also, his security is impossible to break into. Trust me.” 

“Even past government level?” 

“Especially past government level,” Bruce says, admiration laced into his voice. “Government level is stupid-easy to hack compared to Stark Industries. Theirs is like breaking into Heaven itself.” 

“Or Hell, depending on your outlook,” Maria says. 

“If their security is good, then it means I’ve been had,” Bucky says. “I don’t think they’re gonna bypass this face and go ‘oh yeah, perfect for the job,’” Bucky says. “Which, by the way, am I just seducing him or getting a job?” 

“Seduction,” Natasha answers. “Bump into him. Disregard his status as a billionaire. He’ll swoon. Rich guys always do.” 

“Good to know next time my rent is late,” Clint adds, actually writing it down. 

“I have no idea why you always grumble that we never send you on missions when you do this,” Steve says. “But back to the subject.” 

The plan is this: 

Bucky runs into Tony as he’s out walking. For a billionaire, Tony is surprisingly easy to track down. Maybe it’s because he knows he’s built up a tech empire and if anyone does kidnap him (and they try) his tech quite literally saves him. 

They’re theorizing if Bucky is an outlier, a chance encounter, they might have an upper hand. 

He’s not sure, but hey. What the hell. Gets him out of the house. 

Tony frequents a coffee shop that is unfairly tacky, has lemon-blueberry muffins, and Bucky is ordering an iced latte. 

He bumps into Tony, sending him off-balance. 

The man is tinier than anticipated. 

Bucky all but lunges to make sure his head doesn’t go right into the glass windows. 

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Wasn’t thinking that hard, sugar.” 

Tony calls all of his friends by pet names. They figured he’d appreciate it. 

Judging by the small smile making its way onto his face, he does. 

“No harm done, not if I get to see someone as gorgeous as you,” Tony says, all but purring. “I’m a regular here, and I’ve never seen you before.” 

“Just moved back to New York,” Bucky supplies smoothly. “Work opportunity.” 

He buys Tony a coffee for the trouble. 

Buying a man with all the money in the world, coffee. 

He gets a number printed in blocky, engineering script on a napkin with a promise to “call for a date, if you want.” 

He calls the next day, heart jack-hammering out of control. 

It feels awkward to have Steve and Nat right there, egging him on to take him on a simple date. 

They go on a picnic. The weather’s nice, Bucky’s nervous, and Tony grinning at him is not helping. 

He feels...guilty. He’s pulled undercover work before, hell even gone down the same line of thinking. 

But this...this is different. Tony doesn’t seem to even acknowledge that he’s the most well-known person in the world. Sure, there are the signs. Allusions to business, Obadiah Stane “killing” him so to speak, if he doesn’t get a weapon done in time.  

Tony Stark is far more different than Bucky had expected. He wears old t-shirts and jeans that have definitely been in his closet for a long time, doesn’t always remember to style his hair, and definitely enjoys having Bucky around. 

The terrible thing is that Bucky actually really enjoys the man’s presence. He’s casually affectionate, unaware that Bucky could kill him if he was feeling particularly bored. 

Tony tells him about his day. About the little things in life, like that he discovered that he likes a certain kind of creamer or a funny thing Rhodey said. 

His friends are guarded, but nice. They don’t trust Bucky, and for good reason. 

(After all, Bucky’s just another one in a long list of people that have dated Tony for something.) 

And he hates it when his eyes light up because he’s excited to see him, or when Tony pecks him on the cheek when they get to Bucky’s place (and it’s not his place, it’s a safe house that he had to personalize a bit), and just...

“You catching feelings?” Natasha asks. 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

“Good.” 

They both know it’s not good. 

In order to maintain a cover and not have it blow up in your face, you need to feel a little bit. Or be a hell of an actor. 

Bucky’s not the type to be nominated for an Oscar. .

When he’s lying in bed, he remembers that Tony is the one who’s selling under the table. He’s causing needless deaths and it’s a shock to the system. 

Because Tony can’t even kill a spider. He gets a napkin and shrieks as he flings it out into the patio garden he has. He coos when he sees a dog walk past the breakfast place they tend to frequent in fair weather. 

Tony goes to farmer markets early and buys bouquets and hands out the baked goods to people on his way home. 

He complains that he needs a pinstriped suit but nowhere makes it right. He puts his head against Bucky’s shoulder after a long day at work, and is very tactile. He puts Bucky’s hair into buns and is so delicate. 

And it all is a lie. 

It is a lie when Bucky pushes that one unruly curl out of the way when he kisses Tony on the forehead. It is a lie when he gives him fun space socks and laughs when Tony’s first action is to slide on the wooden floor. 

It is a lie when they go to the art museum with hands interlaced and make fun of modern art. When Tony whispers that he loves Michelangelo, and everyone says he should like da Vinci, but he doesn’t. He can’t. 

“Michelangelo painted and sculpted what he saw, and that was strength in people,” Tony says. “He used everyday models. He created a sense of pride in creation. And I never forgot that, that pride of creation.” 

And Bucky swallows and it’s hard to breathe for a moment because creation is not something he would say. 

- 

Obadiah Stane knows about Bucky. He doesn’t approve of him because he is yet another distraction that pulls Tony away from work. 

“You’re a golden goose, boy,” he says, putting a hand on Tony’s shoulder. 

Bucky can’t help but be uncomfortable in his presence. He calls Tony “boy” and maybe that’s from knowing him from such a young age, but that doesn’t feel like it. 

“Well this golden goose likes going on dates with his love,” Tony says, pecking a kiss on Bucky’s cheek. He smiles on instinct. 

“Sorry, sir,” Bucky begins. “But he’s only human.” 

- 

Stane doesn’t like this Barnes guy. There’s something off about him, something that’s too...close. 

He looks into Bucky Barnes. 

Had some military service, was MIA. Almost declared KIA until a guy named Captain Rogers brought him back from somewhere in Eastern Europe, somewhere that Stane was familiar with. 

He calls two numbers. 

One is to inform the military of a surprise cancellation on a weapons demonstration regarding the Jericho missile. 

The other is to a man who he hadn’t dined with in quite some time. 

“Pierce, how do you feel about lunch on Saturday?” 

- 

Alexander Pierce is a man who is quite easy-going. He can do a lunch on Saturday, particularly with Obadiah Stane. 

“Good to see an old friend again,” he says, taking his wine glass. “What do I owe an occasion for? Did you finally get Stark to agree to marry one of my nieces?” 

“Not quite yet,” Obadiah says, smiling at the waiter. “Could I get the sirloin, medium-well? Thank you so much.” 

“I’ll take the grilled salmon,” Pierce says, handing his menu over. 

“How are the kids?” Obadiah asks as the waiter’s gone. 

“Fine, fine. You know how the younger generation is. Think they know everything when they get to college. Samantha wants free college. Thinks we didn’t pay for anything back in the day.” 

Stane laughs. 

“They’ll do that, for sure. Tony comes back with all sorts of ideas in his head about medical fees and do-good-community-bullshit.” 

Pierce takes another swallow of wine. 

“I assume you don’t want to just know about my kids.” 

“No, no that’s not all. I need to know how much you know about one James Barnes.” 

Pierce stills. 

“What do you know about him?” 

“Tony has a new...partner,” Obadiah says, “and he goes by Bucky. I saw that he was nearly declared KIA. Can’t imagine that that was satisfactory for you.” 

“It still isn’t. You know where he is?” 

“I can point you to his apartment.” 

“Excellent. Are we splitting the check?” 

“I’ll get it, you get the other thing,” Stane says. “And don’t make it too big of a thing, okay? Dramatics aren’t what we need.” 

“Got it. Thank you.” 

They enjoy the steak and the salmon. 

Stane tips absolutely nothing. 

- 

What Obadiah doesn’t know but probably should have is that Tony was sleeping over at Bucky’s place. 

He would not have sent Pierce there at the time that he did. 

He’s lucky that Bucky still remembers how to kill a man and gets out of the bed, knife already in hand. 

Tony is clutching the blankets, frozen. 

“You...what.” 

“Do you have anyone after you to kill you?” Bucky pants. 

Another guy comes up, and he’s not even looking at Tony. 

Well. Looks like Stane looked into him a little bit. 

“Babe, what the fuck is going on?” Tony asks sharply. He’s scrambling to get under the bed, yelping as he finds what is either the handgun or the machete. He thinks he put the handgun on the opposite side. 

Tony pops out with the machete. 

“I may or may not have not told you some things,” Bucky says, throwing the guy against a wall. 

“Like fucking what?” 

“I might have been a secret agency’s weapon for at least a year,” Bucky says. “In my defense, I remember nearly none of it except for sometimes.” 

“Except for sometimes?!” Tony yells, brandishing the machete. 

He’ll have to remember that he has the handgun on the other side. 

“Darlin’, I need you to go to the kitchen and grab my cellphone. Call Nat, tell her you need help.” 

- 

It’s a whole clusterfuck is what it is. Bucky’s dealing with three different men all in varying states of pain in his apartment, his boyfriend (well, kind of a boyfriend, he doesn’t know he’s not one) is on the front lawn, and Bucky is in his room debating on redecorating tips and panicking. 

“Why the fuck would someone send people after you?” Natasha hisses. “Who knows?” 

“Stane, most likely,” Bucky says. “Got suspicious. Hated that I would take Tony out for dates.” 

“Why, he homophobic?” 

“Among other things. I think I cut into Tony’s productivity time.” 

“Oh my fucking god, seriously? You took Tony out for ice cream and that’s what did it?” 

“Most likely. Rhodes and Potts didn’t suspect a thing. I’m thinking Stane knows Pierce, probably made contact. But it begs the question as to why. Because he could get around my timing.” 

“Maybe it’s not Stark who’s selling,” Natasha says, “and that means we’ve wasted a fucking year with this whole shtick.” 

Tony is standing outside the door. 

“You...so you were exactly like the other ones?” 

Bucky’s chest constricts. 

“I--I can’t say no.” 

“So you never loved me?” Tony asks quietly. “Every single time you got me a present, it was just to lead me away from something else? Every single time you picked me up for brunch, it was an act?” 

“Tony--” 

“So after all this,” Tony says, gesturing to the framed pictures and the set of drawers that were specifically for him in mind, “you were gonna look me dead in the eyes and say ‘I never loved you’?” 

“We thought you were selling weapons under the table,” Natasha explains. “We needed to get close without tripping any alarms. 

Tony freezes. 

“Well. You did your job. Now I’m getting the hell out of here. And I’m taking the fucking machete.” 

Tony tears apart Bucky’s tires on his way out. 

That’s fair. 

- 

Bucky was not expecting to feel like absolute fucking shit. 

Or try to apologize to Tony. 

He calls and texts and even shows up to the tower, but Jarvis says if he comes in then he’ll be obliterated to pieces. 

“Does it help if I don’t care that I die?” He asks hopefully. 

“I do not want to bother our cleaning services with something so trivial, Barnes,” Jarvis says. 

Even his AI is mad at him. 

Existence is a curse and a prison. He is definitely writing his own eulogy and telling everyone it was Bruce’s fault that he sent him instead of Nat. Nat probably could’ve done it. And not fucked it up and gotten feelings and now feel like drowning to Lana Del Ray. 

“You’re so fucking sad,” Sam says, poking Bucky in the leg. “Stop listening to sad shit, I think it’s affecting Bruce. You know how Bruce is when Lorde comes on.” 

“Yeah, he gets all mad and tells us we’re disappoints to natural worlds,” Steve calls out. “Bucky, you want a grilled cheese or are you gonna deny yourself a functional dinner and eat two pretzel rods later tonight?” 

“Aren’t we out of pretzel rods?” Bucky grumbles back. 

“I’m making you a grilled cheese now then. If you don’t eat it I’m going to tell you all about my day, and I had to wait in a really long line at the DMV.” 

“Ugh,” Bucky groans. “How is your life sadder than mine at this point?” 

“His life isn’t sad, it’s just boring,” Sam answers. “Steve, you’re boring.” 

“If I’m so boring, then why the fuck am I still here?” Steve asks. “You never call Bruce boring when he rants about nineteenth century art and elitism.” 

“That’s because I’m right and I called Cezanne a ‘punk bitch’ and made it funny,” Bruce says. “You are around for entertainment value and aesthetics only. Also because occasionally you let Sharon visit and I love her.” 

- 

Despite his best efforts, Tony is crying on a Friday afternoon at 2:34 p.m. This should not be happening, but it is. 

Pepper says he shouldn’t have his desk face the door, it’s kind of sad. 

“Just...god I hate that I like him!” Tony exclaims. “I hate that I know he kind of didn’t mean to do this, except he did, but he thought I was a criminal! And I still like him! Even though objectively what he did was bad but I haven’t talked to him!” 

“You’re a sad little man,” Pepper says. 

“If you call me a ‘little man’ one more time I think I might go unhinged and destroy the fourth floor,” Tony says. “And I know that you store your and Rhodey’s favorite coffee there because they don’t mess with cabinets.” 

“You monster.” 

Pepper reshuffles her papers. 

“Well, while you sign these--and you willl, stop pouting--I’m going to tell you something.” 

Tony starts signing. 

“While I think that Bucky is questionable at best, I don’t quite think he was there because he wanted something. Other than you in jail, but like. I don’t think even that.” 

“Should I be consulting a therapist about this?” 

“Probably. Are you going to?” 

“I’m me. No.” 

Pepper snorts. She gets one signed form back. 

“He felt guilty taking your gifts. He liked baking you desserts so when you got back home the house would smell like cookies. You’re not the only one who misses that, by the way.” 

“So are you saying I should take him back?” 

“At least talk to him. Decide if you want him back or not. Keep in mind he can’t come to family dinner for a hot minute.” 

“Understood.” 

- 

Bucky gets a text asking about dinner. 

He says yes. 

Obviously. 

- 

They go to a restaurant neither of them know. Tony still passes an old dinner favorite, and remembers that Bucky had hated the fish. 

Bucky passes by a breakfast favorite. Or late night favorite. 

He remembers making little pyramids of the coffee creamers and Tony figuring out how to get creative with the tin foil for leftovers. 

- 

The restaurant has a fucking wait list. 

Fifteen minutes. 

So they’re standing there and making the most awkward small-talk available because it’s not like you can ask if someone is doing fine after they were attempted to be killed and you also found out they thought you were the criminal mastermind. 

At least, you can’t ask it while you’re on a wait list at a restaurant. 

They get seated at the bar because Tony is a gigantic pushover and Bucky doesn’t mind bar seats. 

They order drinks and then Bucky orders an appetizer and it occurs to Tony that for the first time in a long time, he’ll have to ask to split the checks. 

“How have you been doing?” Bucky asks. 

How have you been doing. What a fucking sentence. What a damn question. 

“Are you asking me how I am doing?” Tony responds. “When I found out that my boyfriend was faking it, my uncle was basically Claudius from Hamlet, and I also have to revamp my company entirely from scratch and fired the most amount of people I think I’ve ever done because of said-tragic-uncle? Oh James, I’m doing just absolutely peachy.” 

Oof, James. 

Bucky orders a martini. 

“For the record, I am very sorry,” Bucky says. “About everything. I shouldn’t have done all that I did, and I probably should’ve just asked you if you were selling weaponry.” 

“You think I would’ve told you?” 

“Well no, but you’re the worst liar on planet earth,” Bucky says. “You said you liked my cardigan. You never did.” 

“It was a monstrosity and you know that,” Tony argues. “I hope you burn it.” 

“I’ll let you burn it,” Bucky says. 

“Are you serious?” 

“Course I am.” 

They order from a very nice waitress who most likely has no idea the amount of shit they need to talk about, or the epic level of just...drama. 

“How are you doing?” Tony asks, stirring his lemonade. “Still being a weird conman?” 

“I usually am not the conman,” Bucky answers. “I’m usually the guy who’s long-distance.” 

“What the fuck do you mean long--oh. Oh. Never mind, I don’t wanna know. Nope.” 

“Well other than that, I’m fine. You know. Making coffee. Getting up in the morning. All that fun jazz.” 

(Tony politely does not mention that all of those activities are not “all that fun jazz.” They are not fun, nor particularly jazzy.) 

They sit awkwardly. Tony checks his phone. 

“I still like you. And I want to hear your side of things,” Tony says. “I’m...open option.” 

“You did not just say open option like you’re a college tour guide.” 

“Get to the point,” Tony says. 

“We thought you were the one double-dealing under the table,” Bucky says. “So we decided that I would go in. We couldn’t surpass your security, Jarvis is too good.” 

“He’ll be glad to hear that.” 

(This is because Jarvis is a Smug Bastard. Just like his dad.) 

“And so I was introduced to you. Bumped into you completely by accident, or so it seemed. Sincerely didn’t mean to drop coffee.” 

“Okay.” 

“I was to get to know you in a way that didn’t involve anything with the company so that there wouldn’t be added security measures. You vetted me as a romantic interest, not a threat. You didn’t do deep digging.” 

“Good to know,” Tony murmurs. “I did it after all of...that. You have an impressively mysterious background, Bucky.” 

“I tried my hardest,” Bucky says. 

“Continue with your story.” 

“Somewhere along the line, I started...well I was conflicted. Because Tony, I don’t mean this as a way to sugarcoat, but you are genuinely one of the best people I’ve ever had in my life. 

And I just...I couldn’t stop hurting myself every single time I saw you because I thought you were this person who put profit over people, and then you weren’t. And I completely fucked that up. And I was a terrible person who manipulated you. That wasn’t okay.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” Tony says. “But it also should be said that I let the wool get pulled over my eyes. I wasn’t personally checking in on the company that I own. And if there were under-the-table dealings, the CEO should know. And I was just compliant with whatever Obie was doing because I thought that he was good just because I knew him. That was...stupid of me.” 

They order food. It’s kind of awkward. They are both pretty sure the waitress has caught on that something is up with them. 

Bucky decides to eat his mac n cheese. 

Tony is looking at it. 

“You want some?” 

“Better not. Your appetite is always huge.” 

“Yeah but you like mac n cheese.” 

Bucky scoops some of it onto Tony’s plate. In usual circumstances, Tony would’ve just swooped in with his fork and stolen it like the gremlin he is. 

But this is not the usual circumstance. 

They split the check. Get the wrong bills. Pay them anyway, because they are nothing if not nice and slightly desperate for each other. 

“I’ll..see you soon,” Tony says. “It was nice talking to you.” 

- 

They get to know each other as people, after that amazingly awkward lunch. 

-

Tony finds out that Bucky really, really loves getting up early in the morning. He has a ritual that he rarely strays from. Bucky also likes working on cars and bikes, and that’s something they enjoy together. 

Tony loves quoting old movies and talking in the very stupid but very adorable transatlantic accent. 

They find new restaurants to try. They figure out that they both would prefer to not go into sandwich shops. (Varied reasons, all stemming from events from 2004. Do not ask.) 

- 

Bucky gets Tony a series of old movies and movie posters, which Tony adores. Pepper and Rhodey approve. 

“You’re no longer on the kill-list!” Pepper exclaims brightly. 

“I think Bucky here could kill you if he wanted to,” Tony defends. 

“I could not,” Bucky immediately counters. “All of your friends terrify me on a level that shouldn’t exist.” 

“I’ll keep this in mind the next time I want late night pizza,” Rhodey says. “You should not have shared with the class, Barnes.” 

“Like you wouldn’t have found out anyway,” Bucky answers, snorting. “You found out where to find my middle school pictures and blow them up on Stark Industries’ presentation boards. What else couldn’t you find out?” 

“Bruce’s phone number,” Rhodey says, sighing. 

“Oh, I have that,” Tony says. 

“And you didn’t tell me?” He screeches. “I could’ve been taking him to brunch by now!” 

Tony rolls his eyes. 

“You’re so dramatic. I have no idea where you got that from.” 

Rhodey flips him off. 

Pepper delicately sighs, picking her plate up. 

“I’m turning in the for the night. Rhodey, I’d suggest you do the same.” 

It’s not subtle at all. They all know that Tony and Bucky are going to talk. 

- 

They’ve been doing this dance for a couple of months now. Going on dates, leaving each other at the door and kissing on the cheek goodbye. Only recently has Tony restarted activities they used to do. It still sends a zing to Bucky’s heart when Tony kisses him on the cheek before he leaves. 

“So.” 

“So.” 

God, what a great start. Really and truly. Their best one yet, of course. 

“Listen,” Bucky says. “I don’t have a lot that you don’t already know. But what you should already know is that I will and can die for you. Doesn’t matter what the circumstance is. And I know you’d do the same, I can always tell. But I know that you dying for somebody is different from me because you carry the world on your shoulders and I don’t. 

And these months have been rough, I know they have. I’m beyond grateful that you got that lunch with me and we agreed to actually date and have no secrets--except for the time you used the last of my blackberry preserves--but that’s okay. You can use all of my jams and preserves for whatever you want as long as I get to see you for the rest of time.” 

Tony stills. 

Because he wasn’t expecting this many words. He had actually prepared a whole speech. Even practiced it in front of his mirror. 

(Also he was not expecting to be in his ratty old workshop t-shirt, but here he is.) 

Tony melts. 

He crawls into Bucky’s lap, sighing. 

“I’m never leaving.” 

“Really? After all that, and all I get is cuddles?” Bucky sighs dramatically. “The folly of man.” 

“You get cuddles for the rest of time,” Tony says, “plus a little more. Discounted rate, of course.” 

“Oh, a discounted rate?” Bucky says, cackling. “Debit or credit?” 

Tony grins, laughing. He pulls Bucky into a kiss. 

“Missed that.” 

“Me too.” 

They won’t miss it anymore. At least, not for as long as it was. 

[darlingrutherford]

@freethemages recently won first place in my giveaway and has been soooo patient with me as I took my sweet time on this fic for him. Thank you so much, lovely, for trusting me with your wonderful OC and the great idea you entrusted me with :) The fic is under the cut, and I’ll also be linking below for those of you who have Ao3 accounts and would like to read it there :) 

Comfort | Cross-posted on Ao3 | Tristan Trevelyan/Cullen Rutherford/Alistair Theirin| DA:I Post-Trespasser | Explicit - polyamory, comfort sex | 18+ only, please!

     Somewhere deep inside of him, Cullen had almost hoped the weather would have turned that day. Grey skies had been on the horizon that morning when he had awoken, but fair winds had kept the day less than stormy the entire afternoon. It was his fault that they were sparring in the first place. Cullen had suggested the Inquisitor and he work on his form, a way for Tristan to adjust to having just the one hand now to wield his staff. It had seemed like an honest enough suggestion at the time. Very quickly, however, Cullen was beginning to realize he had perhaps pushed the subject all too soon.

“Stop going easy on me. I can see it in your footing,” Tristan grumbled. Cullen shifted slightly at being caught, taking a step back as Tristan picked his staff up from the ground. 

“I'm not -”

“Don't lie to me, Cullen. I don't -” The mage sighed as he straightened, trying to tighten his grip on his staff so that it wouldn't slip from his hand this time. “I do not want special treatment just because you do not want to hurt me.”

“I am sorry,” Cullen sighed. He readied his stance, holding his sword and shield as he watched Tristan shift his foot forward. “I just thought, we should go slow at first, to -”

Cullen had little time to finish his thoughts. Frustration sparked in Tristan's eyes as the idea of starting slowly. He shifted forward, throwing a low blast of flame towards Cullen which was deflected by a downwards pivot of the commander’s shield. By the time Cullen had lowered his shield, Tristan was almost upon him, magic sparking from his staff as he dared Cullen to go easy on him now. Cullen almost chuckled; Tristan was tenacious, stubborn to a fault. It was one of the things he loved most about the Inquisitor. 

As the essence of a large fist began forming magically near Tristan, Cullen's feet moved quickly, allowing his shield to take the brunt of the punch as he shifted towards Tristan. The mage moved back quickly, tripping over his feet as Cullen thrust his sword underneath his boot to knock him off balance. Tristan managed to stick his footing, distracting Cullen with another spark of fire to increase their distance. As Cullen looked up from his shield and the flames faded away, he saw the beginning of a smirk curling at the corners of Tristan's lips. Tristan began pulling at his mana, readying his next attack. He began twirling his staff, bringing his left arm up to assist, forgetting for a moment everything he had lost. And then, his staff dropped to the ground.

Tristan stared at his staff in horror as it hit the dirt. How could he have forgotten? It was gone, clear as day. But it had felt as before - as if his fingers would have closed around the wood, spinning it with his right hand to conduct the magic needed for the spell. Tristan looked up when he realized everything was silent around him. Cullen stood there, just as far away as he had been before, as if waiting to see what Tristan would do, how he would react. And, there it was: the concern, the worry, as plain as day on Cullen's face. Tristan looked back down at his staff, frustration coursing through his veins. His eyes stung as they welled with tears. He reared his leg back before kicking it as hard as he could with a loud yell. It was all he could think to do in his anger, feeling it bubble up as Cullen placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Perhaps we should take a break?” Cullen suggested softly.

“Why?” Tristan choked through his tears. “Because you feel sorry for me? Because you don't think I can handle it?”

“Trist, that is not what I am saying,” Cullen sighed. “It's all right, we can work on it -”

“No, Cullen, it's not all right!” Tristan shouted. Cullen stopped in his tracks as Tristan jerked his shoulder from Cullen's grasp and stepped away. The growing concern on Cullen's face only made him feel worse by the minute. “I've lost my fucking hand and you won't stop coddling me about it!”

“I was only attempting to -”

“I can't do this right now. I need… I need to be alone right now.” Tristan picked up his staff, not quite meeting Cullen's eyes as he straightened. Cullen didn't try to stop him as he walked back to the main gates of Skyhold, leaving Cullen rubbing his neck in frustration. Cullen sighed in vexation as he felt the first drop of rain bounce off his nose.

“Little late, aren't we?” He mumbled.

     Cullen couldn't blame Tristan for his outburst earlier. The man had lost half of his arm, his dominant one at that. Cullen had hoped that the relief of no longer baring the Anchor would have been some comfort to the man he loved, but the comfort had been short lived. Three weeks wasn't enough time to adjust to having to fight differently, to relearn how to dress oneself, how to mount a horse, to write, not to mention the phantom pains that plagued the poor man… 

“Unless this is important, it can wait until tomorrow,” Cullen grumbled as he heard the door to his office open. He was standing at his desk, pouring over the many reports laid out in before him as he watched a cloaked figure enter his office and shut the door behind them. Cullen sighed in vexation, setting the vellum in his hand down as the person refused to leave. “Well? What is it?”

“I suppose it's only important if you want to keep up relations between the Inquisition and Ferelden.” Cullen's eyes shot up to look at the cloaked figure as the familiar, warm voice spoke. A hand pulled back the hood on the cloak, revealing the King of Ferelden himself, grinning like a young boy keeping a close secret.

“Alistair,” Cullen breathed in relief. He walked around his desk quickly to meet the man. “Maker, you couldn't have come at a better time.”

“I would have come sooner, but you know how advisors are.” Alistair scrunched his face in slight annoyance at the thought of it. Cullen chuckled as he greeted Alistair with a tight hug, allowing his hand to rest on the back of Alistair's head. He gave the man a heavy kiss, relieved to see him after so long, and just at the right time it seemed.

“You should see him right away, he hasn't been in the best state, understandably. If anything will cheer him up, it will be seeing you… How did you get in without the guards announcing you?”

“I know a thing or two about sneaking around…”

“I hate to bring reality crashing down around his Majesty, but, if I recall correctly how many times you were caught by the Sisters at the Chantry… You are terrible at sneaking, Alistair.”

“Fine. Leliana snuck me in,” Alistair admitted with a sigh. “I wrote to her before I left. Didn't want a big to-do when I arrived. I'm here for Tristan, not for any noble in any nearby vicinity to come bother me here just because they couldn't get a personal audience the last time they happened to be in Denerim.”

“That sounds… awfully specific.”

“Yes, well, it's happened every time I've been here,” Alistair mumbled. He paused, looking over Cullen's face for a moment. “Did you do something different to your hair?”

“It rained,” Cullen sighed. He swatted Alistair's hand away as the man tried to play with the few curly locks that had reclaimed sections of his hair.

“I could have you arrested for that, you know,” Alistair said as Cullen pushed past him to lead him to the main keep. “Hitting the King. My guards would be furious.”

“Does your detail even know you are here?” Cullen asked as he walked onto the rampart. He took a quick look around, noting that none of the king's usual company were stationed anywhere in the courtyard. 

“They know by now,” Alistair said as he pulled up his hood over his head to avoid being noticed. He walked closely at Cullen's side, their fingers barely brushing. “I'll be chastised by them by the time they get here. I may not be fantastic at sneaking anywhere else, but I know my way out of Denerim better than anyone.”

“The King, chastised by his own men?” Cullen chuckled. “I should like to see that.”

“If you want to see me punished, dear Commander, all you have to do is ask.”

Cullen chuckled nervously at Alistair's comment, clearing his throat as he felt the back of his neck burning with heat. The two of them walked through the throne room, meandering past soldiers coming to and from their posts. A few suspiciously eyed the cloaked figure as he made his way to the first of the Inquisitor's chamber doors, but none questioned them as Cullen opened the door himself and ushered him in. 

“Allow me to go up first,” Cullen suggested as they reached the second door. “To ensure he's alone. The last thing we want is our ambassador knowing you are here.”

“Good point,” Alistair said, keenly recalling the last time he had attempted to spend time with Tristan, only to be pulled away to some long meeting between Ambassador Montilyet and a handful of nobles from… Well, he hardly remembered fully now. As Cullen opened the door, Alistair followed him through, hanging at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the Inquisitor's chambers. Cullen glanced back to watch Alistair silently close the door, before heading up the stairs himself. 

The first thing to catch Cullen's eye was Tristan's staff. Whereas Cullen had always found it in its place near the bookcase any other time he had come up, he now found it lying on the floor, still covered in a light layer of dirt from their sparring earlier. Tristan was sitting at the edge of his bed, hunched over with his head in his hand. He lifted his head as the floor creaked under Cullen's boots, and Tristan's eyes only caught Cullen's for a moment before he averted his gaze from the commander's.

“Cullen, I'm not in the mood for this,” he grumbled as he wiped his eyes. His eyes were red, his face tired, and Cullen felt his heart tighten for him.

“I know earlier was difficult. But, I think I found something that may cheer you up,” Cullen said with a kind smile on his face.

“I don't need cheering up.”

“I suppose I could return to Ferelden, if now is a bad time.” 

Cullen couldn't help the way the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile as Tristan's head shot up to look towards the stairs at the sound of Alistair's voice. The moment the man's auburn hair and amber eyes came into view as he walked up the stairs, Tristan stood and began making his way across the room. Alistair met him halfway, taking Tristan into his arms tightly as Tristan flung his arms around his middle. The moment their bodies met, when Tristan felt Alistair's warmth and smelled his scent that he had missed so much, it was like a light had wrapped around him. Cullen had been incredibly supportive, had held him at night, put up with him through the worst of the last few weeks. But Alistair was the last piece of the puzzle that had been missing since losing his arm, and Tristan hadn't realized it until that moment. They were both there now, the two men he loved more than anything else in the world, and, for a moment, he felt whole.

Alistair tightened his hold on Tristan as he felt the man shudder in his arms. He brought his hand up to hold across the back of Tristan's neck, cradling him and supporting him as he felt the Inquisitor slump against him.

“I missed you,” Alistair spoke quietly into Tristan's ear, rocking ever so slightly side to side as Tristan shook while tears collected against Alistair's shirt. “Ferelden just isn't the same without my two loves with me.”

“I'm so glad you're here.” Tristan's voice shook as he cried. Maker, he had missed this man. Tristan tried to bring his left arm up to hold the back of Alistair's head the same, only to feel a jolt shake through his body as he remembered. He couldn't hold him like that anymore. Not with a hand gripping the man's back while his other ran fingers through Alistair's hair which had grown since the last time Tristan had seen him. Why couldn't he remember? Why did he keep forgetting? It was infuriating, his mind playing tricks on him just when he began to relax even the slightest. 

“Come here, love.” Alistair tugged Tristan gently, leading him to sit at the edge of his bed. Alistair's heart ached for Tristan as he watched the man slump over once he sat. 

“Don't tell me you came here to pity me, too.” Tristan mumbled through his tears as he caught a glimpse of the sadness on Alistair's face, how his eyes strayed towards the glaring change at his left arm. Alistair quickly brought his eyes back to Tristan's face, changing his expression to a kind, small smile that probably wasn't as convincing as he had hoped it to be.

“Pity? No, never,” Alistair said as he sat to the right of Tristan. He took Tristan's right hand, lacing his fingers with it. “But you can't blame me for worrying, Trist. I do love you, as does Cullen.”

“He's right,” Cullen said. He took a few steps towards them to sit on the other side of Tristan. “You must at least allow us a bit of worrying. It has nothing to do with pity. I think, deep down, you know that.”

“Besides, as King of Ferelden, I'm supposed to worry about my subjects. Some a little more than others,” Alistair teased.

“We're not in Ferelden, Alistair,” Tristan mumbled. Still, Alistair caught the quick flash of a quirk in the corner of Tristan's mouth at his joking, and that was all the encouragement Alistair needed to continue.

“No? Hm… I suppose you're right,” Alistair sighed. “Still… I do feel a strong need to right what is obviously wrong in this situation…”

“You can't fix this.”

“You're right, I can't. Not literally. But…” Alistair took his hand and trailed his fingers along Tristan's jaw. The feeling immediately drew Tristan towards him, and his chin eagerly followed Alistair's lead as he turned his face to look at him. “At least let me fix this moment.”

Tristan felt the world slow down around him as Alistair's eyes met his, then flickered slowly to his lips. Alistair slowly leaned towards him, and Tristan found himself pulled towards the man as if by some invisible force. It had always been the same between the three - he, and Alistair, and Cullen - brought together by some unknown force, and tempted time after time again to be roped together until none of them wanted to so much as budge from each other. Alistair's kiss was gentle and heavy at the same time. Tristan could almost feel the desperation behind it, Alistair's want to make everything better and take away his sadness. Tristan had been consumed with his own self pity and darkness for weeks, ever since he lost his forearm. He had rocked back and forth between wanting this kind of attention and despising it, but, Maker, if there was one person in the world he knew he couldn't deny, it was Alistair. 

Tristan sighed shakily against Alistair's lips, his body relaxing even further as he felt Cullen's hand on his shoulder as if signaling him that he was there. Tristan leaned back, pressing his back to Cullen's chest as Alistair chased his lips. Alistair's hands started at Tristan's chest, gripping and feeling what he had missed the few months he had been gone. He slowly slid them down, squeezing his hips, then trailed one down further to run heavily along the front of Tristan's trousers. Alistair gave Tristan one last kiss before pulling back, his eyes watching with a sparkle oh so familiar to Tristan as he felt Tristan's cock begin to stir beneath the fabric and the heavy touch of his palm. As Alistair began slowly undoing Tristan's belt, Cullen placed a hand along Tristan's jaw, turning his head so that he could brush his lips eagerly against his.

“I've rather missed this,” Alistair sighed with a grin as he watched Tristan and Cullen kiss. Tristan opened his eyes to look at Alistair, his cheeks flushing when he saw the devious look in Alistair's eyes as Cullen held the back of his head and denied his lips any reprieve from his. Tristan kept his eye on Alistair, watching as he slipped Tristan's trousers and smalls down. Alistair hummed approvingly as Tristan's cock sprung to attention. “It seems you've missed it as well.”

Tristan moaned his affirmative response against Cullen's lips. He could see the straining bulge against Alistair's trousers, his heart pounding in want as he recalled the last time Alistair had taken him with Cullen. 

“You wouldn't mind, if I…?” Alistair asked with a cheeky grin. “It's just, Cullen has you so much more often than I'm able to, and I do miss the feel of you so…”

“Maker, please,” Tristan moaned against Cullen’s lips at the thought of it. Cullen chuckled against his lips, trailing his hand down Tristan's chest as Alistair rose from the bed. Tristan whimpered as Cullen ran a finger along the shaft of him, then continued onward to press a finger gently between his cheeks. Cullen shifted as Alistair handed him a small bottle, pausing to apply the oil to his finger before slipping it back down again. Tristan shuddered, his hand clinging to Cullen's shoulder as the man slowly and gently pushed the tip of his finger against his hole, coaxing the skin to relax and stretch as Tristan listened to the sound of Alistair removing his belt and trousers. Cullen continued preparing Tristan, distracting him with heavy, purposeful kisses while Alistair slipped off his trousers. Alistair watched the two of them, stroking himself with an oil coated hand as Tristan's hips ever so slightly rocked against Cullen's hand while the tip of his cock glistened with precum. Cullen's finger was buried deep in him, curling against the inside of Tristan. 

“Maker, but I could watch you two all day,” Alistair sighed with a happy smile. Cullen grinned while he continued to stroke the inside of Tristan, holding his chin in place as he pulled back to look Tristan over. 

“As fond as I am of feeling our dear Inquisitor squirm, I must admit… I do miss just how loud you can get him to be, Alistair,” Cullen said. Tristan whimpered as he felt Cullen's finger slide from him. Alistair's hands were soon on Tristan's ankles, pulling his boots and trousers off fully before stepping between his legs. 

“You know my goal well,” Alistair responded with a cheeky grin that made Tristan's heart skip and his face flush. “Now, my dear… Allow me to demonstrate just how much I would do to see you smile.”

They made a good team, Alistair and Cullen. They had gotten used to a rhythm in the beginning, perfecting it over time, of one of them steadily and lovingly prepping Tristan for the other when he would be the target of their affections. Alistair knew when he first set out to Skyhold that this wouldn't be an easy time for Tristan, and he was prepared to do what he could to take his dear love’s mind off of it all. Alistair slid his hands along Tristan's thighs, lovingly squeezing as he leaned forward and captured his lips with his own. Tristan sighed against him, melding into the touch of Alistair and Cullen at the same time.

A sharp inhale of air was the first sound to leave Tristan as Alistair pressed the head of his cock to him. Alistair continued kissing him, affectionately devouring his lips as he gave Tristan plenty of time to adjust to his size. Cullen ran his fingers through Tristan's short hair at the top of his head, his own breath heavy as he watched the Inquisitor slowly yet surely take in Alistair. Cullen knew well by experience of his own what Alistair was capable of, that sweet stretch as his generous length filled and made the object of his affection feel completely whole. A ragged sigh left Alistair as he began slowly moving his hips, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as his lips curled into a lopsided grin at the ragged moan that crept from Tristan's throat. 

“How does that feel, my dear?” Alistair asked. He felt his heart warm as a clear grin grew on Tristan's face.

“Like the King of Ferelden is fucking me,” Tristan shakily laughed through his grin. Then, on a more serious note, he added, “Maker, Alistair, I… I missed this. You, and Cullen, the three of us…”

Tristan sighed loudly as Cullen's hand wrapped around his cock. His palm slid along it, delightfully oiled, squeezing as he brought it from base to tip. 

“Speaking of Cullen...” Alistair locked eyes with the commander, his gaze traveling over him as if in careful consideration, before a smirk flirted his features. “You seem to be wearing quite a bit more clothing than the rest of us. Tristan, be a dear and help relieve your sweet Commander of his pressing issue.”

Tristan turned his head to look down as Cullen shifted from behind him. Without thinking, Tristan brought his left arm forward, freezing in place as he was jolted back into reality when he realized he couldn't grab Cullen's belt with his missing hand. Alistair's hands gripped Tristan's thighs, jolting him out of his thoughts as he tugged him onto his back and commanded a gasp from Tristan’s throat as he jerked his hips towards the Inquisitor in time. Alistair's hand ran soothingly along his thigh, his hips gently thrusting as he smiled lovingly down at him. Tristan turned his head, looking up at Cullen as the man ran a hand through his hair. Cullen took Tristan's right hand in his, pulling it across his chest to his belt to help direct him. 

It was as if a weight had been lifted off of Tristan, something he had been reluctant to release before. Now, with the two of them there, both directing him and gazing at him with so much love even when he faltered, he suddenly felt the true strength of their support, of what it would feel like if he let them help him. Maker, he had no idea if he could allow himself to step outside his pain and stubbornness each and every time they wished to help, but for now, in this moment, with the exhaustion of his loss weighing so heavily on his shoulders, he welcomed it gladly.

Tristan began eagerly undoing Cullen's belt with his hand. His fingers were slow, struggling when he was so used to using two hands. The reach stretched at his shoulder, and he soon found himself gritting his teeth in concentration. A heavy breath left him as Alistair suddenly pulled out of him and rolled him to his side. Tristan gripped the middle of Cullen's shirt, moaning loudly as Alistair sunk back into him. Maker, it felt so good. Alistair's cock slid along the inside of him, rubbing along every good spot imaginable. Tristan began losing himself in the feel of it all, but the sound of Alistair clearing his throat quickly brought his attention back to him. 

“I believe you're forgetting your task, Trist,” Alistair teased. Tristan smiled as he heard Cullen chuckle above him.

“It seems you may be a bit distracting, Alistair,” Cullen said with a smirk. He looked back down at Tristan as he felt his hand begin once again at his belt. “Although, I can hardly blame him. You do demand quite a bit of attention everywhere you go.”

“If you're wondering when you'll get your turn, there's no need to feel jealous. I'm sure there's plenty of room in my busy schedule for you as well.” 

Cullen cleared his throat, flushing with a smile at Alistair's cheeky comment. It took a bit of finesse, but Tristan soon had Cullen’s belt unbuckled and trousers unlaced. As Tristan pulled down Cullen’s smalls to release his cock, he eagerly gripped it at the base with his hand before lifting his head to run his tongue along the crown of it. The groan that left Cullen made Tristan’s heart flip. Tristan had become quite proud over time at how he had perfected stroking Cullen just as the man loved, something he felt quite lost to him ever since losing his dominant hand. His two lovers doted on him so often, making his want to give back something quite strong within him, and he had been afraid to disappoint, frustrated to have to relearn at such a disadvantage. The way Cullen’s hand gripped at the back of Tristan’s head, the satisfied sounds of him sighing in pure bliss as Tristan tried to focus on him through his own pleasure, it wiped away any worry that had attached to his mind before. 

“Maker, but that is a lovely sight,” Alistair sighed with a smirk as he watched the two. Cullen was still stroking Tristan, matching Alistair’s slow and heavy thrusts as Tristan tried desperately to keep up, occasionally falling behind as his mind clouded with glee. “You two are quite beautiful with your faces all pink and flushed.”

Tristan moaned his response, unable to say much more with Cullen’s cock halfway in his mouth. Cullen opened his mouth to respond, but only a groaning gasp fell from his lips as Tristan swirled his tongue, a sudden sense of purpose surging in the Inquisitor’s chest as he decided to prove something to himself. Left hand be damned, Tristan thought. He had been at such a disadvantage the past three weeks, tired of constant failure as he tried to right everything that was now wrong in his life. He was going to make Cullen come before anyone else.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen gasped. Tristan had increased his grasp on Cullen’s cock, squeezing delightfully as he quickened the pace at which he stroked him. His mouth stayed on him, sucking and lapping at him with his tongue as Cullen’s own hand slowed as his mind became overwhelmed with the pleasure the Inquisitor was giving him. Alistair’s thrusting slowed slightly, his eyes sparkling and a smirk flirting his features as he watched Tristan stare up at Cullen from his side while the Commander’s grip on Tristan’s short hair tightened. Alistair could see the determination in his eyes, how he was determined to get Cullen quickly to his end. They could both see it on Cullen’s face - the tightening of his brown, how his mouth hung open while heavy, quick breaths left him as his hips gently rocked in time with Tristan’s hand - and, after a few minutes of careful and deliberate work, Cullen’s hand slid to the back of Tristan’s head, holding him in place as he gasped loudly while his cock pulsed and emptied into Tristan’s mouth. 

“Fuck,” Cullen gasped through ragged breaths. “I didn’t mean - I meant to… to last longer than that.”

Both Tristan and Alistair chuckled in time at Cullen’s flustered words. Tristan slowly popped Cullen out of his mouth, sliding his hand to squeeze the man’s thigh reassuringly. 

“You’re always so tightly wound, Cullen. You need a good release as often as you can get it,” Tristan said. Cullen hummed in approval as he slid off the bed momentarily to remove the rest of his clothes. He paused for a moment, staring at Alistair as he watched the man dreamily gazing between the two of them.

“Caught in your thoughts, Alistair?” Cullen asked teasingly. 

“Just burning that image into my mind forever,” Alistair said with a grin. He tightened his grip on Tristan’s hip, just before snapping his own towards him. Tristan gasped loudly, caught off guard at the sudden change of Alistair’s pace. Alistair took Tristan’s leg, bringing it to his other side to slide between both of his legs once more. Tristan arched his back against the bed with a moan as Alistair sunk into him. The bed shifted as Cullen slid back onto the bed, situating himself just behind Tristan’s head. He pulled at the Inquisitor’s shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the side. Tristan sighed, his body flushing as Cullen ran his hands along his chest while Alistair continued to thrust into him. A whimper left Tristan as Cullen’s hand wrapped around his cock once more, gripping firmly and sliding along his length. Maker, he wasn’t going to last much longer at this rate. Tristan didn’t dare close his eyes, not wanting to miss a second as the two men leaned over his body to kiss one another. He could catch glimpses of their tongues, practically feel their hums and sighs vibrating all around him as the feeling of Alistair buried deep inside of him and Cullen’s calloused hand threatened to drive him over the edge. Tristan brought his hand up to grab at the collar of the shirt Alistair had yet to remove, tugging at it forcefully until the man eagerly left Cullen’s lips to come crashing down to Tristan’s. 

It was as if Alistair’s lips had sparked something within Tristan. Alistair’s tongue delved into Tristan’s mouth, his back arching to allow Cullen’s hand the room to continue stroking Tristan. One more snap of Alistair’s hips was all Tristan needed, one more stroke of Cullen’s hand, and suddenly he moaning into Alistair’s mouth, his body aflame as he burst. Alistair continued to thrust into him through it all, burying his face next to Tristan’s neck as the contracting of the man’s insides sent him over his edge with loud, guttural groans. Alistair remained poised above Tristan for a moment, kissing the Inquisitor’s neck in between heavy breaths. Tristan’s breaths matched his, his eyes closed and his mouth curled into a smile as Cullen stroked the top of his head. 

“Maker, but you’re perfect, both of you,” Alistair breathed. He lifted his head to kiss Tristan, nuzzling his nose with his own as he placed his palm at the side of his face. “I love you. We love you, Trist. I will do whatever it takes to keep you happy. Allow me that, please.”

Tristan could only nod as a single tear rolled down the side of his face. The three of them got resituated under the covers, Cullen and Alistair on either side of Tristan so that they could hold him. It wasn’t going to be easy - Tristan knew it, and so did they. There would be horrible days, days when he would fight with them, when his stubbornness would get the better of him and he would try to avoid their help and care. But, Maker, if he could remember this moment forever, how the two of them had made him feel whole again despite everything he had lost… With Alistair and Cullen as his support, perhaps Tristan could make it work through it all.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

So let me tell you about the bath in my new house

So I’m staying in an apartment for a few weeks with my new boss and her baby while we look for more permanent accommodation. I show up today, and the first thing I notice is that this place is SUPER fancy. I’m used to apartments being ‘houses, but smaller and shittier’, whereas the design philosophy here seems to be ‘hotel room, but bigger and fancier’. I walk in, am duly impressed by the big rooms, the boldly painted feature walls, the tasteful art. I check out the bathroom.

The bathroom.

Now, I am a fan of really nice bathrooms. In my view, nothing makes a house like a beautiful, spacious, easy-to-clean bathroom. You can show me a hovel and I won’t give a shit if the bathroom is nice enough. And this bathroom.

This is A Bathroom.

We’re talking gleaming white-and-metal tiling, minimalist glass shelving, huge free-standing shower, and those taps that just look like metal tubes. This is the kind of bathroom where somebody went, “okay, give me a hotel design, but that really rich people would also want.” I, a fan of bathrooms, minimalist design, and very clean things, am nodding in approval when I happen to look over to the other side of the bathroom, which is a bath.

A huge bath. With jets. And a little panel that lets you control the jets. You can also control the heat of the jets. I have seen spas, I have seen those baths you can get with jets, but I have never seen *this* unholy fusion, not on this scale. I vow that I will make plentiful use of this bath over the next couple of weeks.

So I unpack, my boss has a bath and goes to bed, I decompress for a bit, and then I decide to try the bath.

Climbing into the bath, I realise that It Is Big.

I knew that, of course -- it takes up half the room, after all. But it seems bigger from the inside. This bath was not designed for someone as small as I. Peering over the edge, I feel like Gregory in that one scene from What Remains of Edith Finch. With some experimentation, I find that I can very nearly lie flat along the bottom of the bath. This is not a bath; it is a pool.

At this point, some people might contemplate the logistics of using such an extravagantly sized container for washing and opt instead for the very nice shower, but not me. It is a Huge Bath, and a Bigger Bath is a Better Bath. I’m one of those people who gets in the bath before filling it, so I turn the water on and wait.

And wait.

Around me, the water rises very slowly, and now I begin to contemplate the logistics. It is occurring to me, science graduate that I am, that larger containers require larger volumes of water to fill, and the amount of time that it will take to fill this one might be an unreasonable preparation time for a bath. this is the kind of bath you turn on before going to have a cup of tea, not the kind you sit in.

But what am I going to do now, reconsider my fancy bath? Like some kind of sim whose car pool is coming in an hour and they still haven’t finished that painting they need to do before work? Ha! No, no; I am here for a bath. I am Committed. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to fill the bath all the way.

If I did, the water would be over my head.

So I wait ten billion years for water to fill this bath. I actually start to feel guilty over the environment while filling this bath. Does the cartoon fish who taught me to turn the water off when brushing my teeth know about this bath? Do they know I’m using it? Is the Murray-Darling being killed not by irresponsible damming and irrigation practices, but by my bath? Am I responsible for the rising salinity in the estuary by diverting vital outflowing water to this monstrous tub? I sate these fears by reminding myself that my town’s water doesn’t come from the Murray-Darling, but from an ancient volcano lake. If anything, I’m fucking up the local water table and eventually dooming the pine industry upon with the town’s economy depends.

Eventually, the bath water reaches a comfortable level. I turn it off with fingers already wrinkled from too long in the bath that I have not officially started yet, sit back, and turn on the jets.

Somewhere deep in the earth, an ancient metal dragon roars, shaking my flimsy porcelain tub, and vomits water from its many mouths. I barely register the impossibly loud sound of the pump for the jets (insert jet engine pun here) because I’m too distracted by the fact that I appear to be in the middle of a water cannon party. I quickly turn the jets off and realise the problem -- this bath is so huge that a ‘full bath’ to me is too low to even cover the jets, so they’re just spraying bath water up into the room.  My options: abandon bath, or run more water. Well, I’m no quitter, especially after this kind of time and water investment. When I go to hell for using the entire town’s water supply and dooming everyone, what am I going to tell them, that I did it for half a bath and gave up? No. I eye the splashes of water that reach as high as the nearby shower head, swallow my trepidation, and turn the taps back on.

This time is much faster. Couldn’t be more than one billion years before the jets are submerged enough for me to feel safe. On go the jets.

The dragon roars once more. I briefly consider whether making that kind of racket is such a great idea in a sleeping household, but the baby slept through his mother’s spa bath just fine and my boss went to bed at 8pm so should expect noise. I lay back and decide... no, I have not been in a spa with this much force on the jets before. They pummel me from every direction, the dragon’s watery claws digging into my skin, and I grit my teeth, fortify myself against the noise, and bear it. because this is VERY FANCY. It’s an EXTREMELY EXCESSIVE BATH and I WILL ENJOY IT.

I lay back, but not so far back that I drown, and let the water massage me. I enjoy my spa until I feel that I have justified the wait time and water use and then, gratefully, turn the jets off and pull the plug.

The water takes a very, very long time to drain. I dry and dress, then lay back on my bed, softened and bruised by my battle with the dragon, and begin writing this, while in the other room it screams EEEEEEURGH as it greedily sucks up my offering of water and, by the sound of it, perhaps the entire universe.

Man, this place has a GREAT bathroom.

[susanandherbooks]

Poetry Recommendation: From Me to You by U. A. Fanthorpe and R. V. Bailey

Valentines Day seems a good time to recommend my new favourite poetry collection. It’s not just that its a delightful volume of love poems but it's also because of the way the particular poetry collection talks about joyousness of casual intimacy and the easy domesticity of a long term relationship. A lot of love poetry talks about the initial rush of getting together whereas these poems are so rooted in two people completely sharing a life. This would be refreshing to read in any collection but personally reading a collection about such a wonderful lesbian relationship was a revelation to me.

The actual story of the relationship between the poets U. A. Fanthorpe and R. V. Bailey is incredibly romantic by itself. They worked in a ladies college together for seven years before they realised they were in love. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a scandal and they had to leave the job but they remained together for 44 years.

This long-standing creative collaboration can be seen in the very way this collection was put together. These poems were collected from between the two but they are not individually signed. The blurb of the book (attributed to both of them)  states ‘Wordsworth speaks of the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings. This seems an apt description of these love poems. They are not important resonant pieces of writing: they simply happened when one of us felt like writing to the other’. The blurb carries on by talking about how its not just big occasions but every day is the appropriate time to write a love poem. 

A great example of this collections wonderful way of talking about the day to day of a loving long term relationship is :

Atlas

There is a kind of love called maintenance,

Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it;

Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget

The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;

Which answers letters; which knows the way

The money goes, which deals with dentists

And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains,

And postcards to the lonely; which upholds

The permanently rickety elaborate

Structures of living; which is Atlas.

And maintenance is the sensible side of love,

Which knows what time and weather are doing

To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring;

Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers

My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps

My suspect edifice upright in the air,

As Atlas did the sky.

I hope you will think about picking up this collection but if you are still on the fence please read one of my favourite poems from the collection by clicking down before.

Going Under

I turn over pages, you say

Louder than any woman in Europe.

But reading’s my specific for keeping

Reality at bay; my lullaby.

You slip into sleep as fast

And neat as a dipper.

You lie there, breathing, breathing.

My language is turn over

Over and over again. I am a fish

Netted on a giveaway mattress,

Urgent to be out of the air.

Reading would help; or pills.

But light would wake you from your resolute

Progress through night.

The dreams waiting for me twitter and bleat.

All the things I ever did wrong

Queue by the bed in order of precedence,

Worst last.

Exhausted by guilt, I nuzzle

Your shoulder. Out lobs

A casual, heavy arm. You anchor me

In your own easy sound.

Happy Valentines Day

[iatethepomegranate]

DickTiger Week Day 2: Confession

With a little inspiration from the “Bewitched” prompt as well. But mostly “confession.”

Masterlist (including AO3 links)

Title: Hard Truths

Rating: Teen

Length: 6.5k

Summary: A panicked scientist hits Tiger in the face with a truth drug... and Dick Grayson is the last person he wants to be stuck with while weathering its effects. Despite their best efforts to avoid it, some hard, painful truths float to the surface.

Notes: Canonical character death (well, kinda), serious grieving, CW for emetophobia. This ended up longer and angstier than expected.

Hard Truths

Today was not a good day, and the only positive thought Dick could dredge up was: Well, at least it wasn't fear gas.

Tiger had gotten too close to a panicked scientist who had designed a new form of pepper spray with some... additional side-effects. It was actually kind of impressive that Tiger still managed to punch the guy after getting a faceful of the stuff.

After restraining the scientist, Dick had called for Spyral to pick him up. He and Tiger had to make it to the nearest safehouse under their own power, which hadn't been easy. At least Dick had thought to grab milk from the scientist's fridge before leaving, because the safehouse wouldn't have any perishables in it.

Tiger was lying on a camp bed in a rundown shack now, an ice pack wrapped in cloth over his eyes, after several milk-washes and a few rinses with water. The swelling had gone down a bit, and he'd stopped writhing in pain so the burning must've stopped. Or at least diminished. Tiger didn't like to show pain unless it was really bad.

Dick was still swiping through a tablet, working his way through a copy of the scientist's notes to figure out exactly what the hell these side-effects were. All he knew so far was that law enforcement and governments were super interested in getting their hands on this stuff. And he'd just helped Spyral get their hands on the creator. Fuck.

“Dick.” Tiger's voice was hoarse; he'd probably inhaled way too much of whatever the hell this gas was.

“Hmm?”

“Water?”

Dick set the tablet aside and filled up a glass. Tiger sat up, setting the ice pack aside. His eyes were still a little red. He gulped down the water while Dick sat beside him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fucking terrible.” Tiger's face shifted oddly, as if surprised. “Wait. No. I did not want to say that.”

Dick took the empty glass off him and refilled it. “What were you going to say?”

“I'm fine... but that is a lie. I am not fine. My eyes are burning and my throat feels torn.” He made a frustrated noise. “I did not mean to say that, either.”

Dick passed him the refilled glass. “Maybe this is a side-effect of the gas.”

“That I am forced to tell the truth?” Tiger grimaced. “Fuck.”

“I'll keep checking the notes.” Dick curled up in the one decent armchair in the room and picked up where he left off with the tablet.

“Please do not ask me any more questions,” Tiger muttered. Dick mimed zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key. Tiger laughed weakly, made another face and chugged the water... evidently to shut himself up.

This had already been a long day. Apparently, it was going to get longer. The notes were disorganised, but the write-ups of human testing proved fruitful. Some of the earlier victims had died from the gas, but the later ones just spilled all their secrets instead. No wonder governments and law enforcement wanted their hands on this shit.

Dick kept reading. Tiger had only gotten a lungful or two of the stuff, whereas most of the test subjects were exposed for several minutes at a time. It would likely wear off in a few hours at most, but it probably wasn't a great idea to take him anywhere until that happened.

“You had a lower dosage than the test subjects,” Dick told Tiger. “Obviously I don't have a great scale to work with, but the subjects' symptoms wore off after twelve hours. It shouldn't take you that long.”

“Good. I am afraid of what I will say.” Tiger growled under his breath and slammed the glass of water in the sink. “And I am already tired of saying things I would rather keep private.”

“I'll update Helena. It might be best if we stay here until it wears off.”

“I would rather not be stuck here with you.” Another weird face. “Excuse me. I need to hide in the bathroom.” He made it in there and slammed the door shut before he said anything else, but his next word was audible all the same. “FUCK!”

Dick got Helena on the comm, feeling simultaneously sorry for Tiger and relieved that he hadn't been the one drugged. He had way too many secrets that could jeopardise his life and mission if they got out.

“Hey, Matron. Sorry I was short earlier. Tiger was in a pretty bad way.”

“It's fine, 37. How is he now?”

“The burning's gotten better and the swelling's gone down a bit,” Dick replied. “He's still in pain, though, and experiencing some side-effects.”

“I'm looking through the data now. A truth drug?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I'm trying not to aggravate it, but we've already had some interesting conversations he hadn't intended. He's barricaded himself in the bathroom for the moment.”

“Stay put until that stops. The safehouse should have enough supplies for the night.”

“Thanks, Helena. I'll update you in a few hours.”

“Try not to let him tell you anything classified. You don't have the clearance for that.”

“That hasn't been an issue so far.” Dick kind of wished it was. Then he could at least pretend to plug his ears and actually learn some interesting intel. But no. Tiger was just getting extremely embarrassed because he admitted he felt like shit rather than pretending everything was fine. Oh, and he didn't want to stay here because that'd mean he'd be stuck with Dick. Ouch.

“Good. Keep it that way.” Helena ended the call, before Dick could ask what exactly she was going to do with the research data. It could be catastrophic in the wrong hands, and Dick honestly wasn't sure there was such a thing as the right hands in a case like this. If he'd known, and if he could've gotten away with it, he sooner would've destroyed all the data and pretended it was an accident.

Tiger wasn't coming out of the bathroom any time soon, so Dick wasted time digging through the rickety kitchen cabinets to see what they had to work with. Cans. And more cans. Salt, pepper, sugar, various dried herbs. Several bags of dry pasta. Several different kinds of teabags. And a jar of honey for some reason.

He filled the stovetop kettle with water and put it on the hotplate. Then he grabbed the box of teabags, and sugar and honey, and knocked on the bathroom door. Tiger opened it a crack and Dick shoved the box at him. He picked the teabag he wanted—a soothing throat coat blend, along with the honey—and retreated again.

“This is gonna be a long night,” Dick muttered to himself as he tore open the teabag packet and set about making the tea. At least it might help Tiger's throat feel better... though maybe he'd be better off drinking it cold. Now would be a good time to make southern sweet tea instead, but Dick had never done that before and didn't feel like experimenting now.

While it steeped, Dick kept looking through the cabinets, pulling out cans here and there. If they were going to be here a while, then Dick was making a late dinner. A very late dinner. He was already kinda hungry.

Nothing spicy. Tiger wouldn't be able to tolerate that. Crushed tomatoes, tuna, pasta, some herbs from the cabinet maybe. Better than yet another freaking cup of instant ramen.

Dick spotted a box of microwave mac and cheese. That could work with the tuna. He found a bag of frozen peas kept closed with a clip. Easier than trying to figure out how to flavour pasta with what he had on hand, given spice was a bad idea.

The tea was done. Dick took out the teabag and squeezed in some honey, stirring it in. Probably still too hot for Tiger given the events of the day.

The bathroom door creaked open as Dick tore open a mac and cheese packet.

“Hey, dude,” Dick said, emptying the macaroni into a bowl. “How do you feel about macaroni and tuna? Might throw some peas in there, too.”

“I am uncertain I want to eat at all,” Tiger said quietly, leaning against the counter. “Do what you like. Is this my tea?”

“It's probably too hot for you yet.” Dick poured out some frozen peas and got the tuna all lined up.

Tiger took a sip anyway, and immediately spat it out into the sink.

“I told you.”

Tiger filled up his glass of water, downed the whole thing, and said pathetically, “I just wanted tea.”

Tonight was giving Dick a hell of a glimpse into the way Tiger's mind worked. He decided not to comment, and instead threw the water-macaroni-powder-peas mix into the microwave. He'd just add the tuna later. Honestly, he was just hoping this worked because he had no idea what we was doing.

“What did Helena say?” Tiger asked.

“To stay here until the truth serum wears off,” Dick replied. “And I'm supposed to make sure you don't tell me anything I don't have clearance for.”

“Great,” Tiger muttered.

“I can plug my ears and sing loudly if you start.”

“Please do not. I have a headache.”

“Sorry to hear that, man.”

“I like hearing that.” Judging from the look on Tiger's face, that was another thing he hadn't wanted to say. This was going to be a rough few hours. “You are kind. I admire that about you.” He leaned against the counter and switched languages. Dick didn't understand what he was saying, but the tone made him think Tiger was swearing.

Dick poured a little cold water into the tea and passed it to Tiger. “Here. Keep your mouth occupied.”

“Thank you. I am going to hide in the bathroom again.” Tiger retreated before he could say anything else.

“I'll call you for dinner.”

He could've sworn he heard Tiger whisper, “Please don't.”

“Food is important!” Dick called after him.

Tiger would have been more than happy to hide in the bathroom for the next several hours until the drug wore off. He sat on the toilet lid and sipped his tea, his mouth burning a little but he could tolerate it. He felt a little like throwing up. Somehow he had managed not to tell Dick.

His eyes felt like they had been sandpapered. The skin around them was still raw.. Dick had helped him wash off the residue when they first arrived here, but the memory of that burning was still so fresh that he cringed every time he thought about it.

He also cringed every time he thought about all the embarrassing things he had said... and there were more to come. He could hide in here all he liked, but Dick would eventually drag him out to eat something.

At least the tea was soothing on his throat. He had been coughing so violently earlier that he actually did throw up a little when Dick wasn't looking. He didn't know why he cared so much about Dick thinking he was tougher than he really was. Dick wasn't like the other spies. He wouldn't use a moment of weakness as a weapon.

Tiger had spent a long time crafting an untouchable persona, one that seemed to have no effect on Dick at all. The man still teased him, sang songs and chattered incessently. Tiger would not be surprised if his outward lack of receptiveness had actually encouraged him. Alia had behaved the same, except...

Dick was unique, even outside the world of espionage. Uncommonly kind... and Tiger had said that to his face because of this damn drug. If he left this room, what else would he say?

That he thought Dick's strict adherence to his moral code, while inconvenient, was admirable? That his smile made Tiger feel warm? That he was glad Dick was his new partner instead of the numerous assholes in Spyral? That some of his jokes were actually funny?

That, despite their differences, Tiger was falling more in love with him every day? Of all his secrets, that was the most dangerous for both of them... for many reasons.

It would lead to difficult conversations about Alia that Tiger was not ready for. He would never be ready. He missed her every day, and these new feelings for Dick terrified him. Closeness brought pain. Lonely and unharmed was the only option Tiger could stomach.

He was already feeling nauseous. He couldn't do this. If he left this room, he was going to have a breakdown.

A knock on the door brought him dangerously close to tears, and that was even more terrifying. He couldn't let Dick see him like this.

“Dinner,” Dick said through the door. “I know you're not feeling well, but you should eat something. It might help.”

“I would rather hide in here for the rest of my life,” Tiger said, trying to lower the volume so Dick wouldn't hear. Tonight was not his night.

“Believe me, I know. You can go back in there afterwards if you want. I won't ask you any questions.”

Tiger downed the last of the tea, which only made him feel sicker. “I might throw up.”

“Eating some food might help soak up the toxins and make you feel better. Eat a few mouthfuls of peas and I'll leave you alone, I promise.”

“Please stop making sense.”

Dick chuckled. “I'll try. Come out, please?”

“Rrrr. I'm coming.”

“Did you just growl?”

“Yes. Shut up.” He marched out the door and slammed the mug on the counter.

“Thank you,” Dick said, placing a small bowl of peas on the little folding table. The other spot held a disgusting macaroni concoction that made Tiger even sicker just looking at it.

He sat down. “I am glad you're not making me eat that.”

“It's really nice, actually. Just not when you feel like puking.”

“I do not want to eat the peas, either.”

Dick sat opposite him. “I know. Please try anyway.”

“If anyone else asked...” Tiger shut himself up by shoving a spoonful of peas in his mouth. It was somewhat effective, even if he still finished his sentence—I would have punched them by now—with a mouthful of peas. But Dick didn't seem to understand what he said, so it worked well enough.

Dick busied himself eating his disgusting tuna-pea-macaroni torture device. There was joyous quiet for a few moments, before Tiger's drugged mouth chose to ruin everything. Again.

“I am glad to be here with you, and not someone else.”

“Oh.” Dick opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Okay. Thanks?”

“Anyone else would use my vulnerability to learn my secrets, and use them against me later.”

“Anyone else is apparently an asshole,” Dick said flatly. Tiger had expected him to make a joke out of it, but he didn't sound like he was joking.

“They are spies... and assholes.” Sentences just would not end where Tiger wanted them to.

“Well, I'm glad you're more comfortable with me.”

“I am not.”

“But—” Dick clamped his mouth shut. “No. I promised I wouldn't question you.”

“Thank you. I am already worried I will say something I will regret.” Tiger's cheeks flashed unpleasantly hot as he remembered everything that had already come out of his mouth. “More than I already have.”

“I won't hold anything against you.” Dick tucked back into his gross macaroni. “You still feel sick?”

“Not as much.”

“Progress.”

“I am making myself sick with anxiety. The peas will not stop that forever.” Tiger was strongly tempted to find some tape and cover his mouth. “I am sorry I complained about being stuck with you.”

“Dude, it's okay. I get it. You're super vulnerable right now.”

“Yes. I also want to tape my mouth shut.”

“Yeah, I wouldn't recommend that. I was kidnapped a lot as Robin. That shit hurts. And if you need to throw up...”

“I am still tempted, if disgusted.” Tiger scraped up the remaining peas and shoved them in his mouth before he kept talking. He did not want to talk anymore, but his mouth had other ideas. Swallowing was... difficult. He gagged a few times and came dangerously close to vomiting right into the empty bowl.

Dick handed him another glass of water. “Maybe you should lie down for a bit.”

“No.”

“Let the food settle.”

“I cannot be in the same room as you.”

Dick opened his mouth for the—Tiger had lost count how many times—and shut it again.

“What?” Tiger snapped.

“I keep almost asking you questions. Sorry.”

Tiger brought the glass to his lips before he could give away the nice feeling Dick's consideration gave him. Any other time, he would hide his feelings with insults... but he was incapable of lying today. Therefore, he could not insult Dick.

“I don't think you're an idiot,” he said around the glass and sincerely hoped it was inaudible. It was not.

“Why, thank you.” Dick offered him a tight smile, not the natural, bright one that Tiger loved.

Tiger drank more water to keep that thought in his head and not his mouth. But then the glass was empty.

“More water?” Dick snatched the glass out of his hand, filling it up. “You're gonna be peeing all night.”

“I am trying not to talk,” Tiger admitted, not getting the glass to his face quickly enough.

“I figured.” The smile warmed a little. “If you need a break and would rather not hide in the bathroom, my offer to plug my ears and sing is still open.”

Tiger's next thought was so forceful that he couldn't stop it coming out. “Why are you being so kind to me?” It sounded like an accusation. Tiger had no idea if he meant it that way.

“Because I'd hate to be in your position,” Dick said calmly. “We've all got stuff we'd rather keep to ourselves. It's stressing you out, and I hate to see that. No one deserves to go through what you're going through tonight, especially you. I've put you through enough in the short time I've been in Spyral.”

Damn it. Why did he have to be such a good person? Tiger didn't deserve kindness, least of all from the man he had tried so hard to push away.

“You blame yourself for Alia,” Tiger said. Then he chugged half the glass before he could spill any of his feelings, about either Alia or Dick.

“A bit, yeah. I'm surprised you don't completely hate me—but LET'S NOT TALK ABOUT THAT NOW, OKAY?” Dick's voice drowned out whatever had slipped out of Tiger's mouth. Tiger didn't even remember what it was.

But neither of them could stop what Tiger would say next. The words tumbled out in a rush, before Tiger's brain had caught up.

“I don't hate you. I love you.”

There was a moment where they both froze, staring at each other. Then Dick's mouth formed a perfect O shape. Tiger shoved both hands over his own.

Dick recovered first, taking a deep breath and letting it all out. “Okay. We're gonna deal with that later, when you're not at a disadvantage. It's been a long night. Why don't you try to get some sleep. I'll go take a long shower and give you some privacy.”

Tiger numbly stumbled over to the pair of camp beds, falling into the nearest. Dick cleared the table, dumped the dishes in the sink, and retreated to the bathroom. There was a squeaking sound, the shuddering of pipes, and then the patter of water hitting the shower floor.

Tiger buried his face in a flat pillow and fought down the urge to run away. The one thing he couldn't bear to tell Dick... and of course it burst out of him.

Tonight had been bad enough already. How the fuck could he ever face Dick again?

Tiger was snoring like a chainsaw when Dick left the bathroom, having somehow managed to waste an hour in there. He couldn't risk washing the dishes and waking Tiger up, so he climbed into the second camp bed and tried to catch some shut-eye of his own.

Dick had spent most of his shower and general time-wasting mulling over what the hell had just happened. He still didn't know how to feel about it. Tiger was untouchable. Aloof. Dick had never allowed himself to think of the man as anything but a very grumpy teammate... and maybe a friend. Maybe. Even that was questionable.

He hadn't considered romance as a possibility, because he had genuinely thought it wasn't an option. Knowing what he knew now, though, had all sorts of thoughts running through his head.

Tiger was a good-looking guy. Talented. Hid his true feelings behind scowls and insults, but he had never let Dick down. Not to mention he put up with Dick's generally well-intentioned ribbing, even if he acted like he wanted to throw Dick out a window most of the time.

It was a difficult thing to reconcile, Tiger's usual attitude with what was really going on in his head. Dick had fully expected him to keep secrets—he was a spy, duh—but he'd anticipated they were of the more murdery variety. Not harbouring feelings for someone he pretended to hate.

Dick needed more time to process this and sort out what the hell he was feeling.

Sleep was elusive. He had it just within his reach when a sharp movement and squeaking of the other cot grabbed his attention.

Tiger sighed, sitting up with his head in his hands. Dick lay still for a moment. Had enough time passed that the drug had worn off? If not, it was probably best he pretend to be asleep. They had things to talk about, but it just didn't seem fair to do that when Tiger was incapable of choosing his words.

“I know you are awake,” Tiger muttered. “And apparently the drug is still active.”

“Damn.” Dick sat up. “You feeling better?”

“Physically, yes. Emotionally, between embarrassing myself today and waking up from another nightmare about Alia, I want to crawl in a hole and bury myself.” Tiger rubbed a hand over his face. “I also want to punch that scientist again. Maybe shoot him.”

“You and me both, buddy. Well, minus the shooting.” Dick pasted on a smile and climbed out of bed. “I think I spied some ice cream in the freezer before. Want any? Might help with the pepper spray damage... and I always find ice cream makes me feel better emotionally.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Dick had no idea who stocked this safehouse, or why they put ice cream in the freezer, but he was damn grateful right about now. He spooned generous portions into two bowls and brought them over to Tiger, who hadn't gotten out of bed and probably wanted to throw the blankets over his head and pretend Dick wasn't here.

“Sit with me,” Tiger said, accepting the bowl.

“Is this you voicing thoughts against your will again?”

“Yes.” Tiger shoved the spoon in his mouth and gestured grumpily at the end of the bed.

“Feel free to kick me off if you change your mind,” Dick said, folding one leg underneath him as he sat.

There was quiet for a few moments as Tiger very carefully busied himself with eating vanilla ice cream. Dick did the same. Maybe it'd buy him some time so he could figure out how the hell to deal with this when he didn't understand what his own emotions were doing.

Tiger finished his ice cream all to quickly. He stared down at the bowl with a frown.

“I can get you some more if you want,” Dick offered.

“The only reason I would want more is to stop myself from talking,” Tiger said. “I am only delaying the inevitable. Did I make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” Dick replied. “You confused me.” If Tiger had to be honest, then the least Dick could do was be honest right back. “I honestly thought you hated me up until that slipped out.”

“I stopped hating you a long time ago,” Tiger said quietly.

“That's good to know.” Dick's ice cream was melting; he scooped up the rest and shoved it in his mouth. “This isn't a fair conversation.”

“Avoiding it is exhausting.” Tiger slid out of bed and put the bowl in the sink, turning on the tap. “I cannot keep doing it.”

“Doesn't mean we have to actively seek it out if you don't want to.” Dick joined him at the sink, adding his bowl to the dish pile. “We've got to talk about it, but it doesn't have to be tonight.”

“We may not have a choice,” Tiger said bitterly, squirting dishwashing liquid into the water.

Dick found a sponge and got started on an ice cream bowl since it was the first thing he grabbed. “I'm not gonna ask you about it.”

“I am afraid of what you think of me now,” Tiger admitted. “I hate that I care for you so much that you have the power to hurt me. Sometimes I wish we had never met.”

Dick didn't know what to say to that, so he focused on that last bit. “Ouch.”

“No, I—”

“Tiger, relax. I know you didn't mean it in a cruel way.” There were so many questions running through Dick's mind, but he forced them all down like he had at dinner. “Okay, look.” He set the washed bowl on the draining rack and set down the sponge, managing to catch Tiger's eye. “I need time to digest all this. You did a damn good job keeping me out, to the point where I didn't even think you liked me as a friend, let alone as anything else.”

“That was intentional.”

“I figured. I just... don't know how I feel, okay? Just know I'm not judging you. I'm not straight, either. We need to talk about this again once I've figured out what my emotions are doing and you're not forced to say every thought that pops into your head.”

“I do not want to talk about it at all,” Tiger admitted. “I am afraid of my own feelings and I am going to punch that fucking scientist repeatedly in the face. Do we have any knockout drugs? Tranquilizers? I want to be unconscious.”

“We used them on the scientist's guards,” Dick replied. “Sorry.”

“Damn it.” Tiger took up the sponge and started washing the next bowl. “I want to gag myself.”

Dick was on the edge of asking hasn't the worst already happened? He stopped himself just in time. Tiger frowned at him.

Dick left him there to tidy up the camp beds... and put a little distance between them. Gagging Tiger seemed wrong, but if that was what it took to stop him freaking out...

“Losing Alia broke me,” Tiger said softly, running the sponge across the bowl in slow, uselessly repetitive circles. “I still dream about it. Holding her as she died.”

“I'm sorry.” Dick didn't know what else he could say.

“Stop. Please. I no longer blame you.” Tiger dropped the bowl onto the drying rack with a crash. “She thought it best to eliminate him as a threat even after you had completed our mission, and he retaliated. You could not stop it. I understand that now, just as I understand trying to make you kill is ineffective... even if it would solve many problems.”

“That's not gonna happen.”

“I know.” Tiger braced his hands on the counter, leaning forward, head bowed. “Alia and were... close. I mistook my intense platonic feelings for romantic love for a long time. She understood when I ended our romantic relationship, and we grew even closer. I had never experienced anything like it. Losing her was... bad. I lack the words to describe the... hole it left in me.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought I was going to die.”

Dick knew how that felt. He had also seen the people he loved go through it. Bruce still carried a haunted look on his face on the bad nights, especially the anniversaries. Both their parents. Jason. Barbara's near-death. Stephanie. Damian. And that was just within the family.

Tiger had acted so... firm. Dick had missed the signs. He should've looked deeper. Maybe, on some level, he had known. Those distraction tactics—the jokes, the singing, the teasing—were all things he had used on Bruce and the rest of the family when their thoughts took a dark turn. Apparently he'd become so adept that he did it subconsciously now.

“I know the feeling,” Dick said, through a sizeable lump in his throat.

Tiger closed his eyes. Dick didn't like the stricken look on his face. They were beyond what words could fix, and Dick had run out of other ideas... except one.

Dick joined him at the sink and opened his arms. “You look like you could use a hug.”

Tiger hesitated for half a second, before wrapping his arms tightly around Dick's torso. Dick gave him a squeeze. Tiger seemed to deflate, slumping against him and burying his face in Dick's shoulder. Tonight had been awful. A lot of stuff had been aired that probably needed airing, but it sucked that Tiger hadn't been given a choice.

A soft voice, more breath than sound. “Thank you.”

When the drug finally wore off, Tiger was first out the door. The sooner they returned to base, the sooner he could pretend this had never happened.

Dick's last words to him before entering Helena's office were: “Listen. I wanna talk about what happened at some point now that we're on even ground. But I need time to process everything, and I think you do, too. Promise we'll deal with this in, like, a week?”

Tiger had found himself nodding, even though he still wanted to find a hole and bury himself. Dick had been very kind about what had happened, but now there were two simultaneous fears fighting for space in Tiger's mind: either Dick would realise that he did not reciprocate Tiger's feelings and then everything would be awkward between them, or Dick would realise that he did and maybe they would try to be together and then one of them would die or Tiger would ruin everything in some way.

He let Dick handle the debrief with Helena as much as possible. The strain of fighting the drug had been immense, even moreso because Tiger had also been pepper-sprayed in the process. He still really wanted to kill that scientist.

Dick and Tiger parted ways after debriefing. Tiger yawned through a medical exam that confirmed what he already knew: he would be fine after resting.

Tiger was more than happy to go bed. And hide. Possibly forever.

Perhaps it was childish, but Tiger spent most of the next few days hiding in his room. He trained, ate, prayed where necessary and then immediately retreated. He was not ready to face Dick, and likely never would be.

At the end of that night, he had been so exhausted that he had given up holding back. He had told Dick the things he had never told anyone. Helena had tried to convince him to receive counselling after Alia died, but he couldn't do it. Giving voice to that pain made it too real. So he had curled around it like a mother tiger, growling at anyone who dared come close.

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, Dick had ignored the warnings and snuck through his defences anyway. Perhaps he had not quite understood Tiger was hurting, but he saw the emotional walls and responded with teasing and jokes and awful improvised songs. Tiger had almost given in and smiled on more than one occasion.

Dick was special. Tiger was broken.

They would not work together. Even if they did, well...

Tiger did not want to think about how many things could go wrong. Being a spy was dangerous in so many ways, physically and psychologically.

Maybe if Tiger hid in his room long enough, Dick would give up and move on. Everybody loved him. Alia had been among them. Well, she was extremely attracted to him and more than willing to sleep with him a few times. She had been far too practical to love someone who didn't fit into her spying life.

Thinking about her made his stomach hurt. Sometimes he would glance to his side in a fight, or up at the nearest sniping position, and expect to see her there. Returning to reality felt like a punch. Or a gunshot.

Tiger could not suffer that kind of loss again.

A week passed. But Dick was not content to let him hide away for longer than that, no matter how hard Tiger tried to avoid him.

Ten days into his self-imposed exile, there was a soft knock on Tiger's bedroom door.

Tiger opened with a perfect scowl set into place and the flattest, most unimpressed voice he could manage. “What?”

Dick smiled back at him. “Hi.”

“How did you find my room?”

“Helena,” Dick said simply.

Of course she did. Helena never stayed out of anything if she could help it. If meddling was an Olympic sport, that woman would win the gold medal every time.

Tiger slouched back inside and sat heavily on his bed. Dick followed him in and shut the door.

“We need to have that talk,” he said.

“And if I refuse?”

Dick shrugged. “Things will be super awkward on the next mission and we'll both want to scream every moment we're forced to be in the same room as each other?”

“I feel that way whenever you sing.” Tiger was so relieved he was no longer forced to say the simple, ungarnished truth. Insults were more fun, and did not leave him feeling exposed.

The corner of Dick's mouth lifted. “Cute. Can we be serious now, please? I know that's, like, super ironic coming from me, but I really want to talk about this. And us.”

“Us?” Tiger hated the swell of hope in his chest. He hated that he wanted Dick to feel the same way he did. He hated having feelings at all. He was Spyral's best agent—that was not an exaggeration; he was Agent 1 for a reason—but he couldn't control his own emotions.

“Yes,” Dick said. “Us. I just... I wanna lay it all out, okay? We've talked about Alia. I know losing her hurt you. A lot. So if, once I'm done, it's too much for you, we can agree to set it aside and move on. But I really wanna talk about it first.” Dick sat beside him. “Will you let me? Please?”

Tiger didn't know what convinced him. The earnestness? The understanding? The pleading? Or all of it. It did not matter. He nodded and let Dick take his hand. Their fingers laced together. Tiger liked it more than he wanted to.

“I took some time to think about what you said,” Dick told him, patting his hand. “And, you know, how I felt about it. The whole thing took me by surprise, like I already said. But it got me thinking things that I hadn't let myself think, you know?”

“Dick, please get to the point.” Tiger could not bear another moment of this rambling pretext.

“I got a glimpse into your brain that night,” Dick said. “It sucked, because it wasn't your choice, but it made me understand you a whole lot better. And I realised I've been holding myself back. I've gotten pretty good at denying myself things I want, to the point that sometimes I don't even realise I want them.”

“Dick.”

“I have feelings for you,” Dick finally said. “They need time to grow now that I've actually let them see the sun, but they're there.”

The hope blooming in Tiger's chest both warmed and hurt him. “Are you sure?” He wanted this—he wanted Dick—but the fear gnawed his insides.

“I'm sure,” Dick said gently. “I wouldn't be here otherwise.”

Dick was a good man. A kind man. Tiger... was not. Fear of losing him aside, Tiger could not understand why someone like Dick would want someone like Tiger. There were so many reasons why Dick would not want him, and Tiger could not understand why he did.

“I can't explain it, Tiger,” Dick said as if reading his mind. “Sometimes feelings just happen. The chemistry was there this whole time—I mean, have you heard our banter? All I needed was permission.”

Dick's hand anchored him, kept from drifting too far into the bad memories. The days following Alia's death, when Tiger's emotions felt like they were suffocating him. Those days were over. Tiger had pulled himself through somehow, and now he was here.

“I might panic,” Tiger said.

“Tiger, I know loss, and I have seen so many different ways of coping with it. I can be patient. If you need space at any point, tell me and you'll have it.” Dick lifted Tiger's hand, kissing his knuckle. “I want to try... but only if you do, too.”

Tiger wanted this. Badly. So badly he thought he would burst out of his skin. Dick was spectacular. Wonderful. Thrilling. Terrifying. And so, so understanding.

He found himself nodding. The fear swelled within him and he wanted to cry, but somehow he managed to smile. He probably looked pained.

“We'll take things slow, I promise,” said Dick. “Letting people in is hard.”

“Spyral cannot know.”

“I'm pretty sure Helena knows already. The look she gave me when I asked where your room was...”

Great. “Helena is not all of Spyral.”

“And she did help me.” Dick shuffled closer. “I think we're good.”

Tiger cupped Dick's chin with his free hand. Dick's bright blue eyes sparkled in the same way they did when he was thinking up new ways to annoy Tiger. This man was going to be the death of him. He also had a nice mouth.

“Whatcha thinking?” Dick asked.

“Your mouth,” Tiger replied. “I want to kiss it.”

“Then kiss it. And me along with it, obviously.”

Tiger leaned in, and touched their lips together. It only lasted a second, but it felt right. Dick reeled him back in for another one, and that one felt even better.

That night with the truth drug had been one of the worst nights Tiger had experienced in a long time, but something good had come from it. A romantic relationship would not fix him, but Dick's support could help him weather the bad moments. Maybe it was time to show his hurt, rather than bury it and pretend it did not exist.

Pretending he wasn't suffering would not bring Alia back, and it did not make him feel better.  Running from his pain had only hurt him even more. He had to face it. And then punch it in the face by letting himself experience everything his fear had pushed away.

Tiger wanted to be loved. He wanted to be happy. He wanted Dick. He was going to have all those things, misbehaving brain be damned.

Dick smiled against Tiger's mouth. “Does this mean I can call you Tig now?”

“No.”

[a-woman-apart]

Desperation

I wish that I had a goal in writing this. I should probably be in bed, since I get to bed so late every night and it really affects my ability to get up in the morning. The problem is that I feel somewhat disturbed underneath my haze of tiredness, and I want to get it out of my system before I try to go to sleep.

Today I slept until noon, so I really didn’t get up and get going until pretty late. Ideally I would go to sleep early and wake up early, as opposed to sleeping late and waking up very late, but that’s just one of the things that I’m bad about. I read about delayed sleep phase syndrome, and while I am not going to self-diagnose, I think that I would not be surprised if I had at least a mild form of that. If I don’t set any alarms or establish a strict bedtime, my natural sleep cycle has me waking up around 11am on average, and falling asleep at 1am or later. It is something that I have modified before, however, when responsibilities require me to do so. Changes have never been permanent, though.  

Apart from the late start, the day actually went pretty well. I was able to work on the song that I would be singing for the recital, and I went out for a few hours and shopped for things for my sister-in-law’s baby shower. Fortunately, I was able to get everything that I needed before the traffic really got too bad (even though I feel like I pretty much got stopped at every traffic light that there was). When I got home, I had a pretty low-key evening. I just finished a season of an anime that I had been watching. I did end up also watching some politically-themed and anti-capitalist videos on YouTube, but I don’t think that I “broke my brain” with “serious stuff.”

That being said, it is pretty depressing to think that the democratic system that we live under in this country really isn’t free and fair for everyone. Sometimes the alternatives aren’t very appealing either, but I know that something has to be done. I consider myself a socialist, in that I believe in more government regulation on corporations and that the government should care for the basic needs of its citizens. I will also admit that confronting the flaws in our government system is extremely daunting and overwhelming, and very often I complain without taking direct action against them. I was taught from an early age that capitalism was the best and most moral system that there was. Now I can see that in many ways that is wrong, but I couldn’t just quit my job and stop working. I’m forced to participate for my own survival, even if I don’t agree.

The lie that is pedaled in capitalist propaganda is that there are equal opportunities for everyone, and that as long as someone works hard they will gradually ascend to the top. The problem with this is that this also means that there is always going to be a hierarchy, with someone at the very top and other people below them. This also fails to take into account inequalities between people across geographical and racial divides, and the persistence of class in the capitalist system. It is often not the hardest working person who prevails, otherwise there would be no one who had to work two or three jobs and still struggle to make ends meet for them and their families. Also, while it is true that obtaining a good education helps to break the cycle of poverty, education is not freely available to all people in the U.S. and the ability to get a good education is still based upon those same geographical and class factors. In other words, very often the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, because the rich are in a position to obtain better education for themselves and their offspring, as well as already having more capital to invest into economic ventures. Additionally, those who are already better off financially can afford medical treatment that can give them increased ability to remain a part of the workforce.

Until we somehow put everyone on a level playing field by making education and healthcare accessible to everyone, we do not have a right to smugly criticize someone who is running into difficulty financially. The whole idea that someone is only as valuable as the work that they can put out is not something that I think that we want to propagate. No one should have to live on the streets, and no one should have to die of treatable illnesses because they cannot afford to be treated. No child should go hungry in this country, and every child deserves access to a good education. Without regulation, corporations would raise the prices of goods to whatever they desired, while at the same time lowering the wages of the people that work for them. It’s happened before, and it could easily happen again without government interference.

Maybe that is part of what bothers me on a daily basis. I have all of these new ideas taking up space in my head. A lot of the things that I once believed in are being challenged. I know that in the end it is something that is good, and that it is much better to be informed about things than not. For example, right now I am really hesitant about giving to charities that say they are helping people, because some “charities” have been shown to participate in unethical practices (I’m looking at you, Susan G. Komen and Salvation Army). Even charities that may have every intention to help, like charities for children in third world nations, sometimes destabilize the economies of those countries by flooding the economy with foreign goods. Sometimes someone panhandling on the side of the road is a crook. Ultimately, this doesn’t stop me from giving because it’s in my heart to help people, but I want to make sure that the help that I am offering isn’t causing harm instead.

Then there’s the ever-present matter of religion. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that Christianity has helped people, but it has also hurt a lot of people as well, especially with regards to sexuality. Also, the Christian teaching that wives are to be submissive to their husbands has been used by many men to justify horrific abuse and subjugation of their wives. The shame that people have regarding gender and sexuality in some Evangelical Christian circles is immense, to the point where people are unable to talk about their fears and concerns. LGBTQ+ people are unwelcome in church. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, addiction to pornography is rampant because individual sexuality is so repressed. It has actually become so prevalent that it is rising to the surface and there are many ministries and groups within the church for men dealing with pornography addiction and sexual deviance.

Christianity and science often butt heads, as well. Evangelical Christianity has very much been the enemy of the theory of evolution. Also, many Evangelicals are proponents of conversion therapy or some sort of spiritual “deliverance” for LGBT+ people, whereas science shows that sexuality is hard-wired into the brain. You cannot “cure” homosexuality through therapy or rituals. Christianity in general, including- if not especially- the Catholic Church has historically stood against scientific progress and technology.

God hasn’t personally failed me. If I am being honest, if I look at my life it actually seems like I have been experiencing divine protection over the years. Things have always fallen into place for me, even though I have my struggles. Maybe I do have the option to be angry at God that I have schizoaffective/bipolar disorder, or that I had such a miserable childhood, but I am not. My problem with the God of Christianity lies in the fact that I am supposed to believe that despite his infinite power, the only way that he could forgive my sins was to horrifically torture and kill his only son. This also requires me to believe that each human being is born in sin in the first place, that somehow things that you do- or in this case, didn’t do- somehow stain your soul beyond all hope of redemption. I am also expected to believe that this redemption was held back for thousands of years, all so that humanity could “learn its lesson” and “know how much they needed Christ.” I am also expected to believe that after this horrific death, Jesus was raised back to life and ascended in physical form to sit at the right hand of said all-powerful God in heaven. I am supposed to believe that unless I believe all of this I am going to go to a place that no one has any evidence of, a place of “utter darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth”, a place of fire where people will burn forever.

Finally, I am supposed to believe that despite 2000 years of being absent, Jesus will one day finally return in all of his glory and smite the wicked, killing so many unbelievers that “the blood reaches to the horse’s bridle”. Never mind that this is an action that seems in opposition to his previous character. The great part is that there are even more difficult things to believe than that, like stars falling from the sky, and a seven-headed dragon arising from the sea.

I don’t care if you say that most of it is allegorical. In my opinion, the things that I mainly have problems with are the basic tenants and concepts of the Christian faith. There is no way for me to get back to it, because the very basic concept of sin and redemption is one that is lost on me. I just don’t believe it anymore, pure and simple. I have not fully given up on the idea of God, however, and I still believe in miracles. I can’t explain why it seems like people get answers to prayer, but I know that for everyone who gets their answer, there are others to whom the heavens are silent. Either God plays favorites, he/she/it doesn’t have ultimate power, or there’s no God really listening and breakthroughs are coincidental.

I’m not going to lie and say that it’s easy, but it’s not. Sometimes I “want” to believe. It would certainly make things with my family so much easier. It would also give me comfort to think that I was specially created and that God has a special plan just for me. Whenever I think this, though, I just think of the incredible human suffering that exists in this world, suffering that cannot be explained away if God is both all-merciful and all-powerful. I think of how unlikely it is that the miracles in the Bible really happened, when there is no parallel for them today. Ross Blocher from the “Oh No Ross and Carrie” podcast described a “veil of time” that people create by thinking that fantastical things are more likely to have happened if they occurred a long time ago.

So yeah, there are a lot of heavy thoughts in the back of my mind at any given moment. Maybe getting older has helped me to put some things into perspective. I know I have a fairly high dose of naivete, but not when it comes to things like this. I think that people are generally good, but I do not think that it is religion that makes them so. My hope is that I can continue to be fortunate enough to see mainly the good side of humanity and experience mainly good things. I also hope that I will one day be able to use my knowledge of the dark side of things to help me stay on the path of good.

Okay, that’s it for my late-night rant.

[zblackiez]

The Tale of Thomas

Dimness swarmed the colossal room, with the only source of illumination being the weak rays of light that shined through the cracks of the closed curtains. Seated at a table within this room was a teenage boy. His height was towering, and his limbs were thin. Complementing the brown of his eyes and his short, neat hair was his light skin.

He took hold of the menu that lay before him. On the front, printed in bulky, red letters, were the words, Crimson Coin. He scanned the menu's contents.

It was only shortly after that a dark-skinned boy who appeared the same age approached. He was dressed in a waiter's outfit.

"Hey, Thomas," the dark-skinned boy said.

"Hey, Reed," the light-skinned boy replied.

"Ready to order?"

The light-skinned boy, Thomas, did not answer but simply kept his somber expression.

"Another fight with your dad?" the dark-skinned boy asked.

Thomas shined a weak smile. "That easy to tell, huh?" Just then, a couple seated at a nearby table raised their hands. "Excuse me," the man said, "we're ready to order." The dark-skinned boy, Reed, looked to the couple, then back to Thomas. "Go for it," Thomas said. "It was my bad for dropping in like this." "It's not your bad," Reed assured. He reached into into his pocket and fished out a fortune cookie wrapped in plastic. He then handed it to Thomas. "Here, take this. Maybe it'll help you cheer up." "Thanks," Thomas said.

"I'll be back," Reed promised. He began to saunter towards the couple. As he did so, he turned around and said to Thomas, "You better eat that. It's comin' out of my paycheck."

Thomas chuckled weakly, his eyes fixed on the vanilla snack. Slowly, he freed it of its wrapping, broke the cookie in two, and set his focus on the tiny slip of paper. It read, "Your friends will soon give you a great surprise."

Thomas contemplated the message.

A surprise, huh? he thought. Maybe it'll be something I can use to not be a worthless piece of shit.

After several minutes had passed, Reed returned to the table and settled in the seat across from Thomas. In his hands was a small package.

"So," Reed said, "you wanna tell me what happened?"

"That depends," Thomas said. "Think you can handle it?"

"Thomas, we've been bros for thirteen years. We've told each other all the bullshit we've had to go through. Trust me, I can handle a little more feces in the shit sandwich."

Thomas hesitated for a moment.

"It's my dad," he admitted. "He kept hounding me about my major again. He said that I'm wasting my time with this art crap, and that I should go into business. Apparently, I'm shit at art, anyways."

"And you believe him?" Reed asked.

"A little," Thomas said softly.

Reed sighed. "You gotta start thinkin' for yourself, Thomas. It's your life, so you gotta live it your way."

"Easier said than done," Thomas said. "Kinda hard to pick a path where I don't suck complete ass."

"That's the problem with you: you keep thinkin' that there's something wrong with you-that you're the reason why some people don't like you. That ain't the case."

"You here to help me or make me feel worse?" Thomas growled.

"I'm here to help you see the truth," Reed said. He pushed the small package towards Thomas. "Here, take this."

Thomas picked up the package. "What's this?"

"Unwrap it and find out."

So Thomas did just that, and what he discovered was what looked like a journal.

"Again," he said, "what is this?"

"I read about it online," Reed said. He pointed to the notebook. "Every day, whenever you feel like crap, I want you to write something good about yourself. Anything you can think of."

Thomas raised his eyebrows. "Seriously? You want me to write down my feelings?"

"I'm dead serious, Thomas," Reed said. "This low self-esteem of yours ain't gonna get you very far. You gotta fix it somehow. This is a solution that I found.

"You've gotta realize that there's nothing wrong with you."

Before Thomas could put forth his argument, Reed rose to his feet.

"Break's over," he said. "And you better write in that thing. Otherwise, I'm smackin' you with the receipt." With those final words, he departed from the table, leaving Thomas to his gift.

Thomas eyed the journal.

"I'm not that desperate," he decided.

With a cloudy mind, he left the restaurant, though he did bring the notebook with him.

* * *

Fatigue streamed through Thomas' mind as he sat in front of the desk of his dorm. Lying before him was a portrait of a rose, which he focused intensely on as he added details second-by- second. Beside his hand was a desklamp. It helped in diminishing a portion of the blackness that engulfed his room. Settled at the corner of his desk was Reed's gift-the notebook.

Thomas halted his motions, then leaned back to view his artwork as a whole.

This is taking a lot longer than I expected, he thought. And the stem looks a bit off. Maybe I can . . .

Just as Thomas was about to edit his piece, however, his cellphone rang.

He set his pencil down, then pulled out his phone from his pocket. Upon looking at the screen, he saw that the word "Dad" glowed at the top.

Reluctantly, he pressed the green "Answer" button and brought the phone to his ear.

"Hello," Thomas said.

"Hey, Thomas," his father replied. His voice was gruff. "You got a minute?"

"It depends. You gonna tell me my dream's a piece of shit again?"

"Listen, I'm doing this for your own good. I've seen your works, and, honestly, they're crap."

Thomas could feel cracks surface within his heart.

"Most parents lie to their kids," his father continued, "but that ain't me. If it means saving you from failure, I'm gonna tell the truth."

Thomas could already feel his eyes begin to moisten.

"Is that all you called for?" he asked.

"Well, no, I called because-wait, what's wrong? Why do you sound like that?"

"Nothing," Thomas lied. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Jesus, Thomas," his father said, "are you seriously crying? You're twenty-one years old, so act like it! Be a man and accept the fact that you're complete shit at-"

End call.

As tears streamed down his cheeks, Thomas tossed his phone to the side and buried his face in his hands.

What's wrong with me? he wondered. Why can't I just make everyone proud? Why can't I do anything right?

It was as the cracks of his soul deepened that Thomas' eyes fell upon his new notebook. And surely enough, Reed's words began to echo through his mind.

"Every day, whenever you feel like crap, I want you to write something good about yourself," he had said. "Anything you can think of."

With hesitation streaming through his veins, Thomas pulled the journal closer to him, flipped it open, and took hold of his pencil. It took a good five minutes, but he was eventually able to write a message of four words: I'm good at breathing.

Of course, Thomas wasn't expecting to feel better after writing such a simple phrase, but he figured that anything was worth a shot; anything to help ease his vibrant pain.

This is so stupid, he thought.

Nonetheless, he kept at it, adding two more lines to his collection:

I'm good at walking and I'm good at seeing things.

Much to his surprise, Thomas chuckled a little.

This is so stupid, he thought again, this time with a small smile stretched across his face.

And so, as days passed, Thomas found himself writing more and more in the notebook. Gradually, he went from creating just one statement to creating multiple in one sitting.

I'm good at smelling things. I'm good at eating. I'm good at talking . . . to a point.

As Thomas struck his pencil against the paper, he could feel his mind loosen, as if the chains gripping it were slowly being unlocked. His vision, which consisted of mere black and gray, was slowly developing a sense of color.

One day, Thomas was in his dorm, along with Reed. The two of them were perched on Thomas' bed, playing Xbox.

"Ooh, get 'em, baby!" Reed said as he pinned every ounce of his focus on the TV screen. "You ain't seen none of this. You ain't seen none of this."

Before long, the words "YOU LOSE" emerged on the screen.

Thomas groaned and tossed his controller to the side, whereas Reed shot his hands into the air and cheered, "He wasn't ready~!"

"I'll get you next game," Thomas vowed.

"Yeah, we'll see about that," Reed said. "By the way, you been writin' in that journal?"

"Of course not," Thomas said. "I told you I'm not into that."

Reed reached into his pocket and fished out a small receipt. "And I told you that I'd be whackin' this across your face if you didn't. That thing cost me ten bucks, man."

Thomas smiled. "I'm kidding, Reed. I actually have been writing stuff down in it."

"Yeah? How's that going? Is it working?"

"A little. I mean, I still feel like one of the most useless humans on this planet, but at least I'm not a good-for-nothing."

Reed perched his hand on Thomas' shoulder.

"It's all right, man. It'll get better."

Thomas' smile weakened, but remained. "Here's hoping."

Seeing the anguish in his friend's expression, Reed, once again, reached into his pocket, this time pulling out another fortune cookie wrapped in plastic. He dropped it in Thomas' lap.

"Here you go, man," Reed said. "All the way from Crimson Coin."

Thomas picked up the snack. "This one coming out of your paycheck, too?"

Reed rose to his feet. "You got like a sixth sense or something?"

Thomas chuckled.

"I'm gonna go get a drink," Reed said. "You want anything?"

"No," Thomas said, "I'm fine."

Reed nodded.

As he headed for the door, Thomas unwrapped the cookie and quickly broke it in two, heading straight for the fortune. He straightened the tiny slip of paper, then quietly read, "Others look up to you."

Are these cookies supposed to lie? Thomas wondered.

"Whoa!" he heard Reed cry.

Thomas looked up to witness a petite girl fall into his room through the now-open door.

"You all right?" Reed asked, offering her a hand.

The girl accepted the assistance, which allowed her to rise to her feet.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."

Upon closer inspection, Thomas was able to recognize her as the girl who always glanced his way during art class. She was short, with light-tan skin and wavy, black hair. Shielding her neon-green eyes were black, rectangular glasses.

An awkward silence swiftly arose between the three, before Reed decided to break it.

"So," he said, "you need something?"

"Aren't you in my art class?" Thomas asked. "With Professor Wilhelm?"

"Y-Yeah," the girl replied. "I-I'm May." She would not meet Thomas' gaze.

"So," Reed repeated, "you need something?"

May slowly nodded her head, keeping her eyes to the floor.

Thomas and Reed waited patiently for her message.

"It's just . . ." she began. May took a deep breath, then briskly looked to Thomas. "Could you please tutor me?"

Thomas merely gawked. "Huh?"

"It's just that I've seen your art," May explained. "You're really good. Like, really good. I was wondering if, maybe, you could teach me how to draw that well? I'm not, exactly, Pablo Picasso."

"You think . . . You think I'm good?" Thomas asked, dumbfounded.

May beamed. "Yeah! You're one of the best in the class!"

"Seriously?"

"Why do you seem so surprised, Thomas?" Reed asked. "I told you your art was pretty damn awesome."

"I just thought . . ." Thomas began. His face quickly grew perplexed.

Silence, once again, swarmed the room.

Reed folded his arms. "So, you gonna help her? Or are you still not good enough?"

Thomas looked to his childhood friend, then to the girl whom he apparently inspired.

He smiled. "You know what? What the hell. Let's do it."

May clapped her hands together. "Yay!"

Reed simply grinned.

Thomas kept his warm expression. Maybe I'm not so bad, after all.

[jkdavidson-blog]

Standing Rock Recap Part 1 (12/8-12/12)

So now that I am back in Cincinnati, and before I dive headlong back into my day-to-day business, I want to take an opportunity to reflect more thoroughly on my Standing Rock experience, to solidify it in my memory and begin to process the journey so that I can more fully integrate its lessons as I move forward. I kept some notes on my daily experiences so that I could write in greater depth later, so what I have not already journaled about in detail shall be expanded upon here. I’ve also included my posts from Facebook (in italics), as many of my more thoughtful reflections were shared there.

  8 December 2016

 Today I picked up my car—a Kia Sorento full-size SUV, AWD—loaded it up, and double-checked my packing list. I packed in a prayerful manner, a bit apprehensive about the journey ahead but repeating my mantras all the while.

I went to Thursday night dance class at Baoku’s Village. It was quite a joyful send off! I didn’t know many of the other people there, but they all thanked me for going and assured me they would keep me in their thoughts. After class, I rested for a little while before hitting the road around midnight.

The roads were a bit snowy and icy to start out, but North of Indianapolis everything seemed to clear up nicely. The 10-hour drive wasn’t so bad, after all. I sang, prayed, chanted, listened to the radio, and played songs from my iPod. I took naps when I needed to and stretched often. I was nervous but excited for what might lie ahead.

  9 December 2016

 Written about a short hike I took from a rest stop in Black River Valley, WI, which turned out to have a monument to one of the first sawmills in the country—undoubtedly erected in what had, up until then, been indigenous territory. “Mni Wiconi” and other phrases along those lines were scrawled onto the railings of the walkway that overlooked the valley.

 Good morning from Wisconsin!

What was promised as simply a "scenic overlook" turned out to be a half mile hike through the woods near a rest stop off Highway 94--and a much needed respite from the last 10hrs on the road.

I can still hear the trucks howling on the highway below, but up here I find peace in the beautiful morning sun. Also, there are reminders of the many who have journeyed before me. I send you my deepest gratitude, brothers and sisters.

Mni wiconi. This is my YES.

 I arrived in Minneapolis around noon. I had an extravagant lunch at an Indian buffet before checking into my Air B&B for a nap. I went to the Dustin Thomas concert that night. The club was really neat—it had a small concert venue and a larger dance club area. I think someone said it was Prince’s club?

The show was phenomenal! He played many songs I love but don’t usually get to hear when he does short opening sets. I met several really friendly people—Adam and Eric, who are also musicians, Jeremy and Anthony, who had recently been to Standing Rock themselves, and a fiercely loving mother named Julia Chavira. There was another wild young woman with a drum, but her name escapes me now…

I hadn’t had a night out in quite a while, and I had taken an Uber to the show, so I decided to indulge in some tequila—three glasses, which was probably a bit overboard. But all my best road trips usually involve a good hangover at some point, so be it. I danced my ass off that night, and sang along to nearly every song. The show went until 2 AM or so, which was later than I planned to be out but oh-so-worth-it.

I chatted with Julia, Anthony, and Jeremy after the show and traded contact information with them so we could stay in touch. I left there absolutely astounded at the friendliness and generosity of the crowd gathered there that night. Minneapolis, you sure made a great first impression.

  10 December 2016

 Post about a radio broadcast I heard on my way to MPLS:

This keeps nagging my conscience, so I will share:

On my way up to Minnesota, driving past Chicago around 3 a.m. I caught a broadcast by Thom Hartmann (amazing author too BTW, check out Last Hours of Ancient Sunlight). He was talking about our president elect and comparing his persona to that of Hitler and Mussolini. We probably have all heard that before, but he went into depth about the psychological tactics of a "leaders" such as them and it gave me a much deeper understanding of the validity behind those comparisons.

After his broadcast was over, I flipped to a Latino radio station (I like to practice my Spanish by seeing if I can figure out what the songs are about). They took a commercial break and this public service announcement came on. My Spanish isn't good enough to understand the finer details of the message, but it was something about people coming to your door and asking for your identification and your papers justifying your presence in this country, and under what circumstances someone can legally do that.

I felt a pang of fear in my heart. What a disturbing message to have to sit there and listen to! I realize this is a very real concern for America's international residents. They are truly fearing for their safety and freedom. This is not the America I was taught to love as a child. Shouldn't we all be concerned?

 I ended up staying in Minneapolis an extra day. With warnings of a blizzard in Standing Rock, it didn’t seem wise to drive up there just yet. Plus, I didn’t have a room at the casino until the 11th. I spent the day running around, picking up a few last-minute supplies, including a package full of long underwear and other winter gear that I had ordered from REI but which hadn’t arrived by the time I departed (ironically enough, due to the weather in the same region I was headed to, which held up shipping). Dad had to overnight it to me, which actually worked out really well. I also went to the Mall of America, which is apparently one of the major attractions in MPLS but which I had intended to avoid. However, Jason requested specifically that I pick up Alpaca wool socks, and MOA had an Alpaca store. The rest is history…

I also worked very hard to track down tire chains for myself and Lolly B. They weren’t as easy to find as I had assumed, but with Jeremy’s help I did manage to find a couple of pairs the following day.

Anthony had offered me a place to stay that night, and I was originally going to take him up on it, but as evening rolled around I was having trouble getting in touch with him. He said he wouldn’t be off work until 10…I had been running around all day with a hangover and had honestly hoped to be in bed by that time. So, I booked an Air B&B last minute (which was kind of a miracle in and of itself) and went to someone else’s house to hole up in a quiet private room for the night. The guys were disappointed I didn’t come over to hang with them, but I knew I needed the rest.

  11 December 2016

I woke up to about 4 or 5 inches of snow this morning. No sense in rushing out the door until the snow plows have had a go at the streets, I told myself. I took my time to reorganize my belongings and then set to work cleaning off the Kia, by which time snowplows were crisscrossing through the residential area I was staying in. Perfect.

I hit the highway behind another brigade of snow plows. The pavement was coated, but my AWD seemed to be pretty reliable. I was surprised how much traffic was on the road early that Sunday morning. That’s the difference between 5 inches of snow in Cincinnati and 5 inches of snow in Minneapolis—people don’t freak out about it up North.

Someone named Rosemary from the Medic and Healer Council, which had previously been unresponsive to my inquiries, called me a few hours into my drive. I guess it was the email titled “ARRIVING TOMORROW 12/11” that finally got their attention. She informed me that she had forwarded me “some orientation materials to review.” She also cautioned me about the importance of cultural sensitivity, having a camp “buddy” especially for actions, and “checking in with myself frequently.” She advised me to stop somewhere with WiFi along the way so I could download said literature “because the internet at the Casino is crap.”

I found my tire chains along the way at a place called Mills Fleet Farm (thank God!), and another Indian buffet in Fargo called India Palace, just like the one I had eaten at a couple of days before in St Cloud. After filling up on Indian food, I headed next door to Caribou Coffee to download the orientation stuff. I was overwhelmed by the herbal remedy guides, camp guidelines, medic council guidelines, hypothermia and frostbite treatment, lists of recommended equipment, suggested readings, and most of all the lengthy pamphlet on crowd-control tactics. The latter file included detailed descriptions of devices like pepper spray, sound cannons, heat rays, various “nonlethal” projectiles, water cannons, etc. I skimmed that last pamphlet in horror and prayed I wouldn’t need the information during my time at camp.

It was dark and temps were dipping below zero as I neared my destination. I started down highway 1806, the main road to Standing Rock and the casino, and was met by signs that the highway was closed. A detour was indicated, but the alternate route was unlit and covered with snow, whereas 1806 still appeared to be clear and moderately trafficked. So I continued down 1806 to see if I could get through. I’d tell them I was heading to the casino, I reasoned to myself, even as I passed more signs and a partial blockade warning, again, that the road was closed.

Then I arrived at the road block. Cement barricades created a zig-zag passageway only the most nimble of vehicles could navigate. Floodlights shone harshly against an otherwise starlit night, illuminating a small booth where a young man dressed in army fatigues was stationed. A couple of law enforcement vehicles clogged what little remained of the throughway. I rolled down my window as I slowly approached the blockade. The young man strode toward me and greeted me. “Good evening, where are you headed?” He asked politely. “To the Prairie Knights Casino,” I replied. “To the casino,” he repeated, “I’ll be right back.” He walked to the booth and reached inside. I thought maybe he was requesting clearance for me to pass, but instead he came back with a small square of paper. “Turn around here, go back 21 miles, make a left on 138. Take that road 3 miles to 6 South. Follow that road for another 18 miles to 24. Make a left on 24 and that will put you right back on 1806.” I looked at the directions, and then at my GPS. He couldn’t be serious—but of course he was. I was only 30 minutes from the casino, there at the blockade. It was dark and cold and I just wanted to get off the road. “Highway 138?” I asked. “I saw the detour sign back there, but that road looked like it was covered in ice and snow.” “Yeah,” the guard replied, “It’s a gravel road. It’s only 3 miles. If you’re not comfortable with that route, you can go back up to Mandan and get on 6 South from there.” He was artificially polite and matter-of-fact about the whole situation. In the intimidating glare of the floodlights, I didn’t feel that I had much room for negotiation. “Okay, thanks.” With a sigh, I rolled up my window and turned my vehicle around.

The blockade really weirded me out. For a while, I felt nervous that I was being followed by one of the law enforcement SUVs, but I think it was just another vehicle behind me that had been turned around also. I wasn’t sure yet what the relations were like between water protectors and DAPL affiliates, but I could assume it wasn’t exactly genial.

As it turned out, I arrived at the casino lodge sometime around 9:45, which I had intuited I might. In light of that, the whole roadblock experience made sense. It was too late and too snowy to venture into camp, so I unloaded my car and settled into my room for the night.

I had been in contact with the One Nation camp via my friend Jason, and I had some cash for them from a fundraiser back in Massachusetts. I let them know that I had arrived, and they headed to the casino to meet me. Just after I’d gotten all my supplies arranged there in the hotel room, there was a knock at the door. I opened it and was greeted by 4 beautiful young men from different reservations around the Southwest. I invited them in and they all introduced themselves. We sat and talked for maybe a half an hour. I was a bit self-conscious, a white woman with 4 Native men in my room who were practically strangers. I tried remember what little cultural advice I’d read so far, but also wondered how relevant that was to this younger generation. The leader of the group E’sha did most of the speaking. They had been talking about leaving camp since the ACOE denied DAPL’s permit and some authorities on the Water Protector’s side (including chairman of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe) were advising people to vacate camp. However, I guess the most recent council meeting had renewed their enthusiasm for staying and at that moment they sounded like they intended to be around for the winter.

Eventually, I felt much more at ease in their company. I remembered the money for E’sha, but wasn’t quite sure how to present it. At first I pulled out the whole wad of cash, but then thought better of it and gave it to him in the money belt I’d stashed it in instead. They thanked me and took their leave for the night. We talked about meeting up again sometime later at camp or the casino, but that night turned out the be the first and last time I saw them.

I had toyed with the idea of studying some of the literature I was assigned by the medic council, but by the time they left it was all I could do to climb into bed.

  12 December 2016

 First day at camp. The roads were still snowy but definitely passable as I headed North on 1806 that morning. About 10 miles from the casino I started to see the tipis and flags off in the distance. Following E’sha’s instructions, I drove until I reached the south blockade on 1806 and turned right into the Oceti camp on the North bank of the Cannon Ball river. I asked the guard at the security booth where to find the medic tent, and he pointed me straight down Flag Road and assured me I’d see the sign on my left. Sure enough, I did.

I entered the tent and was greeted by a young woman with short blonde hair named Leah. I started to explain that I was there to volunteer and she began politely telling to me that they were no longer accepting volunteers and were in fact encouraging people to go home. “Oh,” I said, unshaken. “I spoke to Rosemary just yesterday on the phone and she didn’t say anything about not taking new volunteers. I supposed I can give her a call back and find out where the medic orientation is supposed to be.” “OH!” Leah exclaimed, “You’re here for medical? Well that’s a different story!” Still, there was no formal orientation at noon (as Rosemary has suggested the day before), but Leah, a PA, started to show me around the yurt. Next to the main “medical” (read: allopathic) yurt, there was a “wellness” (read: herbal medicine) yurt. Beside that was a tipi for mental health services. There was also a warming tent directly across from main medical where people could sleep or just hang out for a while to stay warm. It seemed brilliant to me, the way everything was arranged in one small hub. That way, we could conveniently make referrals to other services as necessary—which, of course, is how our larger medical system works in theory, although not so “conveniently” in practice. The small scale of this operation certainly appeared to help it function more efficiently.

After Leah showed me all she could think to show me, we asked around to try and find out if/when there would be a formal orientation. We finally came to the conclusion it would be around 5pm. It was only noon.

I decided to walk around and explore camp for a while. I was in awe of all the bright white and the snow-encrusted structures. But it was COLD, probably around 0 degree (Farenheit). The neck warmer I had pulled up around my mouth and nose to warm the air I was breathing became stiff with frost after about 15 or 20 minutes of me walking around camp. I could feel frost forming on my eyelashes where the steam of my breath had collected and frozen.

I returned to the medic tent to observe and orient a bit more. My instinct was to pitch in once I got a feel for the intake routine, but I was quickly warned by another physician not to touch a patient until I’d been oriented. So I hung back for a bit longer, but decided shortly thereafter to leave for a while, since it didn’t seem like I could be much help until I’d been formally oriented. Besides, I had plenty of orientation materials to review back at the casino. I told the rest of the team I’d be back around 5pm for the orientation, left them my number in case anything changed, then headed back to my car.

At the casino, I made myself lunch and started looking over the orientation materials. I also got in touch with Lolly B and invited her to my room to collect the money our friend Jason had sent and the tire chains I’d picked up for her. She showed up with a handsome man friend and they stayed and chatted for a while. She had started out on a road trip West, she explained to me, when she “heard about something going on in North Dakota.” She wound up staying for 4 months offering mental health services for the water protectors. She had been there through some of the most intense days of the entire movement. When I met her, she was on her way out. She wasn’t the first one to tell me they’d dropped everything else in their lives to be in service to this cause, and she wouldn’t be the last either. The power of this movement was finally sinking in for me. I was humbled and in awe at the reality of it, and would be struck with the same feelings again and again throughout my time there. I thanked her for her service and wished her well on her return home.

The rest of the evening was fairly uneventful. I got my orientation around 5pm, as planned. It was really pretty informal. A young wilderness medic named Harrison talked to us about serving Natives first, about being “fiercely pro-grandmother” (and thus against the patriarchal mainstream culture), and about practicing within our scope of experience and licensure. Those were the main highlights. I spent the rest of the evening in the medic tent helping with assessments, dressing changes, breathing treatments, etc. It really hit home for me to SEE the wounds caused by the bean bags and rubber bullets, to hand out medication to ease the symptoms of the colds brought on by water cannons and witness the labored breathing of elders and asthmatics irritated by the pepper spray that had been shot at their faces.

I watched one of the other RNs, Blaine, kneel down each time he spoke to a patient. That was so moving to me for some reason. What if Western health care providers knelt, or even got to eye-level with their patients, instead of standing over their sick clients who are often slumped in chairs or laying helplessly hospital beds? Again, speechless, humble awe. It still brings tears to my eyes to think of it.