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callmeelle22 · 3 years

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Blue Dream VII

Pairing: Iris West x Barry Alen

Rating: E

Chapter Word Count: 9, 034

Summary: A series of sporadic dates between Iris and Barry turn into something more, a story in its own making.

Chapter I: Primetime

Chapter II: It's Cool

Chapter III: Anything

Chapter IV: Comfortable

Chapter V: The Way

Chapter VI: Say Yes

Chapter VII: Brave; They fuck with the rain like a soundtrack behind them, like a song that swells and stretches, telling their story, but you're so brave; stone cold crazy for loving me; yeah, I'm amazed; i hope you make it out alive, a song that rises and rises, that sounds too good to be real, that might destroy you, but only in the best way. (Read below or on AO3 linked on the chapter title.)

Chapter VIII: Blue Dream

Brave

Broken hearts are made for two

One for me and one for you

Tell me have you heard the news

We are now in love

Fall break from school is scheduled during the last three days of the last week of October. Before she can take some time off, Iris has midterm articles to write and grade. Barry is busy testing DNA samples or whatever it is CSIs do so they don’t see each other for several days after he leaves her house the morning after Wally’s party.

On the Wednesday of Fall Break, the first day off, Iris lets herself sleep in until almost 10, and then she packs up her bag, stuffing a notebook, a couple of pens, and her laptop in, before dressing comfortably in a pair of dark leggings, and a white oversized CCU hoodie she stole from her brother. Throwing on a pair of white low-top Chuck Taylors, Iris heads out to Jitters. It’s a rainy day, and other than workers who’ve no choice, not many people are out. A storm is brewing for later in the night, the sky dark and cloudy, but for the moment, it’s just a steady rain that has Iris walking carefully to her car and driving a lot slower, thanking her lucky stars that she finds a parking spot right in front of the coffee shop.

Back in high school, especially once her dad had gotten her a used car during the beginning of senior year, Iris and Linda would come to Jitters to do homework or stare at the college boys who would come in. The coffee shop has expanded since then, buying the small antique store that had been next door and adding more seating and a bar that specializes in alcoholic coffee brews. It’s still one of Iris’s favorite places to work because now the manager is a young Black woman with wild curly hair always dyed in one bright color or another and a soft spot for mid to late 90s R & B female singers. The shop is comfortable, with couches and overstuffed chairs in mismatched browns and beiges and blues set up near the walls and windows and several tables, two- and four-tops, taking up the space in the middle. Two of the walls are exposed brick and the others are painted stark white and feature framed prints in wild colors. It’s changed since she was a child, but Iris likes to think that she’s changed with it, that as this integral part of Central City has grown and added light and color and comfort, so too has Iris.

Today, her plan is to outline at least two entire stories from interviews she’s completed over the last couple of weeks before she even thinks about leaving the coffee shop. She settles into one of her favorite spots, a soft navy armchair behind a small circular table. She sets up her laptop, her notebook with her notes, her pens, and once a waiter drops off her brown sugar latte and a chocolate muffin, she lets the sound of the rain, and the Erykah Badu playing on the speakers, get her into her work.

“Hey, beautiful.”

Iris looks up just as Barry stops beside her. She’s been at Jitters for just over three hours now, and her shoulders are cramped and she’s coffee high and hungry. The rain is still pounding down, so hard that it looks like it’s raining sideways, and Iris curses her inability to get any work done in her own home. Besides all that, she’s reeling. She’s just outlined a story of a man explaining the story of the woman he’d loved his entire life: from growing up together in a small city in North Carolina, to becoming best friends and de facto siblings when his parents died and her dad agreed to foster him; from not dating but seeming like it in high school, to falling for other people in college; from having other spouses and children to one night of passion before they found their way back to each other when she decided to leave her husband after his wife died. It was a ride from start to finish, such a roller coaster of feelings—of love and pain and joy and heartbreak—that make Iris feel a bit heavy with them, a little loopy with them.

Barry stands to the side of her, towering above her, in as simple an outfit as what she’s wearing, a pair of black joggers and a white sweatshirt. She’s startled that he's there because she figures that he should be at work, but her heart does tick up at the sight of him. That is, until she lets her eyes rake over his lean frame. He looks a little...down, like a physical manifestation of the story she’s just outlined. His hair is messier than usual and his eyes aren’t carrying their usual sparkle, in addition to the darkening bags that frame them. He’s also a little stubbly, his jaw covered in a fine layer of coarse hair, his pallor a bit ashen.

(Iris will also admit that she thinks he looks sort of, well, good, like this; but that’s neither here nor there and she feels terrible—and maybe a bit perverted—that she’s lusting after him when he’s obviously going through something.)

“Hey,” she responds softly, and she stands up to assess him further. He seems so much taller than her like this, when they’re both in sneakers. She hasn’t seen him since the morning after Wally’s party a week ago when he dropped her back off at her car after spending the night at her place. They’ve talked a bunch and FaceTimed once, but she’s missed him. She reaches up into his hair, rubbing at his scalp a little until his eyes close and he lets out a soft little moan. She keeps at it and then touches gingerly at his face, at some of the moles dotting his cheeks, at the stubble he’s grown. He reaches up to stop her, eyes still closed, and it startles her a little bit. She goes to pull her hand back, but then he holds on to her wrist to bring her hand down and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

She’s never seen him like this. He’s always so open and, maybe not happy, but never so melancholy. There is always a pep to his step, as her grandma used to say, a smile on his face that always said that he feels some sort of contentment in his life. And obviously, people are allowed to have days like this. But it does something to Iris, to see him this way. She wants to lash out at whoever has made him look like this, like he’s drowning in emotions that he can’t easily pull himself out of.

“Bear, you okay?”

He nods, a little woefully, and he catches her eyes again. She bites at her lip as she stares back at him and, on impulse, she leans up to kiss him. It’s just a little more than a peck, something to tell him that she’s there with him; but he takes it a step further, kissing her harder, biting at her lip enough that there’s more pain than she’s expecting. She moans at him and he pulls back, breathing labored.

“I’m sorry,” he speaks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “You didn’t hurt me. Well, a little, but I didn’t hate it.”

That gets a more real smile out of him, and he thumbs at her bottom lip. “Hmm, I guess my good girl is a little bad.”

Iris rolls her eyes and gives him a look, sobering for a minute. “Bear, what’s up? You okay?”

He doesn’t answer her question. Instead, he nods at her table and asks, “you get a lot of work done?”

She eyes him, wanting to ask again. But she knows how she is when she doesn’t want to talk about something and so she lets it go. For the moment.

“Yeah. Or, at least, I’ve done most of what I set out to do.”

He nods, casts his eyes out of the glass, looking at the rain for a moment, watching it fall in heavy sheets. Normally, Iris likes the rain. It’s soothing and she enjoys how it makes the world take a moment to slow down. When she was a little girl, her grandma (her dad’s mother who grew up somewhere at the bottom of Georgia) used to say that when it was raining, and particularly when it was storming, that the Lord was doing His work and that it was the time to be still. They’d have to sit quietly, usually with the TV and the lights off, and just be. And while life doesn’t allow her to drop everything because it’s started raining, there is always a hushed feeling that comes over her when it rains, something tranquil, but also a little turbulent, a little uncontrollable, quite like the very rain she’s reveling in.

“Wanna come over?” he wonders, voice unsure.

She nods readily. “Okay, yeah. Sure.”

He goes to return her mug and plate while she packs her bag back up. He meets her at the door, opening up a large umbrella and throwing an arm over her shoulder to lead her out into the rain. She walks with him past her own car as he takes her a short black away to where his Jeep is parked. He helps her into the Jeep first, watches as she tucks her bag under the seat, and then closes the door before walking around to the other side.

They ride to his house in silence. He lives far on the south side of town, a good twenty or so minutes from downtown if they hit the highway. Instead, he takes the streets, adding another ten minutes to their drive. Iris doesn’t mind; as she said, she likes the rain, and in this big Jeep, tires sluicing easily through the flooding roads in a way her car definitely can’t, she’s enjoying the ride. He had silently connected her phone to his car’s Bluetooth, so she took it to mean that the music choices were hers. She contemplates finding something that he might like, but she figures he likely wouldn’t even be paying much attention. So she decides on one of her slower playlists, ones with songs that dip and fade, that take listeners on a journey of highs and lows, and she lets it play. The lyrics tell too much, so i guess that i should mention; that i am in no condition; to put you in this position; i might fuck this up, although with the heavy weight on Barry’s shoulders right now, she can’t tell if she’s talking to him or vice versa.

He takes them past one of the major shopping districts in the city, past the Apple store and the Michael Kors shop and the one restaurant her dad took her to when she graduated college where pasta dishes run nearer to forty dollars. These shops, and the nicer mall and a couple business buildings that rise as tall as those downtown, lead into longer stretches of road where trees interspersed with beige or cream apartments begin to take up where businesses once stood. He turns into the familiar subdivision that she remembers; it’s a little older than some, which makes sense if his parents were able to buy and pay it off before they were gone. That also means that none of the houses are the same cookie-cutter versions that tend to make up most subdivisions these days, where houses are identical save for the color and the trim and what children’s toys litter the front yard.

He presses a button on his visor and the garage opens as he maneuvers the car so that he can back up into the driveway. He stays in the driveway, though, the music cutting out—but whatever the case, you're my favorite mistake; more than happy to make you—when he turns the ignition off. She waits for him to come around with his umbrella and he half picks her up to pull her out, holding on to her as he walks her through the garage.

She’s as quiet as he is, taking in her surroundings, trying to get a better sense of who he is by what he’s got going on in his house. There isn’t much in the garage; there are a bunch of boxes neatly stacked on one wall, a couple bicycles in another corner. There is a wall full of tools and a couple tables that have science looking tools on them, like a microscope and several bunsen burners and petri dishes, though nothing looks as if they’re currently being used.

He leads her through a door that opens up into the kitchen as he presses another button to close the garage. His house is as cute on the outside as it is on the inside, although she wonders how he might feel if she were to call it cute. The kitchen is large, done in white, gray, and green, with steel appliances, gray marble countertops, and the look of a place that doesn’t get a lot of use. They both stop to toe their shoes off right outside of the kitchen where a couple other pairs of Barry’s shoes lie. His living room is pretty big: a wide space that features a real stone fireplace as the focal point and a large screen television situated above it; a huge sectional in a slate gray with a few throw pillows; and a big square wooden coffee table. It’s masculine and clean without being gaudy or too bro and Iris wonders if he did this himself because even if she never knew her, she doubts a woman who loved flowers as much as his mother would decorate her living room this way.

The dark curtains on the windows are open wide and Iris can see the backyard but the rain coming down in sheets keep her from being able to make out much besides the patio with what looks like a grill and wicker furniture. Iris remembers being told that his dad had been a doctor and his mom some sort of university researcher and the house matches that.

Barry lets her hand go to tug his sweatshirt off, revealing a plain white t-shirt that rises up over his taut belly. She doesn’t avert her eyes, giving herself permission to track how the sweatpants hang off his slim hips and how he isn’t so much sculpted as he’s hard and tight, with just the beginnings of abs. He catches her staring and he smirks at her before dropping down in the corner of the couch, one leg spread out along the seats of the chair.

“Come here,” he tells her, and she moves toward him, sitting so that her back is pressed against that hard chest and his arms are wrapped around her. She grabs a hold of his forearm with both her hands and settles her head in the crook of his elbow. She’s surrounded by his scent, lemongrass and clean cotton, and for a while, the only sounds are his breathing and the pounding of the rain. He touches her, the hand she’s not holding on to stroking up and down her thigh. Her leggings are pretty thin and she feels his touch fully; if she concentrates enough, she can feel those beloved calluses on his hands. He rubs his hand towards the juncture of her thighs and then over her hip and then back again, and like always, his touch ignites something in her, even as she’s wondering how she might be able to help him out of whatever funk he’s found himself in.

“You ready to tell me what’s up?” she wonders a while later.

“Hmm,” he hums, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Not yet. Tell me about your day.”

She shifts so that she can look back at him, noting the way his eyes have darkened a touch, become grayer like the sky outside, and it’s different from the bright blue-green she remembers from the day of the festival or the wicked blue-gray they always are right before he pushes hard into her.

He blinks down at her and licks his lips slowly. It’s not an explicitly sexual act, even if her body thinks it looks that way, and Iris finds herself lost in it, in whatever he’s emanating. It’s erotic in that it’s intimate, a whirlwind of whatever hurt made him seek her out at Jitters, of whatever still lies unexplored between them, of the attraction that doesn’t ever seem to dissipate.

When she pulls herself out, she tells him, “I was working on a story today. One that made me feel a little bit like how you might be right now.”

“Yeah?”

Wanting to look at him more comfortably, she uses his pause so that she can turn around fully and seat herself on his lap, straddling him. His hands automatically go to her hips, one sliding inside the waist of her leggings so that he can touch her skin.

“Tell me about this story,” he requests. She knows that he’s asking so that he can think about something other than what’s on his mind, so she does, giving a little more than she would originally, working out how she might want to tell the story in her blog.

“It was a couple,” she starts, “that grew up together, in the country. They bonded by playing together in the lake, climbing trees, and playing pranks on each other. And then they start to grow up. Their swimming becomes fraught with tension, the bathing suits showing the same skin, but more, ya know, both of them recognizing the differences, cataloging them, thinking about them, remembering them. They don’t act on it, because they’re friends, and he doesn’t actually understand what it means, that he’s 13 and he keeps dreaming about her at night, waking up with a wet bed and a pounding heart. And then his parents die and her dad, who’s a do-gooder in the community and had been his parents’ best friend, takes him in. Now they’re siblings, but of course not. Regardless, it makes it all harder and odder because she sleeps right down the hall from him, their shared bathroom always smells like her, and he understands now, that he likes her smile and the way she speaks and the curves she seems to develop out of nowhere.”

Barry squeezes at her and she pauses as he asks, “And what about her? How does she feel about him?”

“Well he doesn’t know it, but she’s there too. At first she thinks that she’s just conflating it, confusing their friendship. Because she doesn’t laugh with anyone else like she does with him and she never has as much fun with anyone else as she does him and she never feels as comfortable with anyone else as she does him. He’s her best friend. But she sees him, one night, in his room where the door hasn’t fully closed and he’s, well, he’s masturbating, touching himself, eyes closed and moaning, and for the first time outside of the books she’s read, she feels something. And she knows it’s not just because she’s seen him naked because she’s kissed boys before, she’s felt them hard under her before, but something about this feels different for her.

“But she doesn’t act on it. And he doesn’t either, because remember, he only thinks this is one-sided. They graduate. They go to the same college. But their majors are different and their friends are different. She joins a sorority; he gets into a couple of clubs. Their paths separate, even if they still laugh and talk and be when they’re home for the holidays. Then she gets a boyfriend.”

“She never had a boyfriend before this?” Barry questions.

Iris shrugs. “Sure. But it was high school and the beginning of college. They were mostly hookups that didn’t last. This guy is serious. He’s a couple years older, got his own place, and eventually she moves in with him. Heartbroken, he gets a girlfriend too, one of her friends. That doesn’t last long because she figures out that he’s a little bit in love with the main girl, and then he moves on, to someone sweet, someone who’s been not so subtly hinting that she wants to go out with him.”

Barry seems to be engrossed now. She can’t say that the dark look he was sporting is completely gone, but she can see that he’s not as deep in it, interested in the story she’s weaving.

“They go on to marry these people, even if their hearts are not fully in it. His wife has a kid first, her baby comes next. And meanwhile, they’re still friends. Her dad is still his guardian, so to speak; they are together for whatever holidays they don’t spend with their spouses’ families. They still laugh and talk and be. They still look a little too long and want a little too much.

It comes to a head one Christmas. The gods or fate or just some movement on their parts mean that they both go home to her dad’s house with their spouses and children coming in the next day. But her dad is called in to work so they order take out and watch movies in front of a fire. And they laugh and they talk...and they hug and they kiss and they…

“Be?” Barry tries, a tiny little smile on his face.

She matches it. “Yeah. And it’s beautiful, transcendent. But they’re married. To other people. With kids. So they vow to forget it, to never bring it up again. A couple of years pass. They don’t laugh as much, don’t talk as much. She’s having troubles in her marriage. He is too. He actually consults a divorce attorney because he thinks that it’s unfair to both him and his wife, to live like this. And then the wife dies in a car accident.”

“Oh damn,” he mutters.

“Right,” she agrees. “He’s wracked with grief and more than a little guilt, because he loved her but was never in love with her and she had no idea he was going to leave her.”

“What about her? The one he loves?”

“She’s there for him. She consoles him, cares for him, takes his kid when it gets too hard. Her husband doesn’t like it though. Thinks she’s doing too much, thinks that there’s another reason she’s over at his so much. Later, he learns that this wasn’t a new accusation, that even before she and her husband got married, the husband would question their closeness, would wonder what, if anything, had ever happened between them.

“Eventually she gets tired of it. Her kid is older, in their teens now, and she leaves her husband, packing her things and her kid’s too and moving back in with her dad for a while.”

“And what happens between them?” Barry wants to know.

“He and his son come over more. They hang out more, the four of them, going to dinner and to the movies and to the arcade together. And when their kids are gone, at sleepovers or game nights with their friends, they laugh again, talk again. Fall in love again.”

The ending is implied. Iris closes her eyes when she’s done, letting Barry continue to rub at her back, his fingers so so warm on her skin.

“It's a happy ending,” he says, eventually. “But getting there was a little...depressing.”

Iris chuckles softly, lightheaded again at having gone through that again. It likely didn’t make Barry feel any better, but she’ll take the win that it took his mind away from his own problems, if only for a little while.

“Yeah, it is,” she agrees. “But it reminds me that just because it’s not easy and just because it takes some time, it doesn’t mean that things aren’t worth it.”

He nods, slowly, thinking.

“What about things that are...easy? That come like breathing? That start as a simple dance and just, just keep going?”

She stares down at him and she knows that this is rhetorical. She can see the question in the depths of his eyes, feel it in his hands still kneading her flesh. It would be easy to retreat, to tell him that nothing is ever easy, even if the reality is that it is because they are, because they fall into each other so effortlessly, that she’s terrified. There are always hiccups, obstacles, and the fact that she can’t find any keeps her on edge, waiting, anticipating trouble she knows must be coming. She doesn’t want to believe it, wants to stand firm in them—stand firm in the lyrics she keeps hearing, if you decide to stay, know that there is no escape; there's no one here to save you—and she holds onto that as he asks,

“Don’t you think it’s worth it, Iris? Even if it’s this easy?”

She can’t speak, but his eyes are imploring her to answer. Pleading with her for a response. And however terrified Iris is, or however much Iris tells stories, she is not a liar. So she nods and whispers to him, “yes.”

Without waiting for her to say anything more, he kisses her. He squeezes at her waist and leans up to capture her mouth. She meets him with his same fervor and it’s different, this kiss. She knows the passion of his mouth when he’s high, the boldness when he’s teasing her. But this is new, this is fervor, warmth and agony and doubt and pleasure, all wrapped up together.

(Something also tells Iris that there is another word for this, that this is the part of the story where feelings would be laid on the table, where hearts would be splayed open and she’d say it, or he would, and the other would respond in kind, with declarations of adoration, of infatuation, yearning, of any other word that means what she can’t say yet.

But she feels it, what she’s wanting to say, what she thinks he is saying, in this kiss. It is slow and nasty, all tongue and mouth. Her eyes flutter closed at the feeling, at how he licks into her mouth and then sucks on her bottom lip, at how he licks against her tongue and then holds her face to bring her closer to him. She feels it, she feels it, she feels him…)

He stands, holding on to her, and she wraps her legs around his waist, tightening her arms around his neck as he carries her through the house. The kisses don’t stop, though they become shorter, more mouth now, and he takes her down a long hallway past several doors until he turns into one at the end of the hall. She makes a quick note of the light gray and burnt orange decor, the side tables holding books and knickknacks, the one window that spans nearly the entire wall, but she focuses most heavily on the king-sized bed on which he throws on her, the soft comforter half hanging off the bed.

Her clothes come off first, Barry pulling her sweatshirt over her head and yanking her pants over her hips. He comes out of his own clothes as she discards her underwear, and then he’s between her thighs again. But she wants something else first so she taps his shoulder to flip them and then she’s hovering above him.

She gives him a kiss, slow and sweet, and then she makes her way down his chest, kissing as she goes. She loves the feel of his skin against her lips, likes how his skin tastes as she presses tongue kisses on him. His belly clenches and unclenches under her ministrations, and by the time she’s looking back up at him from her position near his crotch, she can see the way his chest rises and falls with his heavy breathing.

She reaches for him, wrapping her fingers around his dick. It’s long like the rest of him, and thicker than she would have expected just looking at him. It’s a pretty dick, the base the same color as him, the head slightly pinker. It’s a little veiny, but the skin is smooth, and already he’s starting to leak. She lifts her eyes to find him watching her, his own gaze hooded. In her peripheral, she sees his hands grip the bed sheets and she revels in how she hasn’t even done anything and his control is starting to slip.

“Tell me what you want, Bear.”

She says the words softly, but Barry doesn’t miss the cheek that lies under it, if the slight smirk he gives her is any indication.

“Your mouth,” he says. “I’ve been dreaming about that pretty mouth wrapped around my dick.”

She shudders at the tone of his voice, at the vision of her on her knees for him. She likes it.

“I bet you have too,” he guesses.

Without a response, she licks him, holding him at the base and running her tongue up one side of him. She does it again, and then one more time, acquainting herself with the taste of him and the satiny feel of him on her tongue, and then she adjusts and covers the whole of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes out.

She hums around him and she sucks him down, taking him until he hits her throat. Then she pulls back until just the tip remains. She licks around his head and sucks him there, letting the spit pool in her mouth, letting it mix with his own wet. She opens her mouth and lets it slide out, dripping down onto him, and her own body starts to drip at his wrecked whisper, “god, baby, look at you.”

She adds her hands, palming his testicles in one and rubbing her spit down the length of him with the other. She finds a rhythm, sucking him down, inch by inch, hollowing her cheeks as she goes, and then stroking his back up. Barry keeps his hand clenched in the sheets, but he cants himself into her mouth, rocking his hips lightly. She’s getting into it, loving the way he responds to her.

“Come here,” he says, suddenly, reaching for her, and she pulls back with a soft pop.

“Barry?” she furrows her eyebrows in question.

He gives her a gentle smile and grabs at her arm; Iris moves at his request, crawling up his body.

“But you didn’t finish,” she says, pouting a little.

“I know. I want to come when I’m inside you.”

She’s mollified by that, and he settles her on his lap.

“You were so good though, baby,” he says, kissing her. “My good, good girl.”

He reaches down to touch her, slipping his fingers easily into her sex. He groans into her mouth at the feel and he pulls back to ask,

“Is this all for me? Did you get wet sucking me off, good girl?”

She nods, rocking her hips against his hand, against his sex still hard beneath her. “Can, can you…?”

He tilts his head at her, fingers still caressing inside of her. “Can I?”

She huffs out a small laugh because he’s always fucking with her. “You said you wanted to come inside of me,” she reminds him.

“I did, didn’t?” He takes his time removing his fingers, eyes on her as he does. Even with the window curtains wide open, the dark sky has the room dark

(and she doesn’t dismiss the fact that the window faces the side of someone else’s house, where they could be seen if the neighbors were so inclined to watch)

and his eyes look a little like molten lead in the faint rainy light like this. He goes to reach over to his bedside table but Iris stops him.

“I want to feel you,” she says.

He licks his lips and she doesn’t mistake the twitch of his dick she feels under her. “You sure?”

“Yes. I’m on birth control. And I trust you.”

He nods once and again, and then he takes her by her hips and slides her down his cock.

After, Iris decides that this time is the single most erotic experience of her life.

They fuck with the rain like a soundtrack behind them, like a song that swells and stretches, telling their story, but you're so brave; stone cold crazy for loving me; yeah, I'm amazed; i hope you make it out alive, a song that rises and rises, that sounds too good to be real, that might destroy you, but only in the best way.

She rides him, and he’s so full in her like this, so deep in her like this. His back is against his fabric headboard and she’s so close to him, her knees jutting into the headboard, her thighs holding around his hips, her breasts rubbing against his chest, nipples pebbling with each brush on those hard planes.

She holds on to him with her hands holding the back of his neck, softly scratching at the nape. But he’s touching her, always touching her, his hands caressing her spine, and then holding her waist, and then squeezing her hips. He guides her: keeps his favorite pace, smooth and languid; bring her up to the tip and fucks her back down; shows her how he wants her to roll her body when he’s full in her, so her clit is brushing the soft hairs on his pelvis, the sensation incredible.

He uses his mouth too: to kiss her throat, deep tongue kisses that’ll leave marks she knows she’ll have to cover up; to whisper against her mouth, “see how easy this is; see how good, baby; fuck, see how good this is; yes, yes, yes, my good girl.”

And Iris feels so caught up in it. She can’t stop looking at him, loving when the lightning slashes across the room and illuminates those eyes, the constellation of moles on his skin, his wet, pink mouth. Her body hums with pleasure, soaking her thighs and his, tightening around his dick as if it never, never wants to let him go. She voices her satisfaction, in soft sighs and heavy pleas, and his name on her tongue like a chant, or better, a song, “Bear, Bear, Barrryyy.” They’re so close, her skin sticking to his wherever they’re touching, chest to chest and ass to thigh. She feels full and whole and filled...with him and with desire and with, and with love, the thought of it making her shudder and close her eyes.

“No,” Barry whispers. “Don’t. Just let it, just let it...stay here with me. Can you do that for me? Be brave for me?”

She nods, head heavy as her body starts to reach its climax, as her body loosens at the same time that it tightens and she has to fight to hold on to him. “Yes,” she moans again, holding his gaze again.

He touches at her face, holding her cheek and staring back. “Good girl.”

She doesn’t know whose climax triggers the other. She just knows that at the same time that her body explodes, fluttering wildly around him, he comes too, so hard that she feels him throbbing against her walls, that she feels him filling her up with his cum.

He doesn’t let go of her right away. He just holds her, hands at her hip and her face, and then he kisses her, cementing what they’ve just done, cementing what Iris feels for him.

“It’s the anniversary of my mom’s death,” he says, out of the blue. “And when I went to visit my dad earlier, I found out that he’s sick, something with his heart, and I’m-I’m reeling.”

It’s been a long while since they separated and Iris climbed off of him to pad into his bathroom and warm a hand towel under warm water to clean them both. They’ve been lying in his bed, only half under the covers as they let their bodies cool. It’s quiet now, so quiet that Iris has thought he’d fallen asleep; she’d almost fallen asleep. But when he speaks, she blinks wide and then turns her head to face him.

“14 years today,” he adds. He’s looking up at the ceiling as he talks, but Iris feels the hand that’s settled at her waist tighten, the move bringing her closer to him. She understands that he just needs the contact, so she turns so that she’s all the way curled on him, one of her legs thrown across him, her arm tossed over him too, hand settled on his heart. It’s beating slow, steady, and so she strokes his bare chest, right it.

“How’d you find out?”

“I was still at school,” he tells her. “It was a Friday and some of my friends had convinced me to go to a football game, so we were there pretty late. Games could run until 11. I was 17 so I had my own car. It was an old car; we’d bought it from a guy she worked with. By this time, my dad had been gone for a couple years, and my mom was always working late at the lab, so when I got home around 10:30 that night and the lights were out, I wasn’t surprised.”

He shifts a little and continues. “I took a shower, put some leftover pizza in the microwave, and just as I was sitting down to eat, the doorbell rang. It was the police looking for her next of kin to tell them what had happened.” He sighs heavily. “I got lucky. The courts let one of my friend’s parents take me in until I graduated a few months later. I was able to get a work study job in college to pay my bills since the mortgage was already paid off.”

He says it all like he was lucky, but there is nothing lucky about losing both of your parents in that matter, even if one of them was still physically alive. Iris knows from experience that he doesn’t want pity, doesn’t want anyone to feel sorry for his story. But she can’t help the way she wants to comfort him, and so she lets herself do that, tightening herself around him, snuggling even more into his chest.

“How are you feeling about your dad?” she asks, mumbling against his skin.

“Devastated. He looked like, like, I don’t know, like he’s giving up. I don’t get to go see him too often, every couple of months, really. And he looked so different from when I saw him last: smaller, frailer. I think there might be something he’s not telling me. Like he’s been sick longer than he says he has.”

“Is he supposed to get out soon?”

“Another couple years. But I don’t know if he wants to hold on that long.”

She feels them first, the tears. She tries to hold him even tighter, tries to crawl into his skin almost, trying to stem his pain. He doesn’t cry for long, just a few sobs, and then he’s inhaling deeply and wiping at his eyes. But it must be enough because he sounds a little hollow when he says,

“And truthfully, I’m not so much sad as I am mad, that he seems to be giving up. On getting out. On me.”

She hums, not dismissively, but because she understands. “Wanna know a secret?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes, I hate my mom.”

He sort of jerks up at that. Not fully, he looks down at her, eyes widened in shock. However inappropriate it might be, she finds herself laughing a little at his expression. Then she explains.

“I know that addiction is not a moral failing. I know that she struggled right up til the end. I know both of those things as completely as I know anything else. But sometimes I wonder why my dad wasn’t enough, why me and Wally weren't enough. I wonder what she was trying to find in those pills that she couldn’t find in us, and I get so pissed that she let it take her away from us.”

She’s startled when he moves. He pulls himself from under her, letting her fall onto her back, and then he’s hovering above her, holding himself up on his elbows. He falls into the spread of her thighs, his sex nuzzling comfortably against her still warm center.

“I’ve seen some of the worst effects of addiction,” he says, “when their bodies end up on a slab of metal and it’s my job to dissect the things around them, to even sometimes help detectives dissect their lives to figure out what happened. And something I’ve learned is that it’s always, always about them. Never about the people they love.”

He searches her face, brushing a piece of hair back from her forehead. “And whatever your mom was or wasn’t thinking, you are enough. You are more than enough, Iris.” He leans down and gives her a kiss, deep and dirty, and she moans in frustration as he pulls back from her. He gives her a grin, one more reminiscent of the Barry she’s used to.

“Repeat after me,” he commands. “I, Iris West…”

“Really, Barry?”

“Yes, come on. I, Iris West…

She sighs, but says it. “I, Iris West…”

“Am more than enough.”

She licks her lips then, blinks, works to not let the tears that have suddenly gathered in the corner of her eyes escape.

“Am more than enough,” she whispers, finally.

Barry’s smile turns fond. “Good girl.”

She shakes her head because she doesn’t know what else to do besides kiss him. Which she does, deeply, reaching down to grip him in her palm. She pauses, just for a moment, to tell him “you know that you are enough too, right?” and she kisses the look of awe off of his face. It’s a long while before she stops kissing him, and then it’s only to moan into his mouth, to let him whisper his dirty somethings into her ear.

“What are your plans for tonight?”

They’ve just shared a shower. Barry is throwing on another pair of sweats and a hoodie and Iris puts her own leggings back on, sans underwear, and thumbs through Barry’s closet for another sweatshirt to put on.

(There’s no reason that she can’t put hers back on, but she’s feeling particularly sentimental and she wants to take something of Barry’s with her, something that smells like him, that feels like him.)

“None, really.” She pulls out a red sweater that reads Central City University Track & Field and throws it on over her bra. “Why? You kicking me out.”

Barry rolls his eyes. “Of course not.” He glances down at the watch on his wrist. “Wanna get dinner? And then go with me to my tattoo appointment? It’s at 8 tonight.”

She smiles at that. “Sure.”

They take the highway back downtown. The rain is still beating steadily and there is still the occasional rumble of thunder, the sporadic flash of lightning. He parks a bit further in the arts district, in front of a restaurant specializing in wood-fire pizzas and craft beers. This time, she knows to wait for him to come around and open the door for her so that she can walk under his umbrella. Once he locks his jeep, he grabs her hand, and they walk the couple doors down and into the restaurant.

The place is brightly lit, in direct contrast to the dark sky and even the faint light that had been on at Barry’s place. The weather assures that it isn’t densely packed, just a couple booths of families and what looks like a couple, so they’re seated quickly and easily. They eat fast since they’ve only got an hour before his appointment. In the meantime, they both keep the conversation light. It’s been a day, for the both of them really, and Iris doesn’t think that she can cry twice in a day.

After he pays, she goes to the bathroom and he tells her he’ll wait at the door for her. She goes in and it’s as brightly lit as the rest of the place and she quickly does her business and washes her hands before heading back out to where he knows Barry is waiting in the little space between the outer door and the door to the restaurant.

She walks through the place and out of the restaurant door, likely too quickly and without really looking. She takes several steps, straightening out Barry’s sweatshirt again, and then she’s bumping into what feels like a solid wall, almost falling backward. A quick hand reaches out to catch her, the hand large, easily wrapping around her forearm.

“Shit,” she says, shaking her head to clear it as she looks up. “I’m sorr..Scott?”

He doesn’t move back right away and so she has to look up, up at the man holding on to her. Scott Evans is the literal definition of tall, dark, and handsome. He’d been her editor when she’d work at CCPN right out of college, and she’d had the biggest crush on him. Tall with dark caramel skin and a neatly trimmed beard, he’d been the one to help guide her in the ways of mass story-telling. They’d gone on one date and Iris is not actually sure why they’d never gone on another.

“Iris West.” He says her name slowly, his grin widening at the same pace. He gives her a once-over, slow and heated. “How’ve you been?”

“R-really good,” she says, stumbling a little at that grin. Even if she doesn’t actually regret never seeing him again, Iris can admit that a man this good looking makes her a little tongue-tied.

“Yeah? I’ve been catching your blog when I can. It’s some good shit, West. I can see why you left our little paper.”

“Please,” Iris rolls her eyes with a little laugh. “There’s nothing little about Picture News.”

He shrugs, humble all the way. “Still, I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Scott. I appreciate that.”

“It’s the truth.” He looks down at her, swiping at his lips with his tongue, and she suddenly realizes that they’re still too close. She steps back fully from him, glancing over Scott’s shoulders to see Barry watching them, his expression unreadable.

“Um,” she speaks, catching his attention. “I gotta go Scott.”

“Oh yeah; of course. We should get together soon. Maybe do dinner.” Scott looks back out of the window where rain steadily pours. “It’s still raining out. Can I walk you to your car?”

Her eyes don’t leave Barry’s and he tilts his head, waiting for her answer. “Scott, I’m not alone.”

He turns as if he’s just realizing that Barry is standing there. Barry is still quiet and only lifts his eyes to look at Scott when he mutters, “oh, hey man.”

Barry nods. “What’s up?” Then he looks at Iris. “You ready?”

“Yeah, I am.” Her voice is soft, cautious, and she throws one more glance at Scott. “It was good to see you.”

He graces her with that smile again. “Yeah. I’ll see you around.”

Barry takes her hand and they walk back to the truck. They’re on the road again, driving to a neighborhood near her own. For a second, she thinks he’s going to take her home, but he passes the road to her apartment and goes on to a neighborhood featuring several bars and little shops that cater to the college crowd. He pulls into the parking lot of a place called Black Gold, the lights inside near as bright as those in the pizza place.

Again, she waits until he comes around and turns as if to get out. He stops her though, holding the umbrella high, standing in front of her open legs. He does his thing, his stare like he's trying, and succeeding, to get inside her mind.

“That your ex-boyfriend?” he wonders.

She shakes her head. “Ex-boss.”

His expression doesn’t change. “All your bosses look at you like that?”

She swallows at the sudden feel of his hand on her thigh. The rain is pounding and drops fall on them, but she’s not noticing it. Instead, she’s caught in the storm that’s returned to his eyes, in the feel of his hands inching steadily toward her center.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” she says, instead of responding to him.

One corner of his mouth lifts, and the confident, bordering on cocky, Barry is looking at her now, even if that sparkle hasn’t returned quite yet.

“Nah,” he says. “Not jealous. You’re here right now. And you were with me earlier, moaning for me, coming for me.”

He slides his hand between her thighs and because she is, almost literally, always thirsty for him, wet for him, her legs spread easily. He fingers at the crotch of her leggings, and she knows that he can feel her warmth through the thin material. He thumbs at her until she gasps against him, finding her clit in a way that reminds him that he knows her body better than she knows it herself.

“He ever touch you like this?” Barry asks, voice a whisper above the rain. “Make you whimper even without getting your clothes off?”

She is whimpering, as he keeps his thumb on her clit, rubbing on her in slow circles. That’s all he’s doing: touching her with one hand, looking at her with those eyes that tell as much as they conceal, with his voice a deep rumble that rivals the thunder. He might be turned on, but he’s proving a point, naming himself as someone who, well, who owns her, even if she recognizes that no man should claim any power over her.

Heat spreads through her, a low, simmering sort of heat, but it’s enough that her folds grow slicker, start opening like the flowers of a petal waiting to be plucked. He keeps rubbing at her, staying on her clit, staring in her face, so much that she can’t hold his gaze. Because it feels better than it should, and her wet is soaking through these too thin leggings, and her breaths are coming in longer, coming in heavier.

“Tell me he hasn’t, Iris,” he says, commands, and Iris throws her head back, legs widening at their own volition, hips canting against his hand. “Tell me.”

“No,” she moans, eyes fluttering closed. “He never even touched me at all.”

“Tell me it’s just me,” he adds and she’s too far gone to note the pleading in his voice. “Tell me no one has ever touched you like this.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Just you, Barry, shit, just you.”

“Good,” he groans. “Good, good girl.”

Even if touch is the word he’s using, Iris understands that it’s more. She understands that they’re both wrapped up in uncertainty, never too sure of where they lie in others’ affections, never too sure of where they lie in life at all. She understands that he’s asking her if she feels it too, if she’s there with him, if this too easy, this too natural, feeling is a first for her too.

He’s asking if she’s brave enough to tell him the truth, if she undertands is meaning-understands that I'm no walk in the park; all these scars on my heart; it’s so dark here-even as she’s wondering the same, as she’s feeling the same, wondering if the churning feelings of abandonment make her unworthy somehow. Wondering if he’ll come to see that unworthiness.

Barry leans forward, just a touch away from her mouth, eyes blazing.

“There’s only you too, Iris,” he says, unprompted. “I swear I’ve just been waiting for you.”

He closes the distance to kiss her and that’s enough to take her over. It’s not a powerful orgasm, not like usual, but it does make her shut her eyes tight, make her limbs seize up as she rocks her hips through it. She breathes out, and she can’t stop the little laugh that comes out.

“You really are a dick,” she muses, opening her eyes slowly.

“A polite one, though,” he says, as he stands straighter and holds his hand out to help her down from the car. He holds the umbrella high over her. “See how I’m making sure you don’t get wet.”

“You didn't think of that earlier.”

His grin is devastating but it doesn’t hide the plethora of emotions in his eyes: the simmering lust, the faint traces of insecurity, the grief that’s been hovering all day...the love she doesn’t think he wants to hide anymore.

She hikes up on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek, and then she walks beside him into the parlor, words flashing in her head like a sign, but if you’re a warrior, there’s nothing to fear; nothing to fear.

And later that night, as she cuddles up next to Barry is his large comfortable bed, she listens to his soft breathing, the sound a melody to the rain still pattering against his windows. She listens and she stares at him, taking in his features, softer than they were before, the stress of today easing away with every second he’s lost to sleep. A flash of lightning lights the room, and it catches her eyes again, the new tattoo, the purple ink bright on his skin, covering the space from a lily on his shoulder to just over his heart. It goes dark again, his room blanketed once more, but in her mind’s eyes, she can still see the vibrant ink on his skin, the pretty drooping petals of an iris.

Cause you're so brave

Stone cold crazy for loving me

Yeah, I'm amazed

I hope you make it out alive

#westallen fanfiction #westallen #barry x iris #iris west #strangers to lovers

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is-that-another-soulmate-au · 4 years

Text

Okay, so, let me make this dream thing make sense.

You can't see them, you can't say your name, or where you live. But you can say tid bits about your day. These dreams happen twice a year starting at age 12. When you meet them the visits become much more common, and their image becomes clearer, but not enough to see them perfectly. Just a better silhouette. If someone is a year older then the dream will happen at that point. So Sokka would be 11. You'll only remember tid bits about your conversations, ill only write those but that should be all that I got.

"Hello?" Sokka heard the voice of a boy call out

"Uh? Hello? Who's there?"

"If I said my name you wouldn't hear it dum dum." The boy made a huff "I didn't expect to visit on the night of my birthday"

"Oh! We're soulmates!"

"Yeah, we are" the boy laughed "its a bit strange tho, Ive heard that it takes a bit for the dreams to show up.."

"Well, happy birthday! Uhm, since I can't know your name can I call you... uhm, my dad calls my papa Sprout!"

"Ugh! Sprout?" The boy made huff that sounded like a pout "yeah, you can call me sprout, but if we ever meet you better not call me that"

They both laughed at the idea

"Im sure ill find a better nickname"

"And I'll call you... turtleduck!"

"What? Why turtleduck?"

"Well my mom and I sit at the turtleduck pond alot and the turtleducks are my favorite part of my day"

"Aww! I hope to see one some day!

"I'll show you them if we meet!"

"Promise?"

"Promise."

That was all Sokka could remember of Sprout's visit. He talked to Gran gran about his visit, about the turtleducks and the boys laughter.

Meanwhile Zuko talked excitedly to his mother about Turtleduck and how he wanted to call him sprout. Making a face at the nickname to which his mother laughed at.

It wasn't until almost the end of the year when Sokka saw Sprout again this time he called out

"Sprout! Hello!"

"Turtleduck!"

They both went to hug eachother before they realized that they couldn't move closer "oh... right..." Sprout mumbled

"Its been a while"

"Yeah, and now its cooooolldd"

"Haha, I'm used to the cold"

"Oh is it normally cold where you are

"Yeah, its cold enough to snow most days. Makes hunting much easier though"

"Oh! You hunt? But your only 12?"

"11 still actually, but yeah, I have to hunt, my dad and papa could go off to war any day now so I have to be prepared to go hunting and fishing"

"Yeah, this war sucks, dad says it's a principle, but that just doesn't make any sense! I can't tell him that tho, can't change his mind"

They both talked and laughed together until the dream ended.

They didnt see eachother again until Zuko's 13th birthday when Sokka heard him crying

"Sprout? Hey Sprout is that you? Are you okay?"

"Turtleduck!? Hi, yeah, I'm... I was uh, banished from my nation today, uhm I'm traveling now"

"What!? What happened?"

"My dad he, he was furious at me, he challenged me to an Agni Kai and burnt my face"

"Agni Kai? What is your dad a firebender?"

"Yeah, Agni Kai is a firebending dual, I disrespected him and he burnt me when I didn't fight"

"Sprout, I'm so sorry."

"Its not your fault-"

"Its not your fault either you know! Just because you disrespect someone doesn't give them the right to burn you! Regardless of who they are!"

They cried this time, Sokka trying desperately to convince Sprout that his dad was in the wrong.

It wasnt until Sokka's 12th birthday later that year that Sprout showed up again.

"Hey! Sprout! Guess what day it is??"

"Uh, Wednesday?"

"No! Well... yeah, but its my birthday!"

"Oh! happy birthday turtleduck!"

"Thanks! My Gran Gran made me a whalebone necklace!"

"A... whalebone necklace?"

"Yeah! Its a thing my village does, well I guess its our culture. When a boy turns 12 he is given a whale bone necklace and can't remove it until he's married. My sister has a betrothal necklace, thats the opposite tho.. normally you'd wear a it when you're about to be married but our mom gave her that necklace."

"Oh! That sounds cool!"

The two talked and joked around for a while longer. Not much more to memory. They met a few more times over the next 3 years, then his sister and him found the Avatar and the fire nation appeared, well, more so a single ship showed up with very few people on it. The leaders voice was extremely familiar to him. But he didnt have time to try and figure out why.

After that day his dreams were a little clearer. And it seemed they were closer than he thought possible always leaving the same places at the same times, which was weird especially without ever figuring out who they were.

It wasnt until the western air temple after boiling rock that they realized it. Everyone was sitting around the fire talking about their soulmates. Katara revealing she'd only ever seen memories and Aang saying he thought that he just didn't have one. And then when they met in their dreams it didn't take long to figure out who eachother were. Suki revealed that she and another kyoshi warrior were soulmates. When it came to Sokka he shrugged "ive been talking to him since I was eleven, I call him Sprout because well Dad calls Papa Sprout. But he's pretty fun to chat wi-"

"Did you just say sprout?" Zuko cut in

"Uh.. yeah, I did, wh-"

"Does he call you turtleduck?"

"Yes! Do you know the guy?"

"Uh..." Zuko's face couldnt have gotten redder "Sokka, Im Sprout..."

Everyone went silent and he listed off different parts on their conversations until Sokka was convinced.

"I cant believe it. This whole time, it was you, wait, you told me your dad burned you, is that how you got that scar? In the Agni Kai?"

Zuko nodded "yeah, yeah my dad did this" he motioned to his scar.

Katara, having grown up with Sokka chatting up a storm about his dreams with his soulmate seemed to relax a bit more around Zuko, gaining a bit of trust in him.

"Wait, Sokka, you called your soulmate Sprout?" Hakoda chimed in

"Well, yeah, I couldn't find out his name through the dreams so I called him the best nickname I could think of..."

The group around the fire fell into laughter. After the reveal Sokka and Zuko were practically inseparable. When the day of the comet came Sokka was hesitant to let Zuko go to find Azula but with Katara there with him he felt he'd be safe. However after the battle was over and he found out that Zuko had been struck by lightning he couldnt get to him faster. Hobbling right into the medical wing of the palace. "Zuko!" He shouted as he made it in, finding Katara and Zuko in the middle of a having session

"Sokka! What happened to your leg!?"

"Forget my leg, you got shot by lightning!?"

"Yeah, hah, that I did, but Katara's magic so Im all good now!" He gave a thumbs up.

"He's got some medicinal tea that Iroh brewed for him, he's a little out of it. I'll leave you two alone."

After Katara left Sokka sat in the chair she was in and rested his head on Zuko's lap. The battle was won, they can breathe easy now.

@chaoticidiott @transzukostanblog @roman-does-nothing @idkhowbutimgayer

Hope i did it justice!

#RayMakesSoulmates #ray of sunshine #zukka au #zukka #soulmate #so gay #atla sokka #sokka x zuko #sokka #atla zuko #zuko #prince zuko

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aswallowssong · 4 years

Text

Whumptober (Sickfic) Day 8 - Hospital

This got way out of hand y’all, but here we are!

SCRC AU

Read on AO3

-----

Both women were clad in sweatpants and hoodies, JJ’s hair in a loose ponytail while Kit’s braids were falling out.

JJ was the only one she’d called.

The blonde dropped into the chair next to her, taking her hand and squeezing gently. The worry could have been coming from anywhere, they were in a hospital, but it surged when JJ took a breath.

“What happened?”

What happened? Kit wasn’t entirely sure. Reid had been off work a few days. Actually, she’d kicked him out of the bullpen that Monday when he was coughing so aggressively she swore he was going to crack a rib if he didn’t go home and lay down. It had sounded wet and congested and gross, but she assumed he’d picked up whatever cold was making its way around. He’d be fine if he just got some sleep like a normal person, and he’d be back by Wednesday. Gideon had even driven him home.

Then Hotch had told them Reid was out sick again on Thursday, which was concerning, but not enough for her to be overly worried. Some people caught things worse than other people. He was probably taking an extra day to be completely back to normal before facing them all again. He already got so much flack for being the youngest; the baby. She’d thought he was just avoiding being coddled when he didn’t need it.

At least that’s what she’d thought until he was calling her at one-thirty in the morning, his breaths coming in gasps and wheezes as he asked for her help through what sounded like strangled sobs. She’d scrambled from her bed and basically grabbed the keys out of Monty’s hands as she walked through the door, shoving her glasses on her face and babbling something half-intelligible about an emergency.

It had taken her exactly three minutes to get to Spencer’s apartment in the dead of night, which was weird, because she hadn’t known that he lived anywhere near her. It took three more minutes for her to decide he needed more medical intervention than she could give him in his apartment. He was shaking and wheezing and coughing disgusting colored phlegm into the sleeve of his hoodie, skin on fire with eyes panicked and bright.

It took six minutes to get him down to the car, and another twelve to drive to the hospital closest to them. She’d walked him into the ER she’d worked in for a year and a half before the academy, no idea who was the Head, and no idea what to do except flash her badge and relay as much information as she possibly could to the nurse behind the desk.

They’d taken him away as soon as they saw that Kit was supporting most of his weight, his gasping and coughing causing the nurses to move with an urgency Kit almost missed. She just wished it wasn’t due to the fact that Reid, Spencer, was struggling to breath.

She’d found a corner to cry her eyes out in as soon as they’d taken him away from her.

“They, um. He’s in a room. They took him away from me and wouldn’t let me go with,” she said slowly, not really answering JJ’s question. “They wouldn’t let me go with.”

“But what happened? To Spence?”

Kit told her as well as she could, mind moving at seven hundred miles an hour. Things were fuzzy as she remembered them. Spencer’s breathing. Monty calling after her. His hands gripping hers so tight it was painful as she drove through the deserted streets of the district towards the hospital she knew so well.

JJ didn’t let go of as she spoke, running her thumb along the back of Kit’s hand. “You did everything you could,” she said quietly. “Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

“I…” She shook her head, starting to ramble as she processed. “I sent him home Monday, remember? He was supposed to be back Wednesday and then he wasn’t. He wasn’t back today, yesterday? It’s Friday now I think, but it’s still today. It’s still Thursday and he didn’t come to work and I thought, maybe he was just waiting. But then he called me and he was struggling to breathe and I did what I could.”

She looked up at JJ’s eyes, her own pooling with tears like they had before. “I did everything I could, but he was in respiratory distress. It’s the middle of the night. I don’t have supplies like that in my backpack. I couldn’t help him.”

“You did,” she assured, squeezing Kit’s hand again. “You got to his apartment and you got him here.”

“I should have checked on him today. During the day. On my way home.” A tear slid down her cheek. “I should have done something else. You’re my responsibility. All of you.”

JJ shook her head, moving so that both her hands were holding Kit’s. “Don’t do that. No one else checked on him either. This is on all of us.”

“No, it’s on me.”

“Kit-”

“Spencer Reid?”

A voice called out from the doorway of the waiting room. An older nurse was standing there, giving the two girls a kind, sympathetic smile. They were the only two there, so the nurse must have known they were the ones there for Reid, but Kit appreciated the professionalism. Something concrete in a time where nothing felt like it was making a lot of sense.

“Yes,” Kit said quickly, swiping her tears away under her glasses and taking a deep breath as she stood. JJ stood as well. “Is he okay?”

“Are either of you immediate family?”

Both girls stood still for a moment before they both shook their heads. “I’m JJ, and this is Kit. We’re-,” JJ said before Kit said quickly. “We work in the same department at the FBI headquarters. I’m the one that brought him.”

The nurse nodded before starting into her spiel. The one Kit had given plenty of times before. “Mr. Reid has moderate bacterial pneumonia. He’s being given oxygen and intravenous fluids and medication to work on the dehydration and the fever. Once his sputum test comes back, we will be able to start him on a regiment of antibiotics.”

“He’s allergic to carbenicillin,” Kit said quickly, a hand drumming against the fabric of her sweats. The nurse smiled at her kindly. “We caught that on his file, yes. It was recently updated.”

Kit nodded quickly. “I did that a few months ago.”

“It was thorough,” the woman said, never losing her calm, kind front. “Now, I’m sure you’re glad to know that your friend is okay, but I am sorry to tell you that visiting hours don’t start again until ten. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you then, if he’s awake.”

“Wait,” Kit said quickly, catching on to her meaning, “We can’t see him now?”

“Neither of you are family, so no, I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait until the morning.”

“He doesn’t have any family,” JJ said with the same speed and determination Kit had spoken. “He has us. And Kit just brought him here, and he was scared.”

The nurse shook her head, Reid’s file tightening in her hand. “I’m sorry that you’re upset. The only people who are allowed immediate visiting hour exceptions are immediate family, like a spouse or a parent, or a listed emergency contact, in the case of a patient with no familial ties.”

“Well, who’s his emergency contact? We’re not leaving him here alone.” JJ’s eyes were full of a fire Kit would say lined up pretty well with what Gideon always said about her.

If her eyes really looked like that, maybe he was right to say she was trouble.

The nurse sighed quietly, opening the file and scanning. She tilted her head as she read the name on the file. “Emergency contact for Spencer Reid is… Dakota. Dakota Col- Colg…”

“Colghain?” Kit asked, eyes wide and eyebrows pulled together. The nurse nodded. “Sure, that could be it. Do you know her?”

“I am her,” Kit said, stunned. She pulled her badge out of the pocket of her sweatpants, flipping it open so the woman could see her name printed clearly along with her picture.

“Well why didn’t you start with that?” The nurse said, waves of true annoyance coming off of her. “You can come with me, but your friend has to leave until visiting hours start again.”

Kit promised JJ she would call as soon as she could before following the nurse down the cold hallway. Goosebumps erupted along Kit’s arms as they passed door after door, the walk from the ER to General Admissions being so eerily familiar, but so foreign at the same time. She’d lost a young man in room 302, and an elderly woman in room 246. She’d walked down the hallway a million times, she just didn’t think she’d be doing it again. Not as a visitor.

The nurse opened the door to Reid’s room, and Kit had to swallow back the whine threatening to escape. He was paper white, hooked up to an IV with a nasal cannula situated in his nose, pumping oxygen into his fluid-filled lungs. The guilt was hitting her in waves, and she didn’t move for a moment.

This is your fault. If you’d checked on him today, or if you’d given a shit on Monday past the fact that the coughing was annoying everyone, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

“It’s alright,” the nurse said, her annoyance ebbing as she watched Kit stand there with wide eyes. “It can be hard for some people to see all these IVs and machines.”

“I’m a Charge Nurse,” Kit said quietly, using the terminology she knew from the hospital, not the academy clinic. “I’ve just never seen him look like this.”

Kit sat in the chair by Reid’s bed for almost an hour before he shifted, his breath catching and leaving his coughing and sputtering as phlegm tried to work its way out of his lungs. She moved to the edge of the bed quickly, helping him sit up and passing him a bin that he could spit the offending mucus into. She let herself be thankful for one moment that it was her and not JJ there with him, not knowing JJ’s comfort level with all things medically gross.

“You’re okay,” she said quietly, one of her small hands pressed steadily between his shoulder blades. “Get it out. That’s your job right now.”

“Hurts,” he choked out as he continued to cough, and Kit sighed, rubbing gently across his upper back. “Yeah, I know. Not a choice, though. I’m not going anywhere, just try to breathe when you can.”

It took minutes for him to get control of his lungs back, though he wheezed with every shallow intake of air. He looked at her with glassy, fever bright eyes, his eyes moving slowly around the room before he said quietly, “What did they say?”

“Bacterial pneumonia. They’re putting you on antibiotics and keeping you here at least twenty-four hours. So, really, Saturday morning.”

“I’m allergic-”

“To carbenicillin, I know. I told them.”

Reid seemed to relax slightly at that, knowing that whatever they gave him to combat the infection in his lungs wasn’t going to be his end. Kit helped ease him against the thin mattress again in a position that wouldn’t allow him to drown in his own illness.

It was quiet, save for the occasional cough from Spencer. Her hand was gripped around his, the overwhelming guilt and confusion building as time went on.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, and he opened his eyes to look at her with puzzlement. “What?”

“I’m sorry. I should have given a shit when I sent you home on Monday, and I should have checked in on you today. We probably could have avoided this whole, ‘scary fever can’t breath’ thing.” She was looking down at her hand that was playing with the seam on her pants, the hand holding Reid’s already as tight as she dared.

Reid shook his head lazily. “I’m sorry I waited so long to call you. I knew there was something wrong-” He cut off with a few harsh coughs before he continued. “Earlier. I just didn’t want to bother you.”

“You wouldn’t have bothered me,” she insisted, feeling like she was really looking at him for the first time. He was young, like she was, and he didn’t have any family. It dawned on her that she was his emergency contact. Not Gideon. Not even Hotch. She didn’t know if up until that point she would have called them friends.

But she was the one sitting in his hospital room at nearly four in the morning. And in his hospital room at four in the morning she wasn’t so sure he was a minion or a spy. He just looked like a scared young adult. Just like she was.

“Why is it me?”

“Hm?”

“Why am I your emergency contact? Why isn’t it Gideon?”

Reid didn’t speak for a moment, the air flooding with his sadness. “I asked him. He said no,” he said, voice quiet and trembling with tears that wouldn’t fall. “I should have asked you, Dakota. I shouldn’t have just done it. I’m sorry.”

There was another bout of silence before she nearly whispered, “You can leave it.”

He turned his head to look at her, something like distrust in his eyes. He wasn’t sure. He thought she was joking, or poking fun. She could see it.

“I- what?”

“You can leave it. I don’t mind.”

“You don’t?”

“No, Spencer, I don’t. Thank you for calling me.”

He stared at her for a second before nodding just slightly, gratitude filling the space between them.

“Thank you for coming.”

#Brenna writes things #or at least she tries #Criminal Minds #SCRC #Whumptober Sickfic 2020 #sickfic #day 8 hospital #Gosh Spencer needs a hug #Kit does too

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laurazepamwrites · 4 years

Text

The Chemicals between us ~ Chapter 13

After their visit to Pix Elle, Mei and Angela had tried the other addresses of the missing omnics without further luck. One had refused to let them in at all and the other address was abandoned altogether, the premises ransacked of what little possessions left. The only thing to remain was the strange Omnic graffiti again. After this Angela insisted on some downtime to collect their thoughts by going to the fashion museum then feeling inspired by this, went shopping for ‘just one new pair of shoes and a dress.’ The boot of the car now loaded with a number of high end bags, they made their way to the bustling Port of Calais to find answers at Hubs most recent place of work. Seagulls screamed overhead and the salt in the air was strong. Huge cruise ships and cargo containers lined the docks. They parked close by and followed the signs for the shipping and logistics companies further along. Mei looked around as they walked past surly looking men, huge cranes unloading steel containers and security droids scanning for anything illegal. She caught sight of a sketchy looking Omnic in shabby clothes who stopped to give her and her companion a look of suspicion. Mei glanced away quickly and kept her eyes peeled for the Global freight logo. Luckily she did not need to search far.

‘Hey hey hey you ladies cant be down here!” A large man wearing a hi vis jacket and hardhat shouted across to them in a french accent. “Cruise ships are on the other side! Bloody tourists..”

“Is this Global Freight?” Angela asked, ignoring him.

“You health and safety? You're not due to next wednesday.”

“My name Is Amander Muller and this is Lin Chang, we’re looking for Hub 0.5. We understand he works here?”

“You police?”

“Non monsieur, we’re journalists for the Connexion. Might I know your name?”

He scratched his stubble of a beard and looked them both up and down. “Too pretty to be pigs I guess..names Vic Dubrand. I'm the foreman here. Now why are you after that rust bucket Hub?”

“He may help us with a report we are working on but have unable to locate him. Even his wife hasn't seen him for days.” Said Angela.

“You think I have? Look lady, Hub came to work as usual then never shows up again. Far as i'm concerned he don't work for me no more. Already got a bot to replace him.”

“How was he? When you last saw him?” Mei asked

Dubrand smirked at her. “Its an Omnic sweetheart, you think they have feelings or bad days like we do? He comes to work, does what hes programmed to, goes home. Ah mind you, he did argue with some other bots down by the old containers last week. I think they were some layabouts with no jobs causing trouble.”

Mei and Angela exchanged glances. “When was this?” Angela asked.

“Dunno exactly, about two days before he disappears.”

“Did you see the Omnics he argued with again?”

“Non, they just come by, paint their stupid propaganda and leave. Hub scrubbed most of it off.”

“Where's the container?”

Dubrand turned and vaguely gestured behind him. “Somewhere over there, I don't give a shit about what Omnics get up to as long as they know their place. Not much else to tell you.” He adjusted his hard hat and began walking back to his site office. “You get hit with a falling container not my fault!” He added before shutting the door.

“Charming man..” Mei said bitterly.

It only took them a couple of minutes to find the container Dubrand mentioned. It had been scrubbed hard to dispose of the spray paint but the strange code was just about visible. It was the same they had found at nearly every site an Omnic had disappeared. “This cant be a coincidence can it?” Asked Mei, kneeling down to run her fingers over the paint which flaked off at her touch.

“Its certainly suspicious, but keep in mind there are posters and art everywhere for pro and anti Omnic. This could just be the latest one..see? look over there, there's a sticker that says ‘Humans cant be trusted.’”

“I think you're right, but I'm going to send Athena a picture of this code just in case.” Mei replied, taking her camera out and taking a few snaps.

Angela looked at her watch. “Good idea..we should head back, not much else to do until the rally tomorrow.”

They headed back along the docks and to the street where they had left the car. As they walked Mei noticed Angela glance around behind them. “Act normal Mei and walk straight past the car.” Mei frowned up at her. “Whats wrong?”

“We’re being followed. Look ahead and stay calm.”

Mei did as she was told and resisted the urge to look behind her, she had no idea who was following them or how far behind but she was glad Angela had experienced enough to know they were in potential danger. She followed Angelas lead and soon the doctor led them to an alleyway. Angela pulled Mei behind her and took out her gun, aiming it at the entrance then at the head of their stalker who turned into the alley seconds later.

“Whoa whoa whoa! Lady, that's a bit much!” The shabby, rust speckled Omnic Mei noticed at the docks threw his hands up in surrender.

Angela kept her pistol well aimed. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“Sal! My names Sal, short for Shipping analysis lo-”

“What do you want!” Snapped Angela.

“Gee are you always this cranky? Can you put the gun down? it's making me very nervous.”

Angela narrowed her eyes at the strange Omnic and lowered her weapon but kept a firm grip on it. “Talk.”

“I heard you, back at the docks? You said you're looking for Hub..I know him.”

“You're not the only one so why follow us? What do you know?” Asked Angela.

“Know you’re not reporters. Old Sal here knows the media cares not for me and mine unless its something bad. You think they care if we go missing? If I had a mouth I'd spit!”

Angela began to raise her gun again. “If you have no viable information than..”

“I saw Hub get taken!” Sal exclaimed, cowering slightly. “He..he saw some strange omnics graffiting at the docks. He told them to clear off but they just stood there, Hub didn't move either! I couldn't understand what they were saying, we Omnics speak to each other in Omnicode but I couldn't understand this. It was like another language but Hub.. he understood. He let them go. I tried to talk to him after but he was acting weird..said he needed to ‘wake up’. Then Dubrand shouts at us to get back to work but I followed Hub home that night. I was worried..I watched him walk to the front of his apartment and the same image was there, he just stares at it and looked like he was waiting for something.”

“Did you try to talk to him at all?” Mei asked, feeling slightly unnerved by Sals story.

“I shouted his name and was about to go to him but a car comes round the corner, black windows. I couldn't see who was driving. Hub he..he just gets in! I think they saw me. They didn't drive away until I left. I can't go to the police, they don't care and then you ladies show up!”

“Can you read the code on the painting?” Mei showed him the picture she took at the docks but Sal just shook his head. “Nothing Ive seen before. We Omnics all speak the same code, its how we communicate. Its how the defected had such an upper hand in the war. But this? This is just gibberish!”

Angela holstered her gun. “Sal, I think you need to come with us. From what you have seen I think you may be in danger.”

Sal shook his head and back off. “No thanks lady, still don't trust you. You could be the bad guys for all i know..oh I think I made a mistake talking to you. See Sal you just need to keep ya head down and shut up. That's what Dubrand always told ya..Ol Hub is probably just fine.” He backed up to the end of the alley and briskly walked away muttering to himself. Mei looked from Sal to Angela. “Do we follow him?”

“It would draw too much attention trying to force a twitchy Omnic like that in the car, besides we need to get this information to the Commander as soon as possible. Has Athena come back with any results?”

Mei checked her phone for any contact. “No, not yet.”

“Lets go. We’ll head back to the hotel and write up what we know so far, this isn't good Mei. I dread to think what this could all mean.”

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

Ana and Satya watched each other intensely, waiting for the other to make their move. Satyas gauntlet glowed as she prepared to manipulate a cube of hard light between her fingers and Ana had her sleep dart aimed at her heart.

“Ill ask again..what are you doing?” Satya asked coldly.

“Would you believe me if i said i was the cleaning lady?” Ana smirked.

“You kill a vishkar employee and you make jokes?”

Ana tutted. “Oh shes not dead, just asleep. You are welcome to join her unless you power down that glove of yours.”

“You think to challenge me?” Satya scoffed. “Do you know who I am.”

“Yes my dear I know who you are. I wonder if you do.”

The question confused Satya and the lack of focus showed in the hardlight that quivered in her hand. Ana saw the lapse in concentration, she could have shot her there and then, wipe Satya’s computer and leave the way she came, but she decided not to. Instead she placed her sleep dart at her feet, kicked it away from her and raised her hands, all the while smiling at Satya. As quickly as the sleep dart had fallen still on the spotless carpet had hardlight binds wrapped around Anas wrists. Ana looked down at the near transparent, crystal blue solid light. It was hard not to admire the craftsmanship behind it.

“Well you caught me, and what will you do now I wonder?” Ana cheerfully asked. “Call security? Police? Maybe you and I can have a little chat before you do that?”

“Silence! Before I bind your mouth too.”

“A pity my dear, wouldn't you like to hear what an old Overwatch Captain has to say?”

The binds flickered for a split second but Satya held firm. She could not keep this up for longer. Focusing hardlight was incredibly difficult which made Architects highly valuable. Soon she would need to make the decision to call security, drag her there herself or release her and talk. She had surrendered after all and the curiosity over this womans strange actions were dulling her focus.

“Who are you?” She eventually asked.

“My name is Captain Ana Amari. I am not here to hurt you or anyone else Satya. I'm trying to prevent that from happening to anyone.”

“Why have you come here?”

“Because Vishkar are potentially a threat, and you are much easier to get to then Mr Korpal. I wonder dear..do you know who you work for?”

The binds cracked and loosened before solidifying once again. “How dare you.” Satya breathed hard. “Vishkar is building a better future for humanity, we have built home for the displaced, we-!”

“Impose martial law to control people? My dear you are not unintelligent, did you ever stop to think what Vishkar was doing was unethical?”

“We...I..I just want to make a better world.”

Ana smiled sympathetically at her. “So do we Satya, but i don't think you’ll get the world you want by being Sanjay's puppet.”

The binds disappeared completely in specks of light that glinted as they fell. A bead of sweat ran down Satyas face. “I owe him everything.” she said weakly.

“No dear, i think you owe yourself that credit.” Ana said, pulling the microchip from the computer. She handed it to Satya. “Take it. I don't think what I am looking for is here after all.”

Satya took it from her cautiously. Ana fished in her bag and pulled out a small notepad and quickly jotted down something, tore the page out and gave it to Satya.

“This is my personal number, listen to your gut feeling and you call me when you really want to change the world.” Satya stared at it, plagued by questions and her head swimming with confusion. She opened her mouth to ask Ana more but instead a soft “ Oh!” escaped her lips as she felt a quick sharp prick on her arm. Looking down she saw a tiny dart sticking in her skin like a small insect, she felt woozy.

“Im sorry Satya but I really must be going.” Ana said sincerely, like she had stopped by for a visit with an old friend. She gently took the Architect's unresisting arm and sat her down on the sofa. Ana brushed a loose strand of her behind her ear. “Nxt time you see Sanjay..ask him. Ask him about Talon. Soon you will understand.”

Satya mouthed silent words, unable to speak, her eyelids grew heavier and heavier. She heard the door to her office shut softly, the ding of the elevator as it arrived on its floor. She slumped softly onto her side.

“Am I a puppet?” She thought before falling asleep.

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

Mei tossed and turned in the hotel bed, struggling to sleep. It was more frustrating here, she was on a mission and needed to be rested. As soon as they returned from their strange meeting with the Omnic named Sal, Angela had called back to base and updated Morrison on their investigation. He was concerned with their findings and warned them to be cautious and to find out what they could at the rally. She looked at the time on her phone. It was almost two in the morning. Feeling the insomnia defeat her for now she opened up her messages to check for the millionth time if she had any feedback from Athena. As she expected there was none, but something did catch her attention. Athena had set up a private network for the occupants of the Gibraltar base to stay in contact when out in the field or on opposite ends of the building. Mei occasionally checked it for messages, usually very late at night. Most of the time she noticed Junkrat was also awake at stupid o clock in the morning, just like he was tonight. Mei considered messaging him but what would she say? Her first thought was ‘Haha turns out this mission was a lot bigger than you thought.’ But that wasn't very becoming of her, she thought maybe she could just say hi, but she felt awkward doing even that. Especially if he poked fun or even ignored her. Still, she did wonder why he was up so late and so often. Angela mumbled something in her sleep and rolled over, Mei yawned and decided it was time to try and sleep again before she got herself annoyed again over the Junker. Still, he did prove to be a good distraction as Mei was soundly asleep a short time later.

Mei woke up before her alarm the following morning, she had quietly slipped out of bed, washed and changed before heading down to the breakfast bar alone. She kept checking her phone, no update from anyone back at base. Mei took note of the time, It was nearly eight in the morning, another ten hours to go before they were due at the extraction site. She mulled over what they had found out from yesterday's leads and kept coming back to the strange conversation with Sal. Who were the Omnics who spoke to Hub? Had he really just left with them on his own accord? And what about the strange code on the graffiti? Did it connect to the strange language Hub apparently used? Mei had begun to wonder how much of Sal’s story was even credible. She jumped slightly as a coffee mug was placed on the table, jolting her from her thoughts. “Sleep well?” Angela asked brightly, sitting opposite Mei.

“I think so, how about you?”

“Hmm the pillows were too soft.” Angela complained, massaging the back of her neck. “Still, the mattress is a lot better than my one back at base.” Mei smiled in response and absent mindedly pulled apart the croissant in front of her.

“Nervous?” Angela asked.

“I guess? I'm worried how the rally will go. They start off with good intentions..but you know how some get.”

“If that happens we leave as quickly as possible. We’re not in a position for combat and we can't give ourselves away. Just stay with me and we’ll be fine.” She gave Mei a reassuring smile which Mei returned, the anxiety still gnawing away at her. They finished up their breakfast and headed back to the room to start packing their belongings. Mei trying to coax an angry snowball to go into sleep mode and to be placed in a large duffel bag again and Angela delicately placing her new clothes into her luggage with as little creasing as possible. It was past ten in the morning when they checked out and loaded the car with their suitcases. They planned to be at the rally location by midday to get a good spot for surveillance so had spent some time wandering the streets and had a light lunch at a local cafe near to the square where the rally was to be held. As midday approached they headed to the square, it was already filling with people and omnics alike. Some held placards with pro omnic slogans whilst others opted for banners and flags. The atmosphere was jovial as music began to play as sound checks were being made on stage. Angea and Mei inched further forward,opting to be close to the stage and the large marquee next to it which Mei assumed was for the organizers and guests.

“Over here Mei.” Said Angela, signalling to a free space by the metal crowd control barriers. “So now we wait.” She said, leaning on the barrier. “Chances are nothing will happen so may as well try to enjoy ourselves. There's a band playing after the speeches.”

“I’m not sticking around so you can have a dance.”

“You’ve really lost your sense of fun.”

“We’re working!”

“We’re blending in, go on - shout something pro Omnic!”

“Angela I really don't want to draw attention to my-Owww!” Mei whined and covered her ears as Angela winced, most of the crowd copied their behavior and complained loudly as the speakers on stage blasted a high pitch feedback.

“Désolé! Je suis désolé! Sorry everyone!” An omnic rushed to the mic to apologize for the noise. “Bad soundcheck but we’re almost ready to begin!”

“Huh, earlier than expected.” Noted Angela as she looked at her phone which had started to vibrate. “Hello? Jack?” Angela answered her phone and looked confused. “Hello?” She looked at her phone and pressed the screen. “Weird.” She said, hanging up. “Maybe he called by mistake.”

“What do you mean?” Mei asked.

“I couldn't hear him, just strange noises..maybe there's a bad signal here.”

“Maybe..” Mei hoped it was something that simple, looking around she noticed some omnics still recovering from the harsh feedback noise. Some were shaking their heads, others looked rather dazed. It must affect them more than humans. “What if he was calling about the code?” She asked Angela. The Doctor was already on it and had her phone pressed to her ear. “No..nothing.” She said hanging up. “Can you try?” But Mei had the same result, she even tried Winston and Reinhardt, stranger still was that she had full signal on her phone. Out of the corner of her eye she saw an Omnic stumble on the spot..her anxiety started to flare up and she barely heard the announcement on stage. She heard the crowd cheering louder and she glanced up at the stage, her eyes widening.

“Angela..its Liberte..!” But Angela was fully aware the presumed missing Omnic had made a sudden appearance. The crowd cheered as the artist came on stage. “Maybe it was personal reasons after all.” She looked up at Angela who was frowning at the Omnic, “What is it?” Mei asked, following her gaze. Liberte had reached the microphone and simply stood there, not greeting his audience, not saying a word. The cheering had died down and there was awkward laughter and mutterings from the crowd. “Maybe this is a live art piece!” Mei overheard someone say.

Liberte stood silent a minute more then very slowly his head began to raise, it jerked to the side suddenly as if he just got shocked. He began to speak. “Brothers, sisters. What a sad sight you are before me..” The crowd murmured, confusion rippling among them. “We have been victims from the day we were born from our Mother Omniums into this ravaged planet. We have been made scapegoats to Mankind's own failures. We have been murdered, mutilated and made into slaves by our oppressors!” Mei looked through the crowd, some were nodding their heads in agreement, others looking nervous. Some humans had already begun to leave, she saw some of the Omnics affected by the high pitch noise from earlier and felt her stomach knot. They stood completely still, heads down, no glow to their eyes. As if they were sleeping. “Angela…?” She said nervously.

“We’re leaving. Nice and easy and keep calm” The doctor said, taking Mei’s arm and turning her around. As they began to push back through the crowd Liberte continued to speak. “You traitors that slave under human rule.” His head jerked violently, his eyes flashed. “You cowards that live in fear of flesh and blood! We are the stronger race!” Liberte screamed and jerked. “ We are the cure! - Jerk- We will rise from the ashes of our dead and the bones of our oppressors!”

The crowd was getting stirred up as humans and Omnics alike tried to leave, there were shouts for Liberte to leave the stage and a bottle was even thrown at him, the glass smashing on stage yet he did not even flinch, shouts for uprising, shouts for a new crisis. Scuffling broke out nearby in the crowd and one of the sleeping Omnics was shoved hard, falling to the ground. Mei looked back and hesitated. “Angela wait!” She shouted, making her decision and rushing back to the fallen Omnic. She crouched by him and shook him but there was no light in his eyes and he made no movement. “Leave him Mei!” Angela grabbed her and half dragged her upwards on to her feet. She had her phone pressed to her ear again. “Dammit!” She shouted, still getting no signal to contact base. “This was planned! We need to get out of here before a riot happens.”

“Liberte! Angela look at Liberte!”

Liberte was jerking more violently, his eyes flashing from blue to red, he gripped the microphone stand to support himself and a burst of sparks flew from circuits on his neck. “The eye is lost but the eye will open! It's time to wake up.” A final jerk and his eyes went dead and his head slumped forward, mirroring the ‘sleeping’ Omnics standing like sentinels in the panicking crowd. Slowly his eyes glowed red and he raised his head, a strange sound erupting from the speakers. High pitched noises of different frequencies almost sounding like a song as it pulsated from the speakers. It took a few seconds for Mei to realize Liberte was making the noise. “Wha..What is that?”

The strange noise stopped and Liberte began to laugh as oil started to drip from his red glowing eyes, his omnic mouth and from joints in his body. “The eye is opening!” He screamed as his body jerked and crackled from exploding circuits within him as he slumped forward and fell from the stage.

“We need to get to him! Mei, head to the barriers.” They went back on themselves, finding it much harder as the crowd pushed back against them as they tried to leave. More projectiles were being thrown and the atmosphere increasingly heated. Mei saw the fallen omnic on the ground, his metal fingers twitching, she barely registered him this time, she was scared and felt incredibly exposed. Angelas hand on her shoulder was the only thing keeping her grounded as her small frame was shoved and pushed by those around her. She gasped and ducked as something smashed against a wall close by. The shouting was getting too much..she could hear sirens blaring and getting closer. “Keep going, almost there.” Angela said. Fuelled by adrenaline they reached the barriers, Angela vaulting herself over them and reaching back to help pull Mei over. She felt instantly safer with the barriers between them and the increasingly angry crowd. As she caught her breath she spotted Liberte sprawled on the ground below the stage, Angela was already rushing to him.

“Liberte? What happened? Who did this to you?”

His eyes had gone back to their normal blue, he was gasping like his body was in pain. “Where-am-I?”

“Sshh It's ok, its ok. We’re gonna help you, we’re getting you out of here.”

Mei’s head snapped to the crowd as the shouting suddenly began to change pitch to frightened screaming. More pockets of fighting were breaking out and others had started to rush the barriers, she backed up against the stage, broken glass cracking under her feet.

Liberte gasped and reached up, pulling at Angela's shirt. He rasped and gurgled. It was an awful sound, an awful sight, as the oil bubbled as it leaked from him like blood. His eyes began to flicker and dull. His voice crackled as he tried to speak. “The-They are-c-c-calling.”

“Who? Who's calling? Liberte..? Liberte!?” Angela shook him but his eyes were now dull. He was dead.

“Angela! Behind you!”

Angela felt something claw viciously at her back, She scrambled up, half stumbled over libertes dead body and fell against the stage, spinning herself she aimed her pistol and fired. One of the ‘sleeping’ Omnics fell heavily to the ground, a smoking hole between its eyes. Angela and Mei looked on in horror as the omnics that stood silent were now very much animated and attacking whatever was near them, their eyes glowing red. Mei watched as the one she tried to help had risen from the ground and was viciously attacking someone. She felt sick.

“Mei! Down there!” Angela pulled her along after her, pistol in hand, towards a small side street lined with boutique shops and cafes that had closed for the rally. The graffiti with the strange code was hastily painted on one of the shutters, wet paint dripping down the metal. Mei looked over her shoulder as she ran and faltered, stopping in her tracks as people ran past her to escape.

“Hub..?”

It was him. The gentle looking omnic from the photograph with Pix Elle, he staggered down the street towards her, swiping and grabbing at anyone that came near, a spatter of crimson blood across his metal face.

Angela fired and shot a red eyed omnic that had burst from an adjourning street, it crashed to the ground, its eyes slowly burning out. ‘ How many are there!?’ Thought Angela. ‘ Is the whole city affected?’ An omnic pushed past her and she aimed her pistol, it raised its hands and cowered before her, its eyes blue. She lowered her weapon and the omnic continued to run. ‘ Only certain ones ?’ Close by a shop window smashed and she heard more sirens and shouting back towards the square, the combat medic in her urged her to return and help the wounded but with no valkyrie suit or medical supplies what use could she be? No, get to extraction. Just keep moving. “Mei keep going, I’ll cover you!..Mei?” She was here, she was next to me!” . “Mei?!” Angela screamed, desperately trying to see her through the rush of panic and terror.

Hub shambled slowly towards Mei, his head jerking as Libertes did and he was struggling to stand. Whatever was causing this seemed short lived. The omnic weakly grabbed at anything that got to close as they ran past but his grip was too weak. Mei winced as he stumbled and fell to his knees, a lone drip of oil running from his eye and blending with the blood. Mei crouched down slowly, picking up an empty bottle left in the street and tentatively stepped forward.

“Hub..?” She said gently and took a step forward. “Hub, my name is Mei..I..I know your wife. Pix Elle?”

Hub stayed motionless, he remained on his knees and seemed fixated on the slow drip drip drip of oil as it fell to the ground. His head jerked at the mention of his wife's name.

“I don't know what's happening to you Hub.” Mei took another step forward. “But I know it's not your fault.”

Drip drip drip

“Its ok..we can help you.” Another step.

Drip drip drip

“We can find Pix Elle. We can try and stop this..”

Drip drip drip

Mei was close to him, he was ignoring everyone that rushed by now, she was sure he could hear her, understand her. She knelt in front of him.

“I know you’re in there Hub..I know you don't want to do this. None of you do..im so sorry this has happened..”

He slowly raised his head, oil now leaking from all eyes. He looked like he was crying. “Pix..Pix..Pix.” His head jerked with each word.

“We’ll find her ok? Lets find her.” Mei smiled warmly at him and slowly held her hand out. Hub looked at it and his eyes started to flash back to blue. “I..I..”

“It's ok Hub..” She said softly.

“I..”

She could hear the low hum of engines overheard and the crowds were getting thinner, maybe the French authorities were taking control of the situation. Close by a window smashed, Mei flinched at the sound and Hubs eyes flashed to red, He snapped his head at Mei.

“Hub no !” Mei fell backwards as he launched at her, she scrambled back desperately as he clawed at her legs, his metal digits painfully scratching her, Mei kicked him hard in the face, one of his eyes cracking from the force. She struggled back and attempted to stand but Hub snatched her ankle and pulled her down roughly, the side of her head hitting the pavement as she fell. Mei gasped in pain and instantly felt nauseous and her vision blurred, she was barely aware that she was screaming. She thrashed viciously and felt his grip weaken, using the opportunity to pull herself up more before she smashed the bottle down on his head with all her strength, his grip slackened and finally he let go. Whether she killed him or not she did not know, her mind race and before she knew it she was half running half feeling her way away from the Omnic. “Angela!” She tried to scream, her voice feeling hoarse. “ Angela!”

But she was too disoriented, she had no idea how far she had run and no idea where she was now. She felt people running by, the ringing in her ears adding to the confusion. Someone tried grabbing her wrist and shouted but without her glasses she couldn't tell if it was someone trying to help or harm her, she wrenched her arm free and ran once again but she was feeling more sick by the second, she stumbled on something and she reached to steady herself, feeling cool brick wall beneath her fingertips. Mei involuntarily leant against it and slid to the ground, catching her breath and fighting the urge to vomit. She was sure she heard her name over the distortion in her head, but the world was too blurry to make sense of, her glasses cracked and useless. The throbbing in her head was intense. She tried to sit up but the pain made her feel more nauseous. Over the ringing noise she heard her name being shouted again but maybe she imagined it. Mei blinked trying to focus, something was in her eye, she blinked again, It was wet and red and hot. Mei gave a startled cry, squeezing her eyes shut and tried once again to move, her body feeling like lead, panic bubbling in her stomach and chest growing tight as her mind began to catch up on what was happening. She needed to find Angela. With effort she braced her arm against the wall and attempted to push herself up, ignoring the urge to throw up and the pain pulsing through her skull. Suddenly hands were on her pushing her firmly back down, Mei yelled in alarm and lashed out, her fist connecting hard with whoever was in front her.

“Ow! Fucks sake woman, you wanna be left here?”

Her hair was sticking to the blood on her face as it began to dry. “J-Junkrat?”

“...Gotta keep still ok Mei, dunno how bad you are. Just focus on yer breathing before shock gets to ya alrite?” He gave her arms a reassuring squeeze.

Mei gave a small whimper in reply, trying to touch the bleeding wound on her head. Jamison grabbed her hand and held onto it.

‘Nope, no ya dont wanna touch that ok. Trust me it's not that bad, just a lil nick.’ He reassured her.

Tears now joined the blood streaming down her face as her choked on a sob. “I can't..I can't see”

“Yeaahhhh...ya glasses wanna bit o’ glue i won't lie. But don't worry about that kay? Lets just get you moving.” He reached up to his communicator. “Yeah hi, whoever's listening I found Frosty- I mean Mei! Mei! I found Mei..yeah she's ok, bit of blood. Maybe concussed to fuck...Uh huh..yeah..yeeaah..ok bored now bye!” He reached into one of the leather wallets on his belt and pulled out some gauze. “Sorry this might hurt.” He said, pressing the gauze against the wound.

“Ahh!” Mei squealed in pain.

“Told ya. Keep it pressed on coz we gotta move, Jesus Christ what the fuck happened here?” He crouched next to her, hooking an arm around her as she gingerly placed hers around his shoulders. “Ok on three..three-!” He vaulted her up onto her feet with ease but the sudden movement threatened her stomach and her head felt like it was about to split.

“Ahhhoowww oww owww! Why did you do that?” Mei whined loudly.

“Your up aren't ya? I don't fancy hanging around! Fucking hell you are tiny!”

“Can someone else come get me?” Mei whimpered.

“Ok down you go.” Junkrat replied bluntly as he began to lower her.

“No no no no!” Mei clung on to him in panic, her nails sharply digging into him.

“Yeah that's what I thought...”

#The Chemicals between us #Junkrat #meihem #mei ling zhou #junkmei #Overwatch #fanfic #Im aliiiiive!!

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weartirondad · 4 years

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Chaos, Yet Harmony

Summary: 3 times Peter made Tony watch Star Wars and the 1 time it was Tony's idea.Or: Peter Parker is unapologetically a geek and Tony quickly realizes that there's nothing he wouldn't do for him.

A/N: this is part of the @irondadsecretsanta and is my gift for @aslanscompass. It was a ton of fun & I wish you all a wonderful Christmas <3

Check out all the other AMAZING fics HERE !

FF.net I ao3

Tony was wary when he answered the call at 10 past eleven at night.

He had learned early on that late night calls from teenage vigilantes were never a good sign and that, really, a call at any time from a teenager was a rarity and should always raise a red flag. So, yeah, he was wary but he felt like he was entitled to.

Next to him his fiancée was curled around the dark green plush blanket like a cat and regarded him, staring at the lit up screen of his phone, in amusement. “Don’t yell too much.”

He rolled his eyes and accepted the call, “No promises.”

“Mr. Stark?” came the breathless voice of none other than Peter Parker through the speakers and already he could feel his blood pressure rise and tried to breathe out deliberately slowly.

Calm, Stark, you’re calm.

“The one and only,” he answered and was almost proud of how calm and collected he sounded. Oh how deceiving voices could be.

“Oh!” The kid sounded actually surprised and paused for a second in which Tony could only hear the telling thwip thwip thwip of hectic webbing.

Not the best sign but he was calm. So very calm.

He was also already on the way to the nearest window, two steps from calling a suit. Pepper behind him was now openly laughing but he didn’t look back because –

“Great! I might need a little help here. Something.” Thwip. “Something came up.” Thwip. “Sorta.”

“Sorta?” Calm.

“I mean.” Thwip. “It definitely came up. Yup.” Thwip. “Definitely. How far are you from Queens?” Thwip.

“Three minutes,” he sighed, giving up on the act of sounding completely aloof, half waving to Pepper before turning around, stepping into his suit and jumping out of the window. There went the nice, cozy night he had planned.

“Kid? You still there?”

There was a long moment of no rambling and no thwiping and it was unsettling. If Tony knew that getting late night calls was a bad sign, he was sure as heck that random pauses in late night calls where close to the calling of the apocalypse.

“Huh? Yeah. Just, uh.” Thwip. “Try’na avoid getting hit.”

Jesus.

If anyone was going to test his body’s ability to handle stress it wasn’t his own superhero gig or some spandex wearing traitor, it was a goody-two-shoes kid dressed up as a spider.

“Okay, great. You keep doing that and tell me what’s going on.”

Just keep talking, kid, tell me you’re alive.

Peter started talking and while he sounded a little too excited for his taste he let the familiar sound calm him down. As long as Peter was talking, Tony could convince himself that he didn’t have to panic just yet.

He could already see Spider-Man flipping towards another building when a message from Pepper blinked up on his HUD.

Get home safe. Both of you. I’m heading to bed. Love you.

“That was wild, Mr. Stark! Like, super wild. Super mega wild. Super-duper mega –“

“Wild?” Tony suggested in mock seriousness, setting down on the landing pad and watched Spider-Man land gracefully behind him. The second the kid had solid ground under his feet he ripped off his mask and took in a big gulp of air. His hair was mussed, cheeks red and his usually light brown eyes dark, pupils dilated so much not much of the iris was left to be seen.

Typical signs of an active sympathetic nervous system, his mind supplied unsolicited.

“Steady,” he ordered roughly when a bony shoulder bumped into his arm but there was no real force behind it when he reached out to wrap an arm around him to do the steadying himself. As soon as he had him under control he led them to the kitchen to get one of the nutrition bars he had started keeping in stock for Peter’s mutant metabolism.

“S’rry.” The kid grinned up at him sheepishly, rubbing at the mess of curls on his forehead in a poor attempt to tame them. “What’re we gonna do now?”

He raised an eyebrow in silent amusement. “It’s midnight, buddy. You should probably get to bed sometime soon if you wanna make first period.”

“But –“ Peter looked disoriented for a moment, eyes flying back and forth between the clock and Tony felt for him when his searching gaze fell on him. He looked so hopeful, as if he was lost and Tony his compass and he was so certain that he would lead him back home. The genuine trust in his eyes pierced through him and immediately he felt lacking. Thank goodness that deflection was his second nature.

Shoving two granola bars into Peter’s hand, he took a step back to give himself some space to reorient.

“You’re too excited to sleep?”

There was a vigorous nod that had crumbs falling everywhere.

“Figures,” he sighed, “The aftereffects of adrenaline are never fun.” He watched the teenager devour the second bar in mere seconds, mind whirling with doubt. “Do you want me to stay with you until you are tired enough to go to bed?”

Wide eyes found his and, mouth still full, Peter gave a timid nod, uncertain question marks clear in the twinkle of his eyes and the way he cocked his head to the side slightly.

“Okay, let’s make some tea and put on a movie. What do you wanna watch? Frozen?” He turned around to start rummaging through the kitchen for herbal tea.

That must’ve been enough for Peter to finally swallow his food and get his bearings. “How do you even know about Frozen, Mr. Stark? Are you a fan?” he quipped.

He half-turned, kettle in hand, grinning when Peter plopped down on the couch and immediately tucked himself into the blanket Pepper had neatly folded and stashed on the arm rest before she had gone to sleep. “Have you been outside last year? Show me someone who doesn’t know about Frozen.”

“Fair point,” Peter agreed easily, mind obviously already a step further. “What’s your favorite Star Wars?”

“Uh,” Tony put the kettle on the stove, “I have seen about as many Star Wars movies as I’ve seen Frozen movies.”

“You –“ The way Peter turned must put a painful strain on his neck but he looked too scandalized to notice. “What?”

The kettle whistled and he put in two bags of Pepper’s herbal tea before replying, “I have never watched Star Wars.”

“Oh my –“ For the second time that evening Peter looked utterly confused which, for a kid that smart, was especially amusing. “What rock have you been living under? I thought everyone knew Star Wars. Especially old people.”

“Hey!” He admonished but had to admit that it lost much of its brunt when he put down two steaming glasses of tea and started tugging at the blanket to cover Peter’s foot fully. “Be nice to me.”

“I’m being super nice, Mr. Stark. ‘Cause I’m gonna introduce you to a galaxy far, far away. The best galaxy.”

Tony watched in amusement as Peter ordered F.R.I.D.A.Y. to put on Episode IV and then looked eagerly back at him. “You’re gonna love it.”

“This is supposed to make you tired, squirt,” he reminded him, tapping his knee gently.

“It will,” he promised, “Star Wars always calms me down.”

The way he said it made Tony pause, made his heart ache with the harsh reality this kid had had to face and how bright he still was despite of it. Instead of an answer he pushed the glass of tea into his hands and made sure he was all tucked in before starting the movie.

Surprisingly enough Peter wasn’t lying. Halfway through the movie his breathing had evened out so much that Tony thought he was already asleep, cheek mushed into one of the big pillows, curled in on himself.

When the movie was over he stirred, slurring “G’nna watch the rest t’morrow?”

“Maybe let’s split it up a little, whataya say?” He reached out to brush some of his curls from his forehead, surprised by the gentleness of the gesture. “But we can watch them together if you want to.”

“Promise?”

“Pinky promise, kiddo.”

ii.

With Peter it wasn’t exactly hard to notice when something was off.

Even Tony, who admittedly was often too caught up in his own world to be fine-tuned into other people’s feelings and was much more comfortable fixing a cranky robot than moody human, could see it from a mile away. Or maybe that was a new kind of sense that began and ended with Peter Parker’s wellbeing. Oh well, he tried not to dwell on that.

The thing about Peter was that, when he was fine, his entire being radiated contentment, his voice tripped with excitement and his eyes shone with laughter. On a good day he was the picture perfect golden retriever puppy and similarly receptive to hugs and hair ruffles.

Today, though, his usual exuberance had visibly deflated and when he came to the workshop he punched in his code and then continued to scuff towards his workstation with only a passing hello. That was not the Peter Tony knew and, frankly, it was worrying to see someone normally so eager and lively so … lacking of life for lack of a better word.

The thing about Tony was that he was, by his own standing, probably the least equipped to deal with someone having a bad day. Heck, his own bad days usually ended in working through every meal, chugging coffee by the gallon and seeing no sun light for hours on end and even he knew that wasn’t healthy.

So he kept quiet at first and let Peter work in hopes of it calming him down because what did he know about healthily dealing with teenage angst on a Wednesday?

He kept a close eye on him, though, because for how much Tony didn’t think he was equipped to handle Peter’s bad days he also wanted to chase the shadows from his face and the hardness from his stance however cliché that sounded.

He wanted to help, he did. He just didn’t know how. So he watched from afar and contemplated.

When Peter dropped the screw driver a third time and was getting more and more agitated with the web shooter he was working on, Tony decided to stage an intervention ‘cause what the heck. He hated seeing the kid so down.

Rolling his chair over to the teenager’s work bench he picked up the tool before Peter could. “You wanna tell me what’s up, squirt?”

Peter glared, which was about as intimidating as a golden retriever puppy glaring, “Nothing,” and reached for the screw driver. Which Tony pulled out of reach at the last moment. Which made him look even more like a puppy. It was all in the big brown eyes, he decided then.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I have a secret identity.”

“Which I found out about in like a day.” He leaned back with a grin and started throwing the screwdriver in the air and effortlessly catching it.

“You’re Tony Stark,” the kid gave back with an eye roll, catching the tool before Tony had the chance to. “But I’m fine, honestly.”

“I mean,” he crossed his arms and watched him turn back to his web shooter rather listlessly, “considering that you not being fine usually means you’re bleeding out in an alleyway I’m not entirely reassured.”

“I’ve never bled out in an alleyway.”

“Yeah, because I flew in to get you before you could.”

“Why do you even care?” Peter snapped at him, a flicker of teenage annoyance dancing in his eyes before vanishing in the time it took Tony to ponder the fact that even this seemingly perfect kid could be annoyed. Finally. “Sorry,” he sighed, proving yet again how much better he was than literally anyone else, “I’m just annoyed.”

If that wasn’t a break-through, than he didn’t know what was. Silently patting himself on the back, Tony reached out to turn Peter’s chair so he was facing him and gently took the screw driver from his hands, putting him down on the work bench before giving the kid his full intention.

“What are you annoyed about?”

He shrugged indifferently, not meeting his eyes, “I don’t know. I just... Ned and I got into an argument and he was being so… so stubborn about it. Like, it wasn’t even that bad but he just wouldn’t budge.”

“Oh no, a stubborn teenager. Someone call the zoo we’ve found an endangered species,” he deadpanned.

Peter glared again but Tony could also see him bite down on his lower lip to keep it from curling upwards.

“Sorry, sorry. What did you and Ned fight about?”

“It wasn’t a fight… not really,” he corrected, “And it was dumb. Like, really ridiculous to be so annoyed about it. It’s not… it’s just stupid.”

Cocking his head to the side ever so slightly he raised an eyebrow and repeated calmly, “What did you argue about? I mean, if you don’t wanna talk about it that’s fine but if it’s got you so up in arms about it maybe you should is all I’m saying.”

“You’re gonna think it’s stupid,” Peter pouted.

“Maybe,” Tony shrugged, “But it’s still okay to be angry about something stupid sometimes. You don’t wanna know about half the things Rhodey and I fought about back in the days. Still do, actually.”

“Now I kinda do,” Peter grinned, then paused. “We argued about the Jedi code.”

“You… argued about the Jedi code,” Tony repeated dumbly, “Like… The Star Wars guys running around in wardrobes? They have a code?”

Big brown eyes flew up to meet his, full of indignation “Of course they have a code! There’s actually a couple different versions of it which is what we were arguing about because he said –,“ Peter stopped speaking midsentence, mouth slamming shut audibly. “It doesn’t matter… You don’t… you don’t have to listen to this, honestly, Mr. Stark.”

He made sure to school his expression and started speaking deliberately slowly, “Peter. I know I don’t have to listen to this. And, as you’ve pointed out before I am Tony Stark and you know I rarely do anything I don’t want to but, kid, you gotta know at this point that I like having you around and I like talking to you. That doesn’t just hold true when you’re your usual bubbly self but also, and especially when you’re not. This is clearly important to you. And if it’s important to you, I’m interested.”

He waited until Peter gave him a nod of understanding, timid as it may be, and leaned back in his chair again, “So tell me about this discourse in the Star Wars fandom.”

The kid didn’t have to be told twice and Tony felt his soul settle when he watched him perk up and dive into what must’ve obviously been weighing him down.

“Okay, so the Jedi code most commonly used goes like: There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge etcetera which, you know, it’s mostly meant to be used as a mantra for meditation to, like, get to a place where you don’t let your emotions overtake you and stuff. And I get that, I do.”

When Tony gave an earnest nod to show he was listening, Peter continued. “But it wasn’t always like that. It used to be: Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge, and so on. And I like that one better because it acknowledges the fact that Jedi do have emotions like everyone else, too, right? I think that’s important! And this whole black-and-white view of ‘There’s no emotion whatsoever’ makes me so mad!”

He was gesticulating wildly, cheeks reddening with fervor as he spoke.

“Putting aside how hypocritical the whole thing sounds, you can’t make people think that having emotions will put them on a direct path to the Dark side when so much of the goodness of the Good side comes from how much they care. It’s all about controlling those emotions enough to not make bad decisions based on them but – Why can’t there be peace with emotion? By giving their Padawans the feeling that they’re in the wrong for being… well, for being people they just make it so much easier for them to fall to the Dark side!”

“It just – it makes me mad how black-and-white they want to make the world seem. And by doing that they start lying to themselves and to their students and what good does a code do when it’s impossible to hold yourself to it? You can’t just go around telling people there’s no Death but the Force when that is, objectively, a lie. Whereas Death, yet the Force acknowledges that people die but gives you the closure of knowing where you’ll find them again and the belief that they’re still with you, somehow. I think … I think that’s beautiful.” Once he was done he slumped together on his chair.

“Feeling better now?” Tony asked, reaching out to pat the top of his head.

“Yeah, a little,” he sighed, “I’m annoyed that we even argued about it but I also don’t like how he wouldn’t even listen to my point of view, ya know?”

“Well, did you listen to his side?”

“I mean,” Peter blinked up at him sheepishly, “Kinda?” The corners of his lips tugged upwards and he gave a shrug, “Maybe not as much as I should have,” he admitted with a sigh. They fell silent for a moment, Tony giving Peter the time to work through the wall his mind had built up.

“Guess I’m gonna text him an apology for not listening and that it’s okay that we have different opinions.”

“Atta boy!” Tony grinned at him and while he knew none of Peter’s maturity was his doing, his heart still swelled with pride of how good Peter was.

“Can we watch Star Wars now?”

“You got your homework done?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

“Hungry?”

He laughed, exasperated, “Nothing some popcorn couldn’t fix.”

Tony smiled, then sobered and gave him a once over. “You okay?”

Peter nodded, a lone strand of curl bobbing back and forth, smile soft and true. “Yeah.”

Well, that settled it. He clapped his hands once and got up from his chair in a swift motion. “Then let’s watch... What comes after Episode six?”

“Episode one!” Peter jumped up, grabbing his wrist like a child pulling their parent towards a candy store, “You’ll finally meet Anakin. And honestly that’s exactly my point! Maybe if they hadn’t told him that all emotion is bad –“

He let himself be dragged upstairs and listened to him rambling over the Jedi code and he realized, in that instant, that he was truly, irrevocably happy.

iii.

“I cannot believe I let you put me into this,” he complained, his voice breathy and rough.

Peter pulled on his white robe and fastened his light saber in its holder for the umpteenth time. “To be fair, you were the one who wanted a mask. I wanted you to go as Obi Wan.”

“He is blond, Peter,” he shot back like he had the last hundred times they’d had this conversation. He looked around through the dark lenses of his mask, the HUD he had installed blinking up to scour the crowd for possible threads, and sighed, “I miss the days where I was oblivious to Star Wars and didn’t have an annoying teenager dragging me to these things.”

“No, you don’t.”

He was glad the mask hid his smile at the easy banter. It was bad enough Peter knew exactly how wrapped around his little finger he was, he didn’t have to show it time and time again.

“Okay, I don’t. But you still owe me one.”

“But Mr. Sta-a-ark,” he said, dragging his last name for at least two more syllables than it had and looking as pitiful as if he’d actually just lost his hand, “I’m already being punished enough. We’re going to MOMA next semester.”

Despite himself, Tony could feel the fondness shine through as he chuckled, “Excuse me, are you actually voicing dislike in something? Are you actually my Peter Parker or have you officially become a rebel now?”

The kid giggled, honest to god giggled, and shrugged, “Guess there’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Mr. Stark. I do dislike things!”

“Really? Name three.” He raised an unimpressed eyebrow, leveling Peter with a glare before realizing that the gesture was completely lost in his costume. Not even the tone translated. He really needed to figure something out for that next time. He couldn’t have his natural charm get lost in the Dark side.

The thought made him stop dead in his tracks – thankfully still unseen by the Jedi next to him. Next time? He hated this costume with a passion why would he consider wearing it again?

Unbeknownst to the inner whirlwind that were his thoughts, Peter actually answered his question after floundering for a bit.

“Well, I don’t like bad people. And hurricanes. And MOMA. Even though, MOMA really never did anything to me, I’d just rather go somewhere else y’know. I mean, it’ll probably be kinda nice anyway? So yeah, maybe I don’t not like MOMA. But – I still don’t like, uh, racists?”

Ah, yeah, that was why he was actually thinking about a next time in this ridiculous outfit. Because of Peter freaking Parker.

“Those are all very good things to dislike, Mr. Parker, but I was actually hoping that all people with a little decency and common sense disliked those things,” he teased. “Just admit that you do not have a single mean bone in your body and that it’s physically impossible for you to dislike anything.”

“That’s not –“

“I love your cosplay, man!” some guy in a badly made Yoda costume whose ears were precariously close to falling off the side of his head and were only held in place by a few strands of grey fuzz interrupted him and the disturbance would have annoyed Tony had Peter’s face not started positively lighting up at the compliment.

“Thank you!” he replied easily with a face splitting grin, “I love yours, too. What’d you use to make the ears?”

“Just papier-mâché”, Yoda replied, obviously taken aback by the interest in his own costume by someone with an obviously home-made light saber. He seemed excited, though, and started rambling about something until he let his eyes wander to the side and took in Tony’s appearance for the first time.

“Oh my god,” he gasped, yes, gasped, and gaped at him like a fish pulled out of water, “That is the best father and son costume ever! Can I take a picture of the two of you?”

And before Tony could so much as utter a word, Peter had already nodded his consent and leaned against him with a huge grin on his face and the other kid was fumbling for his phone and started snapping pictures of them. And then a selfie, because of course.

“Is this real life?” he breathed out almost silently.

“It might just be fantasy,” his sassy AI replied instantly, earning him another gasp and round of big, wide eyes from Yoda.

“Did your mask just reply to you? And did the eyes light up? How did you do that?”

“It’s just a, uh,” very high-tech AI system that was talking back to him, “it’s like Google glasses.” He cringed internally and could feel more than see Peter snicker against his side.

“Oh, like the ones Tony Stark always wears?”

By now Peter was having to work so hard on holding back his laughter that he had gone almost rigid, grinning from ear to ear and happily answering for him. “Yes, yes, Tony Stark is totally wearing Google glasses.”

“Ah, well, I think yours are cooler anyway. I mean you’d never find Tony Stark at the Star Wars midnight premiere.”

Oh, don’t I wish, he thought, ruefully imagining how comfortable he could be on his own couch right now.

Peter, though, Peter was loving this which made him reconsider his earlier statement about the mean bones in his body.

“Yeah, you’re way cooler than Tony Stark. Right, dad?”

Oh for goodness sake. That sassy dad should not do the things to his heart that it was currently doing. That could not be healthy.

“Sure,” he cleared his throat to get rid of the pesky emotions in there, “I mean, Tony Stark is a pretty cool guy but, uh, yeah, so much cooler.”

And, as if someone had heard his prayers, the doors to the movie theater were opened and a reverent murmur went through the crowd before people – droids and aliens, Jedi and Sith alike – started wandering in and taking their places and finally, finally the thing they were actually here to see could begin.

Tony would complain about that day to anyone who would listen (and to some, like Pepper, who wouldn’t) but when Peter sent him one of the pictures the Yoda guy had taken, he framed it and put it up next to the picture of him and Rhodey proudly presenting Dum-E in his lab.

Until, of course, when he broke it in a moment of uncontrollable grief because looking at all he used to have just hurt too dang much.

iv.

“You coming, kiddo?”

The voice came out of nowhere, startling him so much he almost toppled over the front porch’s wooden railing he was leaning against.

“Wha-“ he whirled around and his heart simultaneously sang and sank, “Oh, it’s just you.”

“Yeah, just me. Sorry to disappoint.” The quip fell from his lips easily but his mentor’s dark eyes shone with concern. Somehow that made the lump in his stomach grow even heavier.

“That’s not – I mean, uh, I’m not –“ he stumbled over his words, cringing at how high-pitched his voice sounded even to his own ears, “Sorry. I’m –“

He stopped midsentence when he realized that he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say and just shrugged, coupled with a small smile that was definitely fake and evidently did not convince Mr. Stark of anything.

He was still coming closer, slowly and careful of the shiny prosthetic that sat where his arm used to be.

The image made Peter sick and he tried to focus on his face instead. There were a few more wrinkles than he remembered, especially around his eyes and mouth – from laughing no doubt. He was sporting more grey hair, too, and he looked comfortable in his dark blue cardigan where he used to wear suits or band shirts. He looked exactly like someone who lived happily in a lake house.

“You okay, squirt?”

He snapped out of his spiraling thoughts and, on reflex, started nodding.

“See,” he stopped when he was next to him and leaned against the railing, too, facing Peter who turned to face the small boat that was moving ever so slightly with the lake’s small ripples. “I don’t believe you.”

Huh.

“You’re not okay.” It was a statement, leaving no room for him to argue.

“But –“ He was cut off and a part of him was glad for it because what was he going to say anyway? He was a bad liar and Mr. Stark good at reading him. That, at least, was something that hadn’t changed.

“None of us are really okay and that’s okay,” Mr. Stark said and turned to watch the lake now, too. “Or so I’ve been told repeatedly. But, as I’ve also been reliably informed, we have to talk to each other to get better.”

He shrugged and crossed his arms in front of his chest, tugging both hands under his arm-pits to keep them from shaking.

“No talking, I take it?”

He shrugged again.

“Would you let me hug you?”

His head snapped up instantly. The question came as a surprise but sounded honest and hesitant and attentive and it made his head spin. But, when he took a moment to think about it, he ended up nodding. He didn’t think there was a whole lot he would refuse the man for a while.

Almost immediately he was being wrapped into a strong healthy arm and pulled close until Mr. Stark could bury his face in his hair and take in a deep breath. He couldn’t help but notice how heavily his mentor was leaning against the railing while holding him but he also noticed how his entire body seemed to loosen as the hug went on, how tension and worry slowly sept out of his stance.

Peter noticed the same for himself, too, and somehow that made him want to cry.

The arm around him was steady and it held him together when everything had seemed to fall apart and his head was spinning and he felt his eyes tear up and his heart beat speed up and he suddenly wished that he could stay here forever.

Which was ridiculous. Mr. Stark just wanted to give him a quick hug and go on with his day. He couldn’t know how liberating his touch felt, how cared for and valued and loved Peter felt just by being in his arms and he couldn’t just tell him. He couldn’t –

But it felt so nice.

“Hey, hey, bud,” Mr. Stark sounded worried and it felt like he wanted to pull away and Peter’s breaths started coming in quicker at the thought. There was a sound somewhere in the back of his throat and Mr. Stark stopped pulling away but still loosened his grip.

“It’s okay, kiddo,” he shushed him and Peter had to swallow down a sob because this was getting ridiculous but it felt so nice, “It’s gonna be okay, I promise. It’s gonna be okay.”

After a moment he had caught himself enough to not start breaking down and gave a nod. “I’m –“ he sniffed and whispered, “Thank … Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

For a moment it seemed like his mentor wasn’t going to say anything but then he gave a small smile and pulled him into his side instead. “Anytime, kiddo. Now let’s watch Rogue One. The Force is telling me it’s time for a high stakes-tragedy-comfort movie.”

Despite himself, Peter let out a wet giggle. “There’s never a wrong time for Star Wars, Mr. Stark.”

“I know, I know. It’s tradition. Or so you keep telling me,” he said and the fondness in his voice almost made Peter cry again.

He didn’t, though.

They went back into the empty lake house – May, Pepper and Morgan were having a girls day apparently – made themselves comfortable on the big couch and put on the movie as if they had never done anything else. They moved like a well-oiled machine, like a team that had been working together forever.

Peter was curled into Mr. Stark’s side and his thumb was constantly caressing his knee and it felt wonderful. It felt like home.

The lump in his throat never left.

Somehow it kept growing with every passing minute and with it the loneliness and while he felt right at home it also felt like he shouldn’t. His body felt out of place, as if all the pieces of him had never truly reintegrated, leaving him with holes in his being that he wasn’t sure how to fill.

He watched Chirrut Îmwe blindly walk across battlefields and single-handedly eliminate an entire garrison, trusting the Force to keep him safe and the blazing desire for that kind of certainty hit him unaware.

Maybe that was the whole problem, he realized slowly, as he watched Galen’s message to his daughter and that was when the first tear fell, silent and painful.

Ever since he had come back barely anything had seemed certain anymore. There had been things he had believed to be unchangeable but then a mad Titan had snapped his fingers and his beliefs had turned into dust alongside his body and half the universe and then he had come back and everything had been different and even things that appeared to be the same just weren’t.

May had been gone, too. They still loved each other the same way they always had. Unconditionally. Unquestioningly. Easy. She never had to miss him, never faced a world without him in it. She was the only constant he could claim but everything else –

He couldn’t understand how it had been five years and Mr. Stark had a wife and a kid and a lake house and how he could have still missed him with all that. How he could’ve even had the time. Why would he miss Peter of all people? And, and…

Mr. Stark’s affection was different now. Fiercer, gentler, more… more parental. Or maybe it wasn’t different but he was more open with it. He looked at him the way he looked at Morgan and he couldn’t make sense of that. He couldn’t.

Why would anyone miss me?

He kept circling back to the same question.

Whywhywhywhy- Why me?

He didn’t notice he started full on crying until suddenly the screen in front of him was blurry and his cheeks were wet and his breaths came in rough. He tried to breathe through it, to keep his body calm and steady so Mr. Stark wouldn’t notice but it made his lungs feel like they were on fire trying to keep it all in.

As if he had read his thoughts Mr. Stark’s hand moved up from where it had been resting on his knee and started rubbing slow circles into his scalp. He didn’t move otherwise, made no attempt to pull away and when he spoke his voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Did he? He knew if he started talking, he’d start spiraling and he’d lose the last ounce of self-control he was clinging to. He didn’t want that.

He shook his head, but his body started shaking more violently anyway when he couldn’t breathe through the sobs anymore.

“Shh, that’s okay, buddy, that’s fine,” Mr. Stark murmured, “But stop trying to bite down on your tears. I know how much that hurts. It’s okay. Let it out. I’m here.”

He kept talking – quietly, soothingly, calmly – and at some point Peter’s body decided to listen and he stopped trying to keep quiet and when the first sob broke through his lips he buried his head in Mr. Stark’s stomach and let himself cry.

It hurt and more often than not Mr. Stark had to remind him to slow down his breathing so the oxygen could reach his brain and it didn’t seem to ever stop. But it was also freeing.

Every sob that tore through him gave voice to a pain he had buried inside like needles in his soul that he was pulling out one after the other. For the first time since he had come back he felt like he could breathe again.

His lungs were finally uncurling fully, the weight that had been sitting on his ribcage was gone. He could breathe and at first he gulped in the air like someone pulled from certain death through drowning. He felt like he had been suffocating for weeks and this was the first time someone had pulled his head above water again.

“Slowly, squirt, slowly. Breathe nice and slowly, the air’s not going anywhere, I promise.”

And if Mr. Stark promised to keep his head above water it must be right. After all, Mr. Stark always kept his promises.

They didn’t exchange anything other than those small reassurances and soothings until the end of the movie. And Peter shed a few tears when the inevitable happened but he was tired and cried out and so emotionally drained he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to feel again.

Still, when Princess Leia appeared on the screen he felt the same flutter of hope in his chest that he always felt when he watched it and his soul settled.

“Hope,” she said on screen and the single syllable word echoed through his body, spreading like a bonfire and melting places that had been numb for days.

Everything was going to be okay.

When the credits started rolling, that’s when Mr. Stark started talking again starting with a cough to clear his throat that sounded like he had been crying, too.

“I know you may not want to talk about it, Pete, but I feel like we should.” He sighed and he sounded sad and strong at the same time. More importantly, though, he never stopped running his fingers through his hair. “You may not have heard but I’m a responsible adult now. Someone who makes kids talk about their problems.”

Peter snorted and Mr. Stark gave a chuckle.

“Granted, Morgan’s tears are usually about whether or not we’re letting her have that second juice pop but we do talk about that.”

“You give her the juice pop, don’t you?” His voice was scratchy but Mr. Stark didn’t comment on that. He laughed quietly.

“It depends, honestly. On whether or not Pepper is around when the tantrum starts.”

“You’re a great dad to her,” he whispered in reply and if he had thought he had calmed down just half a minute earlier then his heart felt like splitting open again now. He couldn’t put the finger on it, didn’t want to admit to himself that it was jealousy of the time they had that he would never get. He hated himself for thinking about it. If anyone deserved a family it was Mr. Stark and Morgan was the sweetest child. It was just –

Morgan belonged with her family, she was a Stark through and through – stubbornness and smarts and all. And Mr. Stark belonged with Pepper and his daughter, too. He knew that. He wanted that for them.

He just – he had thought that he had kind of belonged with Mr. Stark, too, but how could he now that he had been gone for five years? How could he ever belong anywhere ever again?

“As they say; practice makes perfect,” Mr. Stark spoke, completely oblivious to Peter’s thoughts, “Guess it gets easier the second time around.”

For a moment he forgot to spiral into self-doubt and angst and stopped. A Second… Second time? Huh?

As if he sensed the wordless question, his mentor pulled him closer and buried his face in his hair again. It seemed to soothe him as much as it calmed Peter. He seemed comfortable this close. Happy, at home.

“See, squirt, I know that I didn’t raise you. I would never take that honor and privilege from May and your Uncle Ben and your parents. They made you in the person you were when I met you and that person was already better than anything I could have ever hoped to achieve. But then,” he paused as if unsure how to continue, “We did meet and I did get the honor of being in your life, of mentoring you, of caring for you. I made a lot of mistakes at first and – My biggest mistake was trying to keep you at arm’s length.”

“I don’t – I don’t understand,” Peter whispered, pushing himself up far enough to meet his mentor’s eyes that were glistening with unshed tears. His gaze softened even more when he saw his own tear stained cheeks and red rimmed eyes and there was a shadow of anguish and a spark of love in them.

“I know,” he sighed, never breaking eye contact but shifting them into a more comfortable position, “You can’t understand because I never told you. Not really. But, Peter, you have to know, that you’re my kid. You are as much my kid as Morgan is. You made me want to be a dad, made me want to prove that I could because I wanted to be one to you and I didn’t want to fail you. And –“ he stopped and a shudder went through his body, “And then I did. I failed you and I – I never forgave myself for that. And I never stopped missing you. God, I missed you so much, Pete.”

But … “Why would you… Why me?”

“Because, Peter. Because you’re my boy and I love you and the world was so much darker without you in it and because every awful moment would’ve been less awful with you and every good moment would’ve been perfect. I – I kept going, I went on because I had to. Because there were Pepper and Rhodey and then Morgan. I had to keep going but that doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you every single second of every single day.”

“I’m scared that I don’t belong anymore. That I don’t belong anywhere anymore,” he admitted finally. The shameful confession uttered so quietly that the words almost got lost in his mentor’s heavy breaths on his cheeks.

“Oh,” Mr. Stark looked at him stunned, like he had grown a second head for a good moment before leaning forward and pulling him back in, holding him tighter than he had ever held him. Both arms folding across his back with the prosthetic cutting into his skin but it didn’t matter, it didn’t. Because he felt held together in place, in a place where he belonged and where he was wanted. He was being anchored and kept from drifting off into the infinite vastness of space and he was so incredibly grateful.

“You belong here, kiddo,” he took in the fierce words in his ear, let them run down his back and warm him like a hot shower after a cold day. “You belong with me and you belong with May. You belong in Queens and you belong here, in this lake house that has been planned with your bedroom in mind. You belong with your family and, for as long as you let me, I will never let you go ever again.”

He cried some more after that – cried himself to sleep that night in fact – but Mr. Stark was there the whole time, holding him, whispering reassurances and tickling a wet smile out of him eventually. The next day was a little bit better. The self- doubt didn’t evaporate, didn’t leave right away.

Some days were worse than others, some were better. Some the voices in his head had him going mad with why’s and what-if’s and some days he couldn’t even hear them over Morgan’s giggles and May’s bad jokes and Mr. Stark lecturing Dum-E.

Coming back wasn’t easy by any means and it did take a while but a couple of weeks later, he jumped out of Happy’s new SUV, running up to the front porch and flying into Mr. Stark’s waiting arms, and his thoughts hummed happily with only one thought.

I’m home.

#irondadsecretsanta #irondad #iron dad #irondad fic #peter parker #tony stark #star wars #josis fic #chaos yet harmony #merry christmas!!

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sprnklersplashes · 4 years

Text

heart of stone (6/?)

AO3

Janis ditches the tights and jean shorts by Wednesday. There’s a slight look of ‘I told you so’ on her mother’s face, but she spares Janis the lecture out of politeness. Janis never thought she’d miss them, but here she is.

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she scribbles another flower on the page, a twin for the one next to it. Not an exact twin, it’s thinner and its petals are more spiked and sharp than the one she drew before it. It’s less inviting, more dangerous. Angry, even. Like if she picked it up she’d cut her finger on it. She hadn’t intended for it to happen; in fact, she’d set out to doodle some pretty little flowers in an attempt to brighten up her sketchbook. But the pencil, as it often does, did what it wanted. She turns it on the side, trying to find a way to like it. It’s not bad work, not her best but certainly not her worst. Maybe she could like it if she had drawn it earlier, but she had really been hoping to get something nice into her book today.

With a sigh, she sets the book on her lap and swings her body around so that her feet dangle over the edge of her bed. Her next round of chemo isn’t due for a few hours, a long stretch of time to attempt to fill with activity. While she’s only been in the hospital for two full days, she’s decided that the worst part is the waiting around for the next thing to happen. Granted, much of that can be put on her as she’s spent more time in her room than she has anywhere else, distracting herself with TV and art and her parents and texting her friends every chance she can get. It all comes together and forms some kind of routine for her, one that’s built with as much familiarity and comfort as possible woven through it. The only downside to it is that the room’s been getting progressively smaller since two days ago and it wasn’t long before it started choking her.

She left the door slightly open and peers into the hallway, the brightness of the walls striking against the cool tones of her room. She can hear the faint sounds of half-conversations that overlap with each other; nurses gossiping with each other while fiddling with IVs, the inhabitants of the longue talking and laughing about who knows what, doctors prescribing new rounds of medicine. The ward is much more alive than she had Janis ever thought it could be, a constant hum in the background of the day to day life keeps the place awake.

She taps her nails on the cover of her book, her swinging legs gaining momentum as she debates following the pull in her chest, compelling her to maybe leave her room for more than five minutes at a time and follow the sounds of conversation. Maybe talk to people who aren’t her medical team or her parents. Make some friends, because as everyone knows, cancer wards are prime social hotspots. She may not be here forever, but she’ll be here long enough to justify getting comfortable.

What’s the worst that can happen, logic had asked her that first night.

Literally so freaking much, she responded. Friends aren’t exactly her strong suit. Regina was a mistake, Damian was luck, and Cady was a gift. She could indulge her inner loser and tell herself it’s because she’s special and tailor made to a few specific people, but the thought of that makes her roll her eyes. So she faces up to the truth and all it entails; that she’s merely been unlucky in the friendship department, something that can be boiled down to one terrible experience and everything that came after it and lingers long after the smoke has cleared.

You’re being ridiculous she tells herself. If there’s a Regina George clone here, she’ll be thoroughly impressed. So she pulls her boots on and pushes herself off the bed, quickly explaining to her mom that she’s going to hang out in the longue for a bit.

“You need me to come with you?”

“I’m fine,” she says, a small smile on her face as she pulls on a cardigan. She nods at the intense competitive cooking show her mom has on the TV. “Tell me who wins. And don’t leave out any details.”

“Well we both know it’s not going to be Leticia judging by the look of that beef,” she says seriously. Janis clicks her tongue before turning and heading down, her steps smaller than normal and her sketchbook held against her chest like a shield. Her stomach twists uneasily, not from the chemo or anything like that, just from good old-fashioned anxiety. In an odd way, it’s a relief to feel ill in that way.

When she pushes herself past the open doors, all eyes turn to her and only look away to talk with other people. It’s far more populated than the last time she was here, people sitting in groups of two and three, most in pyjamas and some with hats. But all of them in groups, belonging with each other. Is this how Cady felt all those months ago, when she and Damian spotted her heading to the bathroom? Maybe her girlfriend had the right idea that day. A bathroom stall is a way better alternative to a room full of strangers.

Unfortunately, she knows better by now, and so she settles in an armchair as gracefully as she can, her legs tucked beneath her, and tries to shake off the discomfort she feels by opening her book and giving her hands something to do.

“You’re new,” a girl sitting on the floor states. She’s one of the few that actually has hair, dark brown and curly, and it makes Janis feel a little more at ease. Is that bad, she has to ask.

“Third day,” she explains, offering her a small wave. “I’m Janis.”

“Melissa,” she says. She leans back on her arms and exposes a little bandage inside her elbow. Janis pulls her own arm a little closer. Melissa doesn’t seem to notice, instead gesturing to her with her chin.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, this?” she asks, her cheeks growing warm. “Oh, just some drawings I do.”

“Cool,” she says. “So you do art?”

“Sometimes it’s like the art does me," she says dryly, earning a chuckle. “But you know how it is.”

“My best friend says that all the time,” Melissa sighs. “She says she wants to go to art college but I’ve watched her cry over trying to hand in assignments.”

“You sound like my mom,” Janis replies. “Literally every time I bring up doing art in college she tells me how stressful it is.” She shrugs lightly. “She’s not wrong, but it’s the only thing I want to do.”

“Is your mom here?”

“Yeah, she’s back in my room,” she explains. “I left her watching some cooking show on TV.”

“Wow, and you’ve only just here. I’ve been here for a month and I only just got my mom to let me out of her sight,” she sighs, a resigned smile on her face and her eyebrow raised in a silent ‘you know how it is’. “Want to play some Scrabble? We’ve started keeping a scoreboard so we can add you in. We have a whole tournament going.”

“Sounds fun,” Janis says, pushing herself off the chair. “Although I should give you warning, I’m dyslexic, so I kind of suck at it.”

Janis follows her across the longue, slipping her hand into her pocket when she thinks she sees the other girl reach out to her. There’s a pang of guilt in Janis’ chest even though Melissa doesn’t seem to care, and she does her best to work through it. She exchanges names and smiles with other kids, all introduced by Melissa. It’s an odd feeling; she’s not used to being the one who’s introduced. She’s either known people so long she doesn’t need to or she’s the one making the introduction, but today her mouth feels dry and her tongue tied so much that all she can do is say ‘hi’ and try to keep up with the rest of the little group. But despite this, and despite the fact that she does supremely suck at Scrabble, they aren’t half bad. They welcome her in with no problem at all, asking her about school and life and art as they set up tiles and she knows the right questions to ask them. She laughs at their jokes and nods along to the conversation, even adding in her own take now and again as it builds into a steady flow.

It’s not entirely perfect; she can’t help but feel slightly on the outside when they bring up a nurse or a patient she doesn’t know and she’s much more quiet than she’s used to being, unsure which, if any, topics are off-limits, where the lines are. But she’s enjoying herself enough to drown out her earlier worries even if it can’t make them fade entirely, and her mood only picks up when she hears someone behind her say (squeal) her name, followed a flash of pink and rainbow appearing in her vision. How times change when a pink sweater can make her smile instead of grimace.

“Maddie!” The younger girl leans into her side, eyes bright and sparkling, and Janis puts an arm around her shoulders. “Hey kid, where have you been?”

“Where have you been more like,” she replies. “I haven’t seen you since Monday.”

“Been busy,” she says. No one presses, likely because they all understand. They’ve all been where she is before. “And now I’m busy losing at Scrabble. Badly.” Maddie chuckles and when her arms wrap around Janis and chin rests on her shoulder, she can’t say no to it. There’s nothing uncomfortable about such a gesture and it almost feels as natural as hugging Damian or when Karen rests her head on her shoulder, despite her only knowing the girl for two days.

“Oh hey, did they tell you about the photography thing yet?” she asks.

“That what now?”

“Oh it’s this thing the cancer centre started,” Melissa explains. “Basically they want us to take pictures of stuff that matters to us. Us doing hobbies, us with our friends, the whole shebang. It’s meant to be about our cancer not defining us or whatever.” She gives a casual shrug. “It’s fun anyway. You should do it. Especially since you have your art thing.”

“Sounds like fun,” she says before poking Maddie in the ribs. “Now come on, kid. Help me make a word out of these.”

And maybe it’s Maddie’s presence or just time passing, but Janis suddenly finds herself a lot less anxious. She even gets to the point where she trades playful insults with another kid, a boy around her age, and form a team up of sorts against him with one of the other girls. They can’t replace her real friends and she wouldn’t try to, the bonds she’s formed with Damian and Cady are too important and were put through too much to be replicated, but she suspects that they could quickly become new friends.

What’s more, treatments and diagnosis come in and out of the conversation with unexpected ease, and when Janis talks about her own, it’s the same. She hadn’t realised how much of this she’d held back, even in her texts and calls with Damian and talks with her mom. And while she feels bad for it, it also feels so, so good to talk to people like this. People who aren’t her parents or her doctors. People who are, well… like her.

And as it turns out, her next round is scheduled the same time as Melissa’s, and so they head down the hallway together. While Melissa continues to make conversation, Janis’ responses dwindle the closer she gets to her room. It doesn’t take long for the good feeling from the longue to fade, and the image of the needle in her vein becomes sharper in her mind.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Janis asks suddenly.

“Sure.”

“Does it…” She swallows past the lump in her throat. She finds a loose thread on her cardigan and toys with it until the question comes out. “Does it ever get easier? All this?”

“Well…” Melissa stops in their tracks and Janis almost trips as she does the same, immediately regretting asking. The other girl bites her lip, searching for the right answer. It feels like hours before she says “I don’t really know. I can’t speak for you. We’re all different here.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I mean… I guess you get used to it. So it starts getting less scary, I guess.”

Janis only nods and then Melissa reaches out and taps her arm.

“It doesn’t stop sucking,” she sighs. “You just get used to it sucking.”

“And then we all bond over it sucking?” she asks, smirking.

“You get it,” she replies with a laugh. “See you later, Janis.”

“Bye.”

After Melissa leaves, she lingers in the hallway for a minute, pressing her finger into the spot where her IV goes. The problem is exactly what Melissa said-you get used to it. And she really, really doesn’t want to get used to it. Getting used it to means that she’ll be here for a while, that something else replaces her old life. Especially now, after the year she had last year, she wants to get used to good stuff, not stuff that ‘sucks’. The idea of this, medicines and hospitals and doctors, becoming normal to her sends a shiver down her back.

But she learned a while ago how to live in reality, even when it’s not what she wants. And it’s with that attitude she walks into her room, where she finds not only her IV set up, but a text from Cady detailing something funny from her math class and how much she misses her.

Even if she gets used to everything else, she knows she’ll never, ever get used to missing Cady.

*****

Friday morning, she wakes later than she normally does. It’s a slow process at the start, sleep pulling her in and begging her to stay, the hospital-issue sheets softer than soft around her and forming a cosy cocoon that she’s so tempted to remain in.

That is, until she remembers what day it is, and then she’s jolted awake.

Friday. Or as she’s called it, Damian-and-Cady day.

It was an unspoken agreement that the two of them were visiting her in here. Just like her father, they were insistent on coming over every moment they could, with Damian jokingly suggesting he could hide under her bed and they could have a sleep over (which they had considered in seriousness and attempted to plan). But thanks to a little thing called school, and another thing called distance, today was the first day she could see them, which is why now she’s wide awake, bright eyed, bushy tailed, everything. Because she’s finally seeing them again and filling the hole in her soul being away from them had carved.

“Morning, kid,” her mom says cheerily, entering the room with a cup of coffee in one hand. “They’re still serving breakfast downstairs, or if you want it brought up to you-”

“Sounds great, Mom,” she replies, only half paying attention. She turns on her phone, her leg bouncing anxiously as she waits for it to load. Has it always been this slow at turning on? She swears it hasn’t been. It takes an eternity for her lockscreen to come up, the time written across it in thin white numbers.

“Ten thirty?” she reads out loud before her head snaps up. “Mom, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Why would I?” she asks. “You need all the rest you can get, and you’ve still got time before you’re due a round.”

“I know,” she sighs, rubbing her eyes. “But Cady and I text good morning to each other and it was my turn this morning. I don’t want her to think I forgot.”

“Well, I’m sure Cady understands. You know, with all that’s going on, maybe she’s not expecting good mornings right now.”

“Course she is,” she replies quickly. In what universe would Cady not wait for a good morning from her? “It’s our thing. Didn’t you and Dad have a thing?” She types out the message and sends it quickly, although Cady probably won’t see it for at least another two hours.

“Oh, you think we did good morning e-mails back in those days?” she says, laughing a little. She sits on the bed next to her on the bed. “So are you getting some breakfast? Someone can bring it up if you don’t feel up to going down, I’ll just tell them what you want-”

“It’s fine, Mom.” She reaches under the bed and pulls on a sweater before slipping into her boots and raking a brush through her hair. “I might as well go down. Someone might take the last yogurt while I’m down there.”

Truthfully, she doesn’t really feel like eating. Not anything bad, she’s just not hungry, but it’ll put her mom’s mind at ease. Just as she thought, the tension fades from her mom’s shoulders, and when she pats her shoulder, there’s more relief in her smile than just breakfast warrants.

She eats in her room, with the TV on, like she does when she’s sick at home. She could eat in the dining room, but despite the new friends she’s made she prefers eating in private, especially away from the buzzing nurses. As she flips around the channels, her phone buzzes on the plastic table, the screen lighting up to show her a new text that makes her smile and roll her eyes at once.

‘Good morning, babe. Can’t wait to see you today. Also, ik I can’t really change it now, but what do we think of the outfit?’

Beneath the message is a picture of Cady in her bedroom mirror, clad in a black vest and blue flannel shirt with white skinny jeans, her hair held back in a high, loose ponytail, soft curls framing her round face, her eyes looking up at the mirror as she gives an open, toothy grin. And Janis can’t help it, she squeals. God damn it, her girlfriend is cute.

‘Love it, love it, love it. You’re the queen of cuteness. And apparently, texting during class. Stop doing that. If I get a text from you between now and lunch I will not cuddle you later.’

‘I’m not texting during class, it’s study hall.’ Wow, what on Earth has happened to the ever-studious, rule following Cady Heron? Not even Plastic Cady texted during study hall. ‘Besides, you have to cuddle with me. It’s legally required and I’m deprived of Janis cuddles.’

‘Only if you be good and don’t text during school hours.’ She fires back, chuckling under her breath. ‘And you remain that freaking adorable.’

“Well someone’s in a good mood.” She looks up and sees Doctor Wiley standing in the doorway, and her smile dips a little, the perfect bubble she was sitting in with Cady ruined. Not enough to ruin her mood, nothing could do that, but it shakes it.

“It’s her girlfriend,” her mom explains.

“How do you know that?”

“Your smile,” she says. “It’s your ‘Cady smile’.”

“I don’t…” Her voice trails off and her mom simply shrugs. Well look at that. She’s that girlfriend now.

“Well, that’s nice to hear,” Wiley says, striding towards her. Under the table, Janis crosses her fingers that this is a normal good morning visit. She’ll take bad news on any day that’s not Damian-and-Cady day. “So, Janis, a lot of us on your team have been talking and we’ve decided to ask if you might want to get a port inserted.”

“A what?” she asks.

“Think of it like a little reservoir put underneath your skin,” he explains. “Just to make receiving the chemo easier on you. A lot of patients have one put in.”

“Oh, wow.” Way to bring the mood down, Doc, she thinks. Sometimes she envies the younger patients who have their parents making all the hard decisions. Still, one word sticks out in all that. “It makes it easier?”

“Quite a bit easier,” he agrees. “For one thing, it’s a lot more comfortable than an IV.” There’s a plus. “And a lower risk of your medicine leaking out-”

“Sounds cool,” she interrupts quickly before he can bring up an image she doesn’t want. “Um, can I think about it? I mean, is it urgent?”

“No, of course not,” Wiley replies with a stiff smile. “I’ll let you and your mom discuss it.”

He leaves them after an uncomfortable silence, nodding to her and her mom and reminding her that he’s around if she has any questions.

“So what do you think?” her mom asks.

“I don’t think.” She picks her phone back up and jumps off the bed. “Where did you put my clothes?”

“I put everything in your bag, it’s under the bed,” she replies. Janis pulls out her bag, sorting through the mass of denim, cotton, plaid and leather, all while her mom hovers behind her with anxious eyes that drill into her back. "Janis, you should consider this.”

“And I will,” she sighs. She pulls out a shirt she’s always liked and throws it on the bed. “Just not right now.” She shakes her head, trying to clear some of the smoke in her brain. Still sitting on the ground, she looks up at her mom and sighs. “Mom, I just want to not think about cancer stuff right now. I just want to see my friends and think about that.” She toys with the shirt in her hands and bunches it into a tight ball, her arms tense and shaking and her grip tight. “Is that okay?”

Her voice sounds impossibly broken on that question. And while it wasn’t intentional, it works on her mom, who nods and comes over to pat her hair.

“Okay, sweetie,” she says, and that’s the temporary end of it.

The day passes even slower than it normally does in hospital-time. Hours stretch on and on with no end in sight and she can’t distract herself no matter what she tries to do. She can’t focus long enough to read or settle on one TV show and even games in the longue can only get her so far. She tries checking her social media when on her IV, but she’s hardly there a minute before her anxiety peaks again after seeing pictures of her friends. Besides, it’s mostly dry now, everyone else is in class.

Finally, finally, it comes to the afternoon and it’s close enough that she can justify beginning to get ready. She stretches, grateful for the little power nap she took earlier, and fishes her make-up out of her bag. It’s not everything, but it’ll have to work, as will the tiny mirror in her bathroom.

“What’s going on in here?” The voice makes Janis jump six feet, even though it’s the honey-toned voice of one of the older nurses. “Little makeover.”

“Just wanted to look nice today,” she explains as she unscrews the foundation. She’s a little bit surprised to see that she’s not out of practice since she’s been bare-faced for well over a week now. Bigger priorities and all that.

“Her girlfriend’s coming over today,” her mom says in a low voice.

“It’s not just that,” she says, even though it might be. “Damian will also be here.”

“Oh you kids and your relationships,” the nurse chuckles as she takes the empty bags out. In the mirror, Janis sees her point sternly in her direction as though she were her mother. “Just remember Janis, if she really cares about you, she won’t care how much muck you have on your face.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says as she applies a coat of eyeshadow, deep indigo and sparkling under the low lights. She adds a generous amount of purple lipstick next, a shade that’s always been a favourite of hers, and four coats of mascara. Some say that’s overkill, she disagrees. Bigger, bolder, better after all.

She takes a second before looking at herself properly, and when she does it makes her happier than it has any right to be. She looks like herself again. Not a girl with cancer. A girl who is perfectly healthy and happy, the dark circles around her eyes and the pale tint to her face deliberate. Not only that, she feels stronger, even though she hadn’t been aware of any weakness before. She can breathe easier now. She’s herself again. A little winded but it was worth it.

When she’s done, Cady and Damian should get out of school in about ten minutes. They worked it all out; they’ll get the first bus from school up to the hospital, which should take about twenty-five minutes. She offered to pay their bus tickets and her mom had offered to pick them up, but neither one of them would hear any of it. Damian in particular would die before accepting money from anyone.

So she has just over half an hour. Maybe closer to forty minutes when factoring in waiting for the bus and various stops…

She probably should have left the make-up to later just to give herself something to do.

No, it’s fine. The last thing she wants is them walking in on her doing her make-up. Besides, there’s plenty to do for half an hour. She’s waited this long after all. She checks her outfit again, first in the bathroom mirror, by bouncing repeatedly, and then by using the camera on her phone. This morning she was sure about this outfit. Now she’s not sure about this skirt. Maybe if her mom had woken her up earlier she’d have had more time to plan it. The shirt is fine, it’s something Cady loves, so she won’t trade it, but the skirt… it’s not working. She grabs more stuff from her bag and lays it out on the bed, debating each one carefully. There’s a pair of studded shorts that she doesn’t think looks right with the shirt, a pair of jeans that would be far too uncomfortable, and a dark grey skirt that she’s not worn that much and is a little short-

“Holy crap,” she sighs. She shakes her head at herself. She hasn’t obsessed this much over her looks since middle school. “You’re insane, Sarkisian. You’re fine.”

They’ve both seen her look worse, surely.

She forces herself to sit on the bed and just watch some freaking YouTube like a normal person. She gets a text from Damian telling her they’re on their way, and she takes a deep breath and sends a response. She then has one eye on the phone and one eye on the window, all the while counting the minutes until they should be here.

Twenty five minutes. One video later, it’s twenty one. Another video, eighteen. Another video, plus a sip of the coffee her mom got her, fourteen. Another video, plus re-checking her make-up, ten. Another video, six. Another video, three.

And now they should be here. They probably are; they’re probably walking through the lobby. Maybe the elevator’s a little slow, maybe they got lost. This is a big place and they don’t even know where they ward is. Do they? Did she tell them? She grabs her phone and checks their groupchat, scrolling through the week-

“Janis?” Her name is accompanied by a soft knock on the door, and when she looks up, Cady is standing in the doorway, looking even more beautiful than she did that morning with a breathless smile and dimples in her cheeks. And everything else she was feeling melts away.

Janis doesn’t care about dignity, she runs over and throws her arms around her. As Cady hugs her back just as fiercely, Janis fights the urge to pick her up off the floor.

“I missed you,” Cady whispers into her shoulder.

“I missed you more,” she replies, certain that she’s correct.

“Well I’ll just go then,” Damian jokes. “If you two need a moment alone.”

“Don’t even think about it,” she tells him seriously, jumping into his embrace. He runs his hand through her hair and even rocks her and everything about his embrace feels right.

“Got you these,” he says when they eventually pull apart. He presents her with a bunch of white flowers wrapped in silver paper. The scent is just like the gesture; so sweet it makes her well up.

“Oh you losers,” she says. “I love them.”

“Hi kids,” her mom greets from her chair in the corner. To be honest, Janis had actually forgotten her mom was there. So her mom has watched her run across the room and tackle-hug Cady. Nice. “How was school?”

“It’s fine,” Cady replies. “You know… senior year….”

“Oh I’m sure it is,” she says fondly. “I’ll give you kids some alone time.” She gives Janis’ shoulder a squeeze before heading out, and then Janis can hold Cady’s hand as tightly as she wants and pulls the two of them to the bed, utterly giddy at having them at her side again.

Even if it won’t last a voice in her head whispers.

“So come on, what have I missed?” she asks. “Other than you two, I mean. Tell me everything. Spill all the tea. I crave gossip!”

“It’s been a week, Jan,” Cady tells her, grinning and swinging her legs as her feet don’t touch the floor. “But, you do know that you’re talking to the newest captain of the North Shore Mathletes.”

“Come on then.” Janis digs her elbow in her girlfriend’s ribs. “Tell me everything.”

That’s all the incentive Cady needs.

She babbles on about her plans for the new year as Captain, how she’s already getting new recruits and she’s even allowed to invite freshmen and create Junior Mathletes, how she’s sure that membership is going to be double what it was last year (at which point Damian reminds her that there were only three people on the team last year), and about how they’re already starting to put together teams for a few contests, more than last year, and of course, how she’s ready to defend their state champion title. With each word, Janis’ heart grows warmer, the sense of security she’s craved all week settling and wrapping around her like her favourite blanket, and their hands lie intertwined on the bed a though they’d never been apart.

“So that’s my life…” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. She shakes her head and covers Janis’ hand with hers. “But what about you, what’s it like in here?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she scoffs. “I’m always fine.” Cady’s smile dips, not enough, but Janis notice and let out a sigh. “I mean it’s not the ideal situation. But I’m… coping?”

“I do not like that inflection,” Damian adds, leaning back on the bed and raising an eyebrow.

“You wouldn’t,” she says. “Like, it’s not too bad. You know… the food is actually pretty good, we have some cool stuff in the longue, they know how to keep us occupied. The doctors are all great. Including one hot med student I’m considering setting Damian up with.”

“Consider my attention grabbed,” he says. “How hot are we talking here?”

“Like… Okay I’m not into dudes, so I’m not that great at guessing, but he’s a solid 7.5,” she explains. “Would be a 9 but he stabbed me several times while trying to find a vein.”

“He did what?” Cady squeals, making the two of them jump. Her eyebrows shot up her forehead. “He stabbed you?”

“Woah, yeah.” She grasps Cady’s shoulder and silently bites her tongue. She rubs it in circles, bringing her back down. “And it hurt for a few seconds and I was slightly annoyed by it. And then we laughed about it.” She strokes Cady’s cheek carefully. “Nothing bad, Caddy.”

“Okay.” Cady lets out a breath and shakes out her hands. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, love.” She plays a kiss on her cheekbone, the tension fleeing Cady’s body as she does so. She tangles her fingers in her hair. She even missed her hair. “It’s cute that you worry so much.”

“I always worry about you.” At that moment, Damian turns his attention to the window, and Cady rests her head on Janis’ shoulder and Janis wraps her arms around her. This, the fearful looks and causing anxiety to her, this is what Janis wanted to avoid in the first place.

Damn Cady Heron and her unflinching loyalty.

“You’re feeling okay though?” she asks quietly. “Right?”

“Okay’s a bit of a relative term these days,” she says. “I’m feeling a bit bleh. But it’s fine.” Cady murmurs something she guesses is an agreement and nestles closer to her. Janis rubs her hand up and down her arm. “I’m fine.”

“Good.” She presses her cheek into her head and closes her eyes, only for a moment.

“Anyway, enough of that stuff,” she says, bouncing and turning to Damian, beckoning him back over. “There’s got to be more that I’ve missed. Come on, spill.”

“Well…” Damian begins, spinning around to face them with a grin stretched across his face. He’s been waiting to tell her this, she can tell. “They’ve announced that the musical this year will be… drum roll.”

She can Cady drum their hands on their legs, the sound bouncing off the walls and making the room tremble with anticipation as it gets higher and faster until-.

“Cabaret!”

“No way!” she gasps. Damian nods excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet and clapping his hands together. “Stars have aligned, mon amie. Stars have aligned.”

“Which means,” he goes on, throwing himself down on the bed with such gusto that it bounces. “I am going to be the greatest Emcee that North Shore High would ever wish to have.”

“Damn right!” The two high five, their glee double that of the slightly out of the loop Cady. “Emcee has been one of Damian’s dream roles ever since middle school.”

“Ever since I came out of the damn womb!” he exclaims. “I cannot tell you how much I screamed when the drama club announced it.”

“I can,” Cady adds. “It was loud and long and he got several death glares from everyone else.”

“That’s the only appropriate way to react,” Janis chuckles. “We watched the movie way back when and that’s when he decided he was going to play the Emcee or die trying.”

“It’s also when Janis became gay for Liza Minelli.”

“I’m gay for myself,” she corrects. “Liza was just the object of young Janis’ affections.” She rests her chin on Cady’s shoulder and smiles at him. “I’m helping you prep for this. I don’t care if I have to break out of here with an IV in my arm, I’m helping you.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” he replies. “Also the drama club is devastated you can’t do the set this year.”

“Who the heck says I can’t?” she says indignantly. “Those morons they have won’t last five minutes without my guidance. And I will not have your shining moment ruined by a subpar set.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “We all know who really runs that drama club.”

“Oh really, madame,” Damian scoffs, turning so his leg is folded beneath him. Janis keeps smiling, despite the feeling that its being tugged down and the weight settling in her stomach. Of all the times he had to do Cabaret, why did it have to be now?

“Everyone really missed you at school,” Cady tells her.

“Bet it’s not everyone,” she says, half joking. “Not one person in particular.”

“Hey!” Cady slaps her arm. “Be nice.”

“I promised to play nice to her face,” Janis reminds her. “Not behind her back.” Cady huffs out a laugh, her face slightly scrunched up. “But how’s the most important thing; LGBT+ society?”

“Well, we’re having our first welcome back meeting on Wednesday,” Damian says. “And Gretchen is taking over your stall at the fair. Sonja’s going to help her out though,” he adds. “And Sonja’s taking over your spot on the committee too.”

“Good choice,” she says. Lovely as Gretchen is most of the time, Janis isn’t sure she could handle the pressure of running her stall. And Sonja’s the perfect choice to take over her committee spot, smart as a whip, decisive and funny as hell.

So why does the idea make Janis so uneasy?

“Yeah, why don’t we turn this TV on?” she says, grabbing the remote. “It apparently has Netflix, although I’m not entirely sure how to operate it. There’s a load of DVDs in the longue as well.”

“A DVD. Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” Damian says.

“I don’t think they have Cabaret though,” she sighs. “Which would be perfect for us right now.” She’s telling half-truths, because there’s a substantial collection of old movies, including musicals, but she doesn’t really want to brave the longue now, or to take them in there. The longue is probably her favourite place in the hospital, but it’s bound to be full right now. And for now, she wants to keep her cancer world and the real world separate.

So with some fussing, they manage to find Netflix and learn how to work it. Cady is insistent that Janis pick the movie, since it’s her room and she doesn’t know half of them and has already watched the other half. At the start of the summer, Janis had made Cady a list of every movie she needed to watch, and by the end of August they’d almost made it to the halfway mark. The best part wasn’t the movies themselves; it was the movie nights. Huddled under a comforter and surrounded by pillows, Cady’s body pressed against hers and the lights down low, buttery popcorn and sugar-covered candies keeping them going until one (usually Cady) fell asleep.

Now they make do with the thin hospital bed and the near-plastic sheets. At least they can adjust the height of it, and Janis positions Cady against her and Damian sits in the comfiest chair to watch The Parent Trap. It’s none of their favourites, but it’s familiar and good enough and while it wasn’t on the list, Cady hasn’t seen it yet. Besides, Damian can make any more fun.

And really, Janis can’t take any more of the back and forth debate.

The more the movie goes on, the more normal Janis feels. She runs her fingers up and down Cady’s bare arms, her girlfriend’s jacket discarded across a chair like she would in her house. The conversation is light and easy and full of giggles even at the stupidest, silliest thing, Damian quoting along with the movie and Cady hopelessly lost, especially at around halfway through when Janis decides to tell her that Annie and Hallie were played by the same person.

“No way!” she declares. “I’m not believing you until I see proof.”

“Google it,” she says. “Damian?”

“Way ahead of you.” He pulls up the page and shows her the cast list, with one little Lohan billed as the two twins. Cady’s mouth falls on the floor, her shoulders shaking in a silent, disbelieving laugh.

“Jesus Christ!” she says. “How did they do that all the way back then?”

“Movie magic,” Janis replies, wiggling her fingers for effect. “It’s okay, Caddy, we all felt betrayed when we first found out.”

“Didn’t she go off her rocker a bit?” she asks, pointing to the screen. “I know that much. Regina told me.”

“A little,” Janis agrees. “But I kind of feel bad for her, you know?”

“I guess.”

“Oh. Oh!” The camera pans up, revealing the striking and scary figure of Meredith Blake, and Janis squeezes Cady’s arms. “I hated this bitch.”

“I hated her more,” Damian adds, his tone not 100% light. “When I first watched this I had this soon-to-be stepmom, because my dad was back in the dating game, and she was…” He gags and points down his throat.

“Real mature, Damian,” Janis jokes. “I mean she absolutely was, but still. Mature.”

“Okay, missy,” he laughs. “Nah but I used to try to get inspiration from how to deal with her from this movie.”

“Shh!” she hisses sharply, covering Cady’s ears. “Spoilers!”

“I can still hear you,” Cady tells her. “And I could sort of guess. All the movies about step parents do that kind of thing, don’t they? Bratty kid gets wreaks havoc on the step parent?”

“Are you saying thirteen year old me was a brat?” Damian asks.

“Seventeen year old you is also a brat,” Janis teases. Damian gasps and grabs the cushion from the chair, aiming it at her head. Part of her is completely sure he wouldn’t, not in a hospital, part of her is completely sure he would because of course he would.

She doesn’t find out either way, because their gathering is interrupted by her medical team, and the weight in her stomach comes back with a vengeance.

“Not getting in the way are we?” Nurse Lucy asks.

“Not at all,” she says. Before she stops herself, she’s already pushing Cady off her. Heat rises in her cheeks. “That time again?”

“Unfortunately so,” she replies as Cady slides off the bed. “Is it okay if Jackson does it this time?”

“Yeah, sure.” As she rolls up her sleeve, her friends catch on to what’s happening, and Damian rushes to Cady’s side.

“I promise I’ll find the vein this time,” Jackson jokes.

“Oh this is the one you said-” Cady is cut off by Janis making a small ‘cut it out’ gesture with her hand. She then raises an eyebrow at Damian, whose small smirk tells her everything she needs to know.

She takes a look at her IV and her bare arm before turning back to them. She still hates this; shockingly, she hasn’t gotten used to it in under a week. Her stomach still drops a hundred feet when she looks at the needle and her chest tightens even if she’s only thinking about it.

“You guys don’t need to watch this,” she tells them. “It doesn’t hurt. But if you need to look away, it’s fine.”

“I’m fine,” Cady tells her. When Janis looks down though, she sees how tightly she’s holding Damian’s hand.

“Okay,” she says.

This time around it only takes Jackson three tries to find her vein before securing it with the bandage. Good for him. He’s learning.

“You know the drill by now?” Lucy asks.

“Two hours, stay hydrated.” She gives her a two-fingered salute.

“Two hours?” Cady echoes, and Janis has to chuckle at it. “This takes two hours?”

“That’s what she said the first time she found out,” Lucy says, gesturing to Janis. “I can see why you two like each other so much.”

“No but… two hours,” she says again as they leave. “What do you do for two hours?”

“I just… sit here I guess,” she answers, looking up at the medicine. “You know, there’s TV. I have books. I draw. Sometimes it knocks me out and I get a little surprise nap, so that’s fun.”

“Is that… should we go?” Cady asks. “If you’re going to-”

“Oh no.” She shakes her head firmly. “No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Completely.” She’s such a liar it’s a wonder her tongue hasn’t turned black and crumbled. “Come on. Let’s finish the movie at least.”

Cady lays beside her rather than on her, and Damian stays on the other side of the bed, away from her IV. She catches him once or twice, watching the drip instead of the movie. His gaze is unreadable, and since she’s always been able to know his thoughts without him speaking, it unsettles her.

It’s not long before that familiar tiredness descends on her, clouding her mind and pulling her downwards. And she fights it; she keeps her eyes open despite how they itch and shifts her body when she finds herself too comfortable lest she start drifting off. It’s a challenge, not just because of the medicine’s effect on her, but because of Cady’s warmth next to her, promising security and comfort and being there when she wakes up.

And she must have given into it at one point, because she opens her eyes after a blink and the movie is over; Nick and Elizabeth are together again, Annie and Hallie stay with each other forever, happy endings all around.

“What time is it?” Janis asks.

“Nearly five,” Damian explains. Visiting hours don’t end for another two hours. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” she asks. “I’m fantastic.”

“You sure?” Cady’s hand is on hers, slowly linking their fingers together. Janis squeezes her hand, clarity coming into her mind by her own will.

“Of course I’m sure.”

They don’t have to be home for another hour. Home for dinner, that’s the rule. That doesn’t really change. Damian tells her that his mom is thinking about her every day and was beside herself when she heard the news.

“She’s started following more baking blogs,” he tells her. “So prep yourself for a lot of baked goods on your doorstep.”

“I can’t object to that,” she says. “Especially since Val always bakes with love.”

At some point during the hour, Janis pulls Cady into her lap again, or Cady crawls into it, or both. Her head is under her chin and her back against her chest, slotting into place perfectly. Like if she holds her this close, she won’t have to leave.

Wishful thinking, she knows, because when it gets close to six, Cady picks up her jacket and her backpack and there’s nothing but empty air against Janis’ body.

She wishes she could lead them to the door, but her IV catches on everything, so they say their goodbyes where they are.

“Don’t miss me too much,” she warns them teasingly.

“I hardly ever think about you,” Damian replies, his voice thick.

“And you,” she tells him. “Better run lines with me. When’s auditions?”

“Next Thursday,” he tells her. “So I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Perfect,” she says. “I have treatments at 11, at 2… You know what? I’ll text you them.”

“Okay. And you were right by the way. That med student is a snack.” They laugh, and then there’s a moment of silence before he folds her in his arms, her face burying itself in the crook of his neck and his hand cupping the back of her head. “Take of yourself, okay?” His voice is so soft, so desperate, that it sounds like a plea.

“I will,” she says. “I always do.” Knowledgeable as always, he gives her and Cady space to say goodbye themselves. She rubs her hand on her shorts, nervousness gripping her body in a way she hasn’t felt in a while and she thoroughly dislikes.

“I’ll text you the second I get home,” Cady says. “And can I call you tomorrow?”

“Of course you can,” she says. “As long as you get some homework done tonight, kid.”

“I will,” she says. “I didn’t get the top grade in Norbury’s class for nothing.” Cady takes in a deep breath, her hand fidgeting around her backpack strap and her hair half-hiding her face. Janis reaches out and pushes it back and if she notices her shaking hand, she doesn’t say anything.

“Caddy-”

Janis actually wasn’t sure what she was going to say there, but it doesn’t matter, because Cady steps up and kisses her. It’s not perfect; it feels clumsy and awkward and they bump against each other, but it’s everything Janis needs. So much so that when they pull away, she doesn’t even attempt to hide the blush on her cheeks.

“Okay,” she whispers, grinning. “I’ll see you soon.” She steals another peck.

“See you later, Janis,” she whispers. They don’t stop holding hands for as long as they can and Janis is still looking at her until she’s out of view, walking back down the hall with Damian, maybe getting lost again. Down the hall, to the right, into the elevator and out the double doors. Bus stop down the street, next stop home. They ride together until Damian gets off and Cady stays on. All the while she stays here, IV in arm and her phone buzzing, talking to them until she falls asleep.

#mean girls broadway #mean girls the musical #cadnis #cady x janis #janis sarkisian #cady heron #damian hubbard #fic: heart of stone

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briefololtragedy · 4 years

Text

Something to Stay Part 4

Sakura X Itachi

Prequel to Say anything

Itachi doesn’t like being called Uchiha-san.

Rating G

Call me by my name

It was 4:55 when Sakura rushed into the locker room to change into her scrubs for the day. She was always at least 15 minutes early, but this morning it was hard to get up. Sasuke had so many questions and worry for his brother, by the time she go to answering all of then it after 11pm and she wanted to crash into bed, which she did the moment she got home. Shower be damned!

Her alarm woke her from sleep at 430, apparently she snoozed it at 4am. Next thing she knew she bolted out of the bed, almost tripped on her bedding that was now on the floor of her bedroom. When she says almost tripped, she means full on face plant to the floor. A quick shower to wash of the hospital grim just for it to be replaced by a new layer. There was no time to dry her hair, which she put into a quick messy bun. Looking in the mirror after throwing on a simple pair of skinny jeans and oversized T-shirt with a bowl of ramen on it, she noticed the bumps on her face and the slight break out she has gotten due wearing surgical mask so long yesterday and only eating cookies. Looking at her watch, it was 445, the time she normally got to work. She grabbed her Toms and ran out the door.

Sakura made it to handoff just as the clock hanged to 5. Kabuto looked smug. “You look like a walking disaster this morning. Try to put yourself together before seeing patients. We don’t want you giving them a heart attack with how dreadful you look.”

Sakura found herself having to count to 10. She could not punch Kabuto, in the face multiple times, it would be unprofessional. She was sure he was upset with her getting to assist yesterday. They had 20 patients to cover. Kabuto took 4 and split the rest between her and the other intern. Anticipation and worry came to her briefly, knowing that she would have to take care of Itachi. She hoped Sasuke and his parents got what ever peaceful rest they could obtain. She heard the nurses complaining how Fugaku demanded them be able to stay past visiting hours to see that Itachi’s needs were being meet. She planned to pre-round on him last, so she could make a quick escape to meet before the formal rounds with Dr. Senju.

She finished going through the charts of her other patients in record time and able to quickly examine them with no problems. She had a couple appendectomies, cholecystectomies, and hernia repairs. She had one hernia repair who tried to get a little to handsy when she was examining his abdomen. Sakura made a mental note to have a nurse with her the next time she had to be in the room with him.

She had 20 minutes before she had to meet with her team. She planned on taking 5-10 minutes to quickly check on Itachi and then get coffee. She already downed her first cup when she was sitting in front of her computer. Sakura also didn’t care to fix her appearance, aside from her dark circles, she looked presentable. She wasn’t here to appeal to the male sex, she wanted to learn and follow in the footsteps of Dr. Senju.

Hana quickly gave her a report on how Itachi was doing. He had woken up in the middle of the night and went back to sleep after some pain medication was given. His family had left before he fell asleep, which came to be a relief for the nurses working. He was still resting this morning.

Sakura took a deep breath, gently knocked on his door. Hearing no response, which she expected, she entered.

Many years have gone by since she last saw the oldest son of Mikoto and Fugaku. From what she remembers when she was 11, he was a tall, dark, intimidating force. He once snuck her some dango that Sasuke didn’t want following her punching him in the face. His parents weren’t happy with her. She had ran off into their gardens after the incident.

This man laying on the bed sleeping was not the picture that she carried with her all these years. He looked paler than normal, his lines under his eyes were more pronounced, IVs in both his arms, and the IV poll on his right side. His heart tracing looked steady, no arrhythmias. Oxygen saturation was perfect. His breathing pattern and heart rate on the lower side confirmed he was in a deep sleep.

“Uchiha-san, its Dr. Haruno. I will be taking a quick listen to you and then will want to look at your surgical incision.” She had placed on her hand on his left arm, gently trying to get him to stir. She then went about assessing him this morning.

It was now time to look at his incision and knew she would have to be more forceful when trying to get him awake. He started to stir.

“Uchiha-san, its Dr. Haruno. I am just going to check your abdomen quickly to make sure everything is ok. How is your pain?” Those words brought Itachi out of his dream world and as he opened his eyes he was met with the most color he has ever seen, bright pink and emerald. He was once again reminded of a cherry blossom field.

As his eyes started to focus more he was met with Sakura. Gone was the scrawny little thing, and now before him stood a grown women. She still had delicate features, gone was the baby fat of her face. Her hair was on the top of her head in a bun. No makeup on her face, which was a breath of fresh air compared to the other women he has come across over the years.

“I will need to bring your covers down to get access to your bandages, is that ok?” Her eyes were warm and welcoming. She had a comforting hand on his shoulder.

He didn’t answer her right away, but went to slowly push his blankets down. The slight crunch he did caused pain to shoot through his abdomen.

“Uchiha-san you should let me do that for you. It wasn’t even 24 hours ago that you have an intense surgery. I will let nurse Hana now that you will need one of your as needed pain medications.” Her voice was smooth like honey.

He didn’t even notice as she removed the bandages on his abdomen and inspected the site. She worked quickly and professionally. After she was done looking she redid his bandages with fresh gaze and tape.

“Do you need anything else Uchiha-san?” He didn’t know why she was acting so formal with him, but he could understand it. They hadn’t seen each other in years, she wasn’t even a teenager the last time they met. He couldn’t remember ever holding an actual conversation with her.

“No Dr. Haruno. Have you heard from Sasuke any?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“I haven’t heard from him since last night. Hopefully he is getting some rest along with your parents, all of you have been through a lot. I almost thought you wouldn’t remember I'm friends with Sasuke.” She had a slight smile on her face. She was staring at him and it was then that he realized it was because he hadn’t said anything in reply. Itachi got caught up staring at her eyes, those dazzling emeralds.

“Sasuke talks about you and Naruto, well as much as someone like him can… Would it be possible to get something to drink? My throat feels raw.” He had to kick himself for asking her about the drink, he was an absolute idiot.

“Of course. I’ll see if one of the nursing students can bring you something. They are pretty good at checking in on patients and helping out. Dr. Senju and the team will be around later, get some rest Uchiha-san.” Sakura had brought his covers up to his chest and walked out the door. For some reason her saying Uchiha-san didn’t sit well with him.

A few minutes later he was brought multiple cups of water and students more then welling to help him. it was when his nurse came in with some pain medication that they were shooed away.

Itachi didn’t know what to do with himself now. When was the last time he was idle for so long.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sakura made it just in time to get a new cup of coffee before starting rounds with Dr. Senju. It was hard keeping an indifferent face when talking with Itachi. She couldn’t help as she acknowledged how attractive he was, but she wasn’t an airhead preteen anymore. She was able to separate work and her personal life. While Itachi muddied the water some, she would be professional with him and his family when they came into the hospital.

A proud smirk made its way onto her lips as she brought up her coffee cup to her mouth. She had beat Kabuto and the other intern to the meeting spot. She only had to make it though 3 more days until she had a day off. Sunday would be a glorious day!

Jin was the second to arrive, he was one in her first year class. He stood a head and half taller then her, he had an average build, his coloring was brown hair and brown eyes. Unlike her, he had a tan to his skin. He was doing a trauma rotation, but belonged to the orthopedic surgery program.

“ Wonder where Yakushi is? I heard you got to scrub into that surgery yesterday with Dr. Senju, man is she scary! “ She couldn’t help but be irritated by his voice, it wasn’t his fault that she was having the start of a migraine.

“He should be here soon, maybe he heard about a new case for the day.” It was unlike Kabuto to not have arrived by now. At times Wednesday could be a slow day compared to the other days of the week. Starting Friday - Monday you would get the reckless injuries that were brought about by too much drinking and wanting to have a good time. A couple of weeks ago it was a party boat that capsized when too many people were on it.

“Where is Yakushi? I’m ready to round, it was a long ass day yesterday. “ Dr. Senju came up, tea in hand. She was not Kabuto’s biggest fan to start and him not being here was not a way to get off her bad side.

“Dr. Senju, sorry to interrupt but Dr. Yakushi was pulled into a surgery with Dr. Orochimaru.” It looked like the nurses had sacrificed one of the nursing student’s to deliver the message. Sakura didn’t know the name of the poor girl, but could see her shaking.

A grumble came form Dr. Senju, her lips pressed together. “ Let get started. I take it you two are carrying the majority of the patients anyway. We will round on them and then you two can finish charting. You two will be up for first assist on the next surgery. Decide among the two of you who will take it when it comes.” She then started walking down the halls.

Rounds were lightening fast. It was decided that Jin would take the first surgery of the day since Sakura got the one yesterday. Jin vanished to do his work, while Sakura took to sitting at one of the empty computers at the nursing station. The gossip from the nurses would put Ino to shame. ‘notes and then lunch.’

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Shisui leave Sasuke alone. “ How many times did Itachi have to stop those two. Sasuke had gotten back at Shisui for giving his cell number to some of the nurses. Sasuke’s phone wouldn’t stop going off. In retribution apparently Shisui’s Instagram was hacked and was announced that he was undergoing treatment for multiple STDs, his prior conquests were not to happy about the announcement.

Shisui had come with food from Mikoto. Sadly he was unable to eat it due to being on clear liquids. The aroma itself was making Itachi’s mouth water. Itachi refused to let either Sasuke or Shisui eat his food and made them put it in the mini fridge in his room.

“I heard you have little Sakura-chan overseeing you. Aren’t you a lucky dog. Sasuke I don’t know how the two of you never got together even for a night.” Sasuke looked ready to attack. Itachi wasn’t aware that his cousin knew Sakura. Shisui initially worked for the family law firm, but then branched off with itachi to do pro-bono work. He typically got in later then Itachi and stayed to close up the office, where Itachi opened it. Shisui had guilt from not being to the office sooner he may have been able to prevent itachi getting shot.

“Uchiha-san I have come to check on you quickly. Sasuke-kun said that you may be in pain.” Sakura was at the door, her presence stopping the inevitable match between Sasuke and Shisui.

Sasuke looked annoyed and Shisui straightened up. Itachi could already tell Shisui was putting his best flirting face on. “Sakura-chan I have to ask if it hurt?” Sakura looked at Shisui annoyance spreading on her face.

“Shisui we have had this conversation before and I’m not currently in the mood to put up with your ridiculous pick up lines.” Sasuke was annoyed he knew his cousin was doing this to get on his nerves. He and Naruto made it their mission to make sure the guys wanting to date Sakura where fully screened, much to the annoyance of Sakura. She had to keep most of her relationships a secret, unless they were creeps. The creeps she held no remorse for when the two idiots chased them away. Just because they watched out for her didn't protect her from having her heart broken a few times, before she decided to focus solely on her training.

“Come on lets go find something to eat since Weasel here wont share his food.” It was then that Sasuke’s stomach started to grumble, he was in agreement to finding food and some tomato juice.

After dumb and dumber left Sakura was able to speak to Itachi. “Uchiha-san I know you have been having increased pain and wanted to make sure you were doing ok. Is there anything that you need? “

“Why do you call be Uchiha-san? “ Itachi blamed it on his pain medications for having no filter.

“What am I supposed to call you? I think Shisui has dibs on Weasel. “ she looked playful, mischievous look behind her eyes. It reminded itachi of the little girl he remembered from another time it seemed.

“I would like it for you to call me by my name Dr. Haruno. I feel like my father should be in the room when you say Uchiha-san. “ Sakura couldn’t imagine anyone calling Fugaku by anything other than Uchiha-sama. His face would probably get as red of the tomatoes that Sasuke adores so much in anger.

“Itachi-san considering you are older than me doesn’t that make you an old man?” Before Itachi could reply Sakura’s stomach decided to interrupt their conversation.

‘I forgot to eat lunch again! Two appendectomies came in that Jin and her split, which was around lunch time.’ Sakura couldn’t help but be embarrassed.

“Excuse me Itachi-san, but I will leave you to get some more rest.” Itachi didn’t want her to leave. She was a breath of spring in the shade of beige room.

“My mother made me a bento and my doctor has decided to only let me have liquids. I don’t think she would mind me giving it to you.”

Sakura was speechless. Mikoto’s food was a precious commodity, one that Sasuke refused to let anyone have. “I can get some food in the cafeteria, that was made for you and I’m sure you would like to have it once you are cleared for a regular diet.”

“I’m sure my mother would make me a new one when the time comes. This one hasn’t been in the fridge long and will still be fresh. I insist that you take it. Although I do ask that you enjoy it here as a way to repay me. I could use company that doesn’t want to punch the other person in the face.”

“Well that’s an offer I can’t refuse.” This meal would be the first of many, neither of them knowing that at the time.

#itasaku #itachi uchiha #LawyerItachi #Sakura Haruno #SurgeonSakura #naruto #fanfic #prequel #part four

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anyberry · 5 years

Text

In Between Wires (Cyberpunk AU - Sterek) Part 1

The city looked particularly bleak that day as Derek made his way through the crowded streets. Derek chose to retreat from the city to the woods over five years ago. No matter how many times he did his best to never return, he found himself back. Regular semi-monthly trips for special supplies were never as taxing. This was different. Derek returned with a mission and a purpose. Scott, an old friend who has been visiting frequently since he left, had finally called to talk, saying that he found his uncle.

Derek agreed to meet with Scott near the police bureau. It seems as though every month, the police department would be expanded and receive even more funding. Yet no matter how things changed, crime was on the rise. Derek did his best to avoid looking at anyone. He did not fear anyone on the streets, but more of what he would have to do in case any of them were as stupid enough to attack him. Everyone would just push around each other, people trying to sell what was in their stalls and in their pockets.

All buildings were built to the sky. While the bottom levels were shops and cafes, higher up, people lived. Looking up, you could see electric neon signs, trying to sell something. If you look even higher up, you can see people’s laundry hanging across ropes. Even though it has not been a whole day, he already misses looking up to see trees. Long beautiful pine trees. After a night full of rain. There is nothing beautiful in the city for Derek.

Derek finally reached the main police branch building where Scott has been waiting for him, looking down at his phone in hand. As Derek approached, Scott did not look up but the two started to walk side by side as if they have always walked near each other. “So what is the news on Peter?”

Scott continued to look down like he was not even talking to him. “My best friend has gathered security footage of him from one of the Southern districts. He was seen selling some information but we don’t know much else. For now, that is. We at least have a lead for the first time.”

“So what now?”

“Now we have to go to meet that friend.”

“Is there a particular reason he could not come out to a better place to talk?” Derek asked and Scott nodded uncomfortably, finally looking up as they enter the building. “Stiles is in a sort of delicate situation.” He did not explain what he possibly meant with such cryptic language.

They made their way to the 38th floor of the building, no one asking them who they are as seemingly everyone got used to seeing Scott around here often. They headed to an isolated office, far away from all others around it. “Does your friend know about everything?” Derek asked as they were further away from everyone else.

“Oh yeah. He was one of the first few people who knew when I was changed.”

Derek did not like a lot of normal people knowing, but as with everyone, no matter the risk, they always trust their best friends. They made their way to end to a room that had caution tape on its door and a fingerprint scanner to enter the door. “Excessive much?”

“More like Stiles is really extra these days. Don’t mind it.”

Scott scanned his thumb and lead Derek inside. The whole room initially looked as if it was made of wires. Wires and screens covered the room like they were the materials used to build this room. That is when Derek first laid eyes on Stiles.

On very first glance, it looked as if Stiles was connected to the wires as he was surrounded by them. But on further inspection, he really was connected to them. There was an IV in his arm and a nasal cannula connected to a tank right next to him. Derek felt stunned into place for a moment. He looked both frail and unbreakable at the same time. On one hand, he had very pale skin with a blue undertone and veins that were seen very clearly. On the other hand, he was not weak in how he carried himself. Stiles sat with one leg bent and the other thrown over the arm of his chair. He had a tv going on with the current news going on, several screens with unknown data and statistics. He had a laptop in front of his balanced on top of his air tank, a tablet with some unknown article, and a phone in his hand that had a game of chess.

Stiles began to talk without any introduction or anything. “I looked into the men to whom he was selling information to and they are an independent gang. I am currently trying to figure out what the exact information itself is but all that I can really say is that I don’t actually believe he is actively involved with them.”

Derek scowled at the news. “So does that mean we don’t actually have anything on him?” he asked Stiles.

Stiles finally smiled and his teeth look blue in the light of his screens. There was something a little wicked in that smile. It was clear to Derek that even though this guy had no magic in him, he was still dangerous. “Now, now wolf boy. Don’t be impatient.” Derek was in no mood for jokes, a little growl escaped his mouth. Stiles actually retreated back a little in his chair, actually looking a little nervous.

“Alright, alright. Jeez. Don’t get your cords in a knot.” He said, adjusting himself in his seat. “Here is the deal. I looked for all possible ties Peter Hale could have had with this particular group of gentlemen and I found a single girl’s name, Eliza Downtey. She worked with Peter before and each time her name would appear in his bank history, it was often enough that the next purchase that Peter would make was for some sort of plane ticket. Now, he was paid only several hours ago by Miss Downtey and he bought a ticket that I was able to track down...” He let his own voice go down into a whisper before stopping.

“And?” Derek demanded as this could be the exact information that he needed. Stiles shook his head a little and turned to Scott. “Scott. Buddy. My man. My main man.”

Scott looked uncomfortable and uneasy. “Stiles, come on. We talked about this,” he protested.

“You talked, Scott. I heard you. I understand. You can even say that I agree with your point but,” Stiles finally got up from his seat, putting his tablet and phone aside. For some reason, Derek felt as though Stiles should have been some how too weak to stand up properly but he was fine. Almost looking normal with his back turned from the screens. “I just don’t care, Scott. I am going to die anyway. If I get an extra week, it won’t help. Hand it over.”

Scott stared at his best friend, not breaking eye contact before finally giving up. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a bottle of rum, a pack of cigarettes, and vape juice. Stiles took everything and smiled again in the same cold matter as before, it was like his eyes were saying that he did not actually mean it. “Thanks, man.”

“Stiles, you really need to stop doing this. Your doctors said you do have a chance of recovering if you just go into treatment and then...” Scott tried to reason with him but Stiles just kept the smile on his face. Stiles walked over to the window in the corner of the room and put a pillow on the window sill before opening the window. The city noise poured in from far below in a faint echo. Stiles finished Scott’s sentence. “And then I will die in seven months instead of six. Scott. Please. I would rather sit here instead of going to the doctors. I will die. Let’s not play around with that anymore. If I go, I would rather go high, drunk, and with a cigarette butt in hand than with a nutritious cocktail and a medical debt for my father.”

Stiles took out his nasal cannula and lit a cigarette, taking a drag and then coughing a little. “Anyway... The ticket.”

Derek felt very strange having actually forgotten the ticket for a moment. Everything about this situation tasted like bitter medicine that he had to swallow.

Stiles unscrewed the rum and poured it in a semi-dirty glass with some coke. “Peter took a plane to the Northern Pacific islands. I have some theories why, the best one I have is that he has his hiding spot somewhere in that area. And that would make sense. It is a nice little place with sun shine, blue oceans, and high rates of human trafficking for sex trade.”

Derek had some rage return to him with the mention of Peter’s name. “When is he leaving?” he demanded, to which Stiles snorted a little bit. “Here is the fun part.” He finished up his cigarette even though it was visible that it was not that easy for him to inhale the smoke, he did it long but fast drags.

“Peter was actually supposed to have already gone. He even registered for the flight. But then he never actually boarded. I have a few theories there as well. Initially, I thought that he got into some kind of trouble. But then he made a few more simple purchases in a convenience store so he didn’t seem to be scared out there. I think he was given an offer that he could not refuse. I think he was given an opportunity to do something quickly. His ticket will be valid for the exact same flight at the exact same time this Friday. He did not refund his ticket so I believe that he will be there for that.” Stiles smiles and kicks back on the window sill with his drink and lights another cigarette.

Derek thought about what Stiles just said. This is his opportunity to actually catch him. He had some close allies still in the city who would be able to find Peter. He could not go himself as he would immediately trace him in a crowd. But he would need to be here when Peter would finally be caught. But a little question dawned on him. “So what now?” he asked.

Scott was the one who answered him. “Waiting. Just waiting really. That is all we can do. It is still just Wednesday. We don’t have any other lead on him until then.”

Derek looked down. It would be a pain to go back home now. But also, staying in the city, he would need a place to stay for two nights. Any hotel was out of the question as they cost insane amounts of money in the very center of such a packed metropolitan city. “Alright. Thanks. I guess I will go. I will need to find somewhere to sleep.”

Scott frowned. “I am really sorry that I can’t let you stay at my place. My mom is currently...”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Don’t worry about it. Just because I choose not to live here, doesn’t mean I am hopeless in the streets.” Derek said.

Stiles threw the second cigarette butt from the window before returning the tubes were they belong. “Oh please. So dramatic.” He made his way back to his seat and got back to his screens. “I have a lot to do tonight. And you know me, I never actually sleep at nights. I usually start considering the possibility when the second sunrise decides to creep up. I have had way too many energy drinks to be doing any sleep tonight. My bed is in the back room. You can crash here for the night and run along in the morning. I don’t care.”

Derek took up Stiles on his offered and headed to the back room. It was a dark little space that was surprisingly clean compared to the other room. But it looked just unlived in more than anything. Derek took off his shift and jeans, lying down in the dark. He could not smell any of the cigarettes, alcohol or medicine that was the distinct smell for Stiles.

Scott stayed with Stiles for a few hours and Derek could not help but choose to listen in on their conversation. Scott made another attempt to negociate his friend’s lifestyle decisions, all in vain. He could tell that Stiles was probably right as it was clear that something was killing him. It was not Derek’s business although it would be a real shame if his help was needed again and he was either too weak or dead. He wanted to rationalize how he felt then and there. He could not. He could not help thinking that he wanted to look at Stiles longer.

Something about him made it difficult to breathe. He was far from being in a glorious state but he was also far from being broken. He was sharp and with a sense of wit about him. But also, almost more than that, there was something magnetic in the way he looks. He has no idea why some guy with pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, and who was actively ordering flowers for his funeral was so attractive to him.

Derek eventually started to get drowsy despite some of the city noise still coming in from the open window. He adjusted himself in bed to face the wall, the blanket pulled over his head.

Derek listened to Stiles shuffling around somewhere in the bathroom, washing up. He must have started to fall asleep to not have noticed Stiles walk over to him. “Hey, there.” Stiles gently poked him, checking to see if he was awake. Derek grunted in response, “What do you want?”

“You.”

Derek felt wide awake after the utterance of the single-syllable word. Stiles spoke to him in a quiet whisper. “I could feel you checking me out earlier.”

Derek thought for a second and decided to sit up to face him. Stiles could not help but let his eye briefly wander over Derek’s shirtless chest. “I am not gay,” Derek told him.

Stiles smiles, but this time it was different. A quieter smiles somehow. “I didn’t say you were. I just think you were checking me out. I think I check you out. Just a little bit.” He bit lower lip just for a moment and it was hard not to stare at how he licked it afterward. “I don’t have the time in my life to careful poke at you over time and see if you decide to respond to my advances. Actually having an idea of how your life clock looks can make you a little more... brave.”

“You don’t seem bothered.”

“I have had enough drinks to get the balls to ask and enough self-hate to understand you telling me to fuck off. Having said that, here is my offer, for lack of a better word. You fuck me into the bed, you can leave without saying anything about it, I won’t ever mention it, and then pretty soon, I will take it with me when I go.” Stiles leaned back, brushing his hair back for it to only bounce back immediately. “I want you right now. Do you want me?”

Derek decided not to really think about it because if he did, he would naturally tell himself to do the right thing. So he just acted. He grabbed Stiles by the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

Stiles tasted like alcohol, tobacco, and bad decisions. Derek moved to his neck and bit down, not too hard as he was testing limits. Stiles moaned loudly and it felt wonderful against Derek’s lips. Stiles was feeling impatient enough to move to sit across Derek’s lap and grinding his hips. After letting Derek leave so bruises on him, he moved down.

Stiles did not have experience in sucking dick but he did have more than enough enthusiasm. He pulled down his boxers and got to work. Derek could not help but pull on his hair and push him down a few times when he’d slack. Stiles was all for it. He did not struggle to take him all in nor did he even flinch when he finally came into his mouth.

Last time Derek received head, the idea of kissing the person afterward seemed unthinkable but here he is. Pulling Stiles in for a kiss right after. He did not care. He finally pulled off Stile’s shirt and yanked a little on his hair to get good access to the crook of his neck. He bit him harder this time, a proper bite. Stiles screamed out but he absolutely loved it. “Fuck yes.” He gasped.

That out cry was what pushed away any last bit of hesitation. Derek ran his hand down his back and into his jeans to squeeze his ass. “Are you going to get on with it or do you want me to beg?” Stiles teased. Derek replied to that by slapping his ass with his other hand. Stiles gasped and decided to bite down on Derek himself.

After another kiss, Derek pulled Stiles on all fours. There was lube on the night stand and Derek found it effortless to slip two fingers inside of him. He clearly prepared for this with intensions to get fucked. Everything felt more urgent and heated. Derek had no idea why this guy of all people could cause such a fire to burn inside of him when no one could get close to that in a really long time.

Stiles looked up at him with hungry eyes, panting a little. “Please.” That was enough to drive him off the edge there. Derek pulled Stile’s jeans all the way off and got him to spread his legs more.

Once Derek thrust in, Stiles moaned loudly but that is not what he wanted. He wanted to hear him scream. Scream he did when he started to fuck him nice and hard. Stiles could not think of anything at the moment as his senses became overwhelmed. He just moaned, gasped and screamed.

After seemingly hours of fucking and a lot more, the two of them finally hit the bed, gasping for air. “I am guessing you are not going to stay up,” Derek said.

Stiles laughed in response. “I don’t think I have any energy to move. Ugh. But have to.” Stiles found it in him to get up and get his tank hauled over to the bed. In the mean time, Derek went to the bathroom and cleaned himself off. He could not help but feel awkward when he finally got into bed, pulling his boxers back on. He had to face the fact that he has repressed sexuality that he needs to reflect on later. But after Stiles finished cleaning himself off, put on sweat pants and made his way into bed, things nothing felt that important.

There was still a world of issues. He had to worry about Peter. He had to get out of the city again. But all that he could really think about what that he could wrap an arm around Stiles and keep him close. Derek could feel Stile’s low heart rate against his chest and it just made him more tired than ever as his own heart rate dropped to meet his halfway.

#sterek #cyberpunk #teen wolf #au #angst #in between wires #smut #fluff

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ilovebtsandexoalot · 5 years

Text

rosie

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: angst, fluff

You exited your chaotic home early on that Wednesday morning. Your sister had taken the last of the quinoa cakes and you had had enough, so you opted for walking to school rather than enduring an extra 5 minutes with your sister even if it did mean having to leave 20 minutes earlier.

You didn't mind walking for another reason though. Spending time with Yoongi had you half in ecstasy he was your best friend and you enjoyed sharing banter. He was also your crush. Now you knew to an outsider this may seem great seeing as you live right next door to each other, therefore you get to spend a lot of extra time with him. However, for you its different. You were crushing on him, and you were crushing damn hard. The only problem was, not only did he have no idea you felt this way but he also had a crush on someone else. To make this whole awful situation worse his crush was the most kind perfect beautiful girl you had ever seen, Rosie.

Even though all of your friends had said otherwise, you couldn't help but think that you were just, well Sophie, nothing special really. If you were pretty, Rosie was stunning. If you were kind, she might as well have been the reincarnation of Mother Teresa, you supposed. Every time he talked about her to you, (which was a lot) because you were his best friend damnit and you couldn't pretend that you didn't like her or discourage him because the you'd seem like a shitty friend PLUS you did like her because who wouldn’t. Him talking about her felt like daggers through your heart. It felt like you were running in a race that you knew you'd never win.

That morning you exited your driveways and the exact same time. You too always shared such remarkable timing.You were always in perfect sync. Your heart always screamed “THIS IS A SIGN YOU’RE CLEARLY MEANT TO BE” but the logic in your brain hastily corrected your hearts foolish mistake and washed out the disillusions with a wave of self hatred.

You observed him. He managed to look breathtaking even in his idiotic leaf green school coat and you mentally cursed him for pulling off anything he wore. His black hair was fluffy and looked freshly washed. “Hey friend!” he said casually. Right you thought ‘friend’ because thats all you'd ever be. The one to come to when he wants to know what ring to to choose when he inevitably marries someone outstanding and completely worthy of him, while ripping you to shreds without even knowing.

You walked for a while in comfortable silence until he said it. The words that made the ground around you crumble to pieces and left you with no way to escape. “I think I'm gonna ask her on a date” he said confidently. Your heart plummeted and as if you weren't already having a bad morning this made it five billion times worse. “Huh?” was all you could come up with . You just hoped to God that he was talking about something that wasn't about to rip your frail heart to shreds. “Rosie!” he said ‘“hey are you ok your voice sound a bit shaky” he said lightly punching you on the bicep. “Oh yeah I'm fine why wouldn't i be” you said hoping that your voice would betray the self destruction that you were experiencing. “Also thats sound great hope she says yes! “ you lied. You had to lie, for the sake of you friendship. What if he didn't feel the same way. How could you continue this friendship normally if he knew you harboured feelings for him and he was fully responsible for your heartbreak. You couldn't do that, because doing that would not only ruin your close friendship, but hearing the confirmation that he really didn't love you would destroy you. You would finally plummet off the tightrope you have been trying so hard so maintain balance upon. Plus you suppose spending time with him this way was better than not spending time with him at all.

That day at school was torture all you could think of was Yoongi and all of the threads of him being cut out of your grasp and being left with a broken heart and theres nothing you could say or do about it because nobody knows about this. to everybody else your Yoongis best friend. Nothing more. Nobody knew the pain you felt every time he looked at his love interest. And thats how it should be, because if nobody knows than nobody will ever find out especially Yoongi.

You gathered your books for homework rather a huff as your teacher was a huge bitch and gave you a hell of a lot of homework. As you walked out of the school building you found your eyes drawn to the effortlessly stunning silhouette of Rosie along with Yoongi’s rather nervous looking one.He was doing it. There’s nothing you can do abut it. You lost him. The realisation punched you in the face. You never even had him. How can you lose something that wasn't even yours in the first place? You needed to get out. You needed to get home. You willed your tears to at least refrain until there weren't people you knew in the vicinity but it was no use.

“y/n!” You barely heard the familiar voice over the constant ringing in your ears. You couldn't stop now. You couldn't face him now. You heard footsteps speeding up against the tarmac and felt a warm hand on your exposed arm. You reluctantly turned your head towards the confused boy. “woah woah hey hey hey why are you crying? are you ok?” You breathed a choked laugh and the question. No you weren't ok. Far from it actually. You had a constant pain in your chest because you were constantly wanting something you knew would never be yours in the way you needed it to be. “I-I’m sorry” you choked. “I can’t do this.” you ran. Ran away from the pain. Away from his shouts of your name. Away from the boy who broke your heart and had no idea he had done it.

You sat in your room on your bed crying and crying. Just crying. Your phone constantly ringing and Yoongi’s name flashing upon it. The ringing stopped. Had he given up? The thought brought sickness to your stomach. Did he really not care that much. Just then you heard a knock on the door. You didn't want to talk yet. You weren't ready. You needed him and you were too scared of the consequences of what you needed to say. Having him but being in constant emotional pain was better than not having him at all.

Wasn't it?

You're parents weren't home yet so nobody would answer the door. What if it wasn't even him? What if it was your mum needing help with the shopping. You thought there was no harm in checking, So you reluctantly trudged through the hall and checked the peep hole. No mum. No sopping. Just a worried looking, incredibly gorgeous, kind and hilarious by that you had known so well. You didn't want to answer. You didn't mean to answer. You knew it wast wise. But you did it anyway. They say when you truly love someone the pull is strong and you find yourself alway drifting back. This was that. True love. The pull. You felt it and it threatened to consume you. And that is why you opened the door.

When you opened it you saw Yoongi looking almost surprised that you did. “Come in.” you said flatly. You knew being cold was unreasonable because technically he didn't quite know what he had done wrong, but you had had enough. He needed to know the truth before the pain controlled you. “So are you gonna tell me what I did to make you so pissed off at me or are you just gonna be bitchy and ignore me again.” He had no fucking right to say that and now you were angry.

“You think I'm being bitchy” You almost screamed “wow how could you be this stupid” you said under your breath. “You think I'm being bitchy.” you said calmly this time. “Do you want to know whats bitchy?” you started. At this point Yoongi looked even more confused than when you told him what a period was in 4th class. “Longing, and yearning for your best friend and knowing he’ll never love you back.” you said breathlessly.

“What are you talking about? Of course I love you” he said weakly.

You laughed humourlessly. “Not in the same way I love you. Do you know what I’d do for you to look and me, to talk about me, to love me like you do Rosie. God I love you! How can you not see that!” You felt like all the life had been sucked from your body. “Please love me.” You whispered

Yoongi stared blankly back at you. And so it being the painful demise of your weak heart. “I-I need to take a walk” all you could do was stand helplessly and watch him leave. Probably never to return. He grabbed his jacket and you heard the click of the front door. Thats when you sunk to the ground and cried, and cried and cried.

You just sat there and thought about Yoongi, his hugs his touches his soft kisses at your temples that made you melt and didn't do a thing for him. All the things you had just lost. His company made you feel like you were finally happy and there was nothing anyone or thing could do to change it. Until now. Now you were alone. And your heart was broken. Forever.

You didn't know how long you were asleep for. You almost had forgotten what had happened but not for long. You must have been so emotionally drained you fell asleep. But now you were faced with the soft expression of Yoongi looking fondly in your direction. It felt like a dream as he moved a strand of hair from your face and around your ear. “hey!” he said softly, “Are you awake?” you groans in response. “Good.” he said “Cause i need to tell you something.”

“no” you said “can we just say like this for a while. Please”

So you did. You stayed in his arms for a while. It felt just like it should. It felt perfect. It felt like Yoongi.

“rosie said no.” he said softly. what. Was she crazy? “huh?” was all you could manage. “yeah, she mentioned something about having a boyfriend in Andrews or something.” he looked slightly dejected as he spoke. “oh I'm sorry yoongi..” you said.

“Look y/n, I’m gonna tell you something. It may not be exactly what you're looking for but its the best i can give you right now. I’ll be honest. Ive never thought about you in that way before. BUT, if you're willing to I'm willing to try it as something more. I love you sophie not in the same way as you do yet, but I can see myself with you in the future. And that is why I'm asking you now, to go on a date with me on the condition that if it doesn't work you'll be willing to go back to friends, best friends.”

“yes.”

10 years later.

You and Yoongi had just finished your 10 year anniversary dinner. 10 years since you decided to be boyfriend and girlfriend. 10 years since he told you he loved you. In every way.

It was the middle of summer. It was 9pm and as you walked through. The park where you and Yoongi had spent much of your childhood. The park where you went on your first real date. It was perfect. The sun was sinking into the horizon like quicksand. You made it to the top after a slow ascent. You walked handed in had over to the balcony type thing over looking the bay. “Oh my God that is beautiful!” you exclaimed. “not as beautiful as you.” he smirked. “that reminds me actually.’ and that moment was when your life truly began. The moment where he knelt down one knee and spoke. “y/n y/l/n. I know we’re both young, and i know this may feel too soon to you, but it doesn't for me and well the more i think of waiting, the less i want to , and i just want today thank you for being you. Thank you for telling me your feelings so i would stop being such an idiot and realise mine. Thank you for making me study for the Leaving cert. thank you for reminding me not to eat too many koka noodles. thank you for not being Rosie. Thank you for being amazing, intelligent, beautiful you. There is not a single other person in the universe I’d rather spend the rest of my life with and thank you for letting me realise that. y/n y/l/n, will you make me the happiest man on earth, will you marry me?” By now obviously the tears were GUSHING but you didn't care. The man you adored loved you and wanted to marry you. All you could think of saying was

“yes!”

#bts #bts x reader #yoongi #min yoongi #suga #BTS suga #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #bts army #bts imagines #bts scenario #yoongi imagine #yoongi scenario #suga imagine #suga scenario

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pogasm · 4 years

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questions of👖

1. What would the happiest and best version of yourself look like? I am happy when im with people i dont hate. and they dont hate me in return

2. What message/advice would you give to your past self? damn bitch u live like this?

3. What is your happy place and why? i like stinking myself in dark tiny spaces. right now my favourite one is my closet HSHKZDLNFKD

4. Have you ever been in a toxic relationship? How did you get out of it? Any advice? Yeah. i just... told him to fuck off then i blocked him. if ur in a toxic relationship just do ur best to get out... and tell someone. or multiple someones.

5. If money didn’t matter (if you earned enough money from it) what job would you want to have and why? a model probably. or an artist. idk what kind of art. the ideal job is the one where i dont have to use my brain bc it stops working sometimes.

6. Do you have your happiest memory? yes. i played hide and seek with my mom once. thats the only normal mother-child relationship thing we've ever done. when i was younger after dinner my dad would take me outside and i would sit on his lap while we looked at the stars and he would tell me a story. i miss that

7. Do you have your saddest memory? If you don’t mind sharing please tell us about it. idek what sadness is. its a confusing emotion. but i have a traumatic memory. i will not share

8. What is the movie/book/tv show that made you think a lot or made you change something about yourself? um idk but once i watched a movie with a gay character in it and i was like.. woah.. you can do that?... and yeah

9. If you ever were to write a book what would it be about? renee and rainn 😳. luv those bitches

10. Do you have a strange habit? idk. ive been told i talk too loud, and i feel like i talk a lot, which is funny bc when i speak the things i say never make any sense.

11. Have you ever met a person that drastically changed your life? yuh. i think.

12. How would you describe yourself in 5 words ? shawdy like a melody in...

13. What is your idea of a perfect day? rainy and i am outside. i want to bee in the woods while it rains. that is cool i think

14. Do you have any embarrassing stories from your life? many. my life is an embarassing story

15. What is the strangest thing you’ve done or seen ? i saw a corpse once. i was like 9 i think. i also got hit by a motorcycle

16. What is your gender identity? Do you think you do a lot of stereotypical things that are assigned to your gender? idk,,, i dont think about it that much,,, but im def not cis.

17. If you could bring one character from a book to life, who would it be and why? this isn’t a book but the ice age baby. so i could kick it. also ben's parents from 'i wish u all the best' they were assholes. i would sucker punch them. in the asshole.

18. Do you have a person in your life that makes you feel special or a person that you feel like you’re soulmates with? if soulmates are real then i dont think ive met them yet

19. What has been the hardest thing you had to deal with? Do you habe any advice on how to deal with a similar situation? one time i cried. i dont reccomend.

20. What are you currently waiting for? wednesday. i get my phon bac. also for my earring hooks on etsy. and the piercing kit I ordered JHHDJLADSJF

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stevedonnellyfaith-blog · 5 years

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Penance at Discharge (Post 111) 10-14-15

Last Wednesday evening I traveled from work in Youngstown to Cleveland to pick up Stephen and take him home after the completion of his week of testing for epilepsy. I decided to work the full day and arrive at around 5 PM because I believe I had previously tried every conceivable pick-up time at John Muir Medical Center and a dozen other hospitals and have always still found the hospital staff woefully unprepared to discharge either Pam, Nick, Abby, Stephen or Natalie on almost every single occasion. Because I spend my professional life using Lean Manufacturing tools to carve minutes and seconds out of processes to achieve savings, unnecessary hospital discharge delays always grate on my nerves. Luckily, in a former life, decades ago, I wore the uniform of our country and am hardwired to tolerate circumstances where a “hurry up and wait “outcome is assured.

Upon arrival in Stephen’s room, I was greeted by mysteriously mixed signals. Stephen was already garbed in sweatshirt, sweatpants and sneakers like he was ready to head home, but he still had an IV visible on his hand. Usually when a person is being discharged after a serious illness, removing the IV is nearly the last precautionary order of business. Stephen, though, had checked in for testing in a relatively healthy state and had not had any unexpected issues during the tests. His nurse soon arrived to dispel my confusion; he let me know that Stephen would be ready for discharge immediately after completing an MRI, for which he had waited all day. Evidently, University Hospital’s policy is to assign the highest daytime priority for MRI, CT, Ultrasound and probably every other possible test service to outpatients, because, theoretically, inpatients can stay all night. We left the hospital about three hours later at 8 PM. Not the most customer pleasing denouement to our visit, but otherwise Stephen was treated very well.

If I were a cradle Catholic, I probably would have remembered to offer up the entire experience, but, in actuality, Stephen’s hospital room was equipped with a passable selection of cable television channels so I think I passed the time treating my senses to an electronic barrage following the entertainment fasting conditions we have been living under since we moved out of my parent’s house. I can’t remember what I watched. Maybe I didn’t watch television at all and instead scrolled through Facebook, but I don’t think I could have whiled away three solid hours weaving through all the pages of what my friends have posted. Usually I can only take so much Facebook as the recycled memes are often very repetitive. Also I have a number of Libertarian, atheist and Pro-Choice friends that rake my scrolling sensibilities with morally questionable material or untruths that I generally try to identify and pass by like the doggie deposits that Natalie’s pets have peppered across my lawn – mowing my lawn is somewhat like hopscotch. For instance, I am friends with one of my high school football coaches, with whom I seem to agree and am able to “like” for less than ten percent of his posts. Luckily he has children and grandchildren, but I digress.

By Thursday morning I had largely forgotten the ordeal of disembarking from UH the previous evening. Natalie and I shared a last breakfast together as I planned to return to my regular morning schedule of 3 AM reveilles and 4 AM departures on Friday morning. The work day proceeded and ended without significant event as I prepared notes and outlines for a leadership course that I intend to teach for supervisors this week upcoming. At the end of my shift I felt quite relieved to be headed on only an hour commute home to Streetsboro instead of orbiting onward for an extra forty five minutes north eastward through Cleveland and only back to our cozy two-story after visiting Stephen. Normality seemed an alluring flavor after a week of passing time in extra driving and all too familiar clinical surroundings.

My phone buzzed as I was pulling into a gas station to top off my tank near the on-ramp of I-76, my tollless thoroughfare of choice from the Eastern border towards north central Ohio. I thought it would be a receptionist calling to provide information for Stephen’s follow-up appointment, but instead I recognized the heavy accent of my son’s neurologist who was calling to provide the results from the forgotten MRI. I made her give me the date and time for the follow-up appointment first as we were both surprised that no scheduling information had been provided at discharge. She then let me know that they had found something abnormal on Stephen’s MRI. It was a sunny afternoon, but my soul seemed to darken with her words.

There was an unusual but small spot on his scan, that hadn’t activated with contrast so she thought it was unlikely to be cancer. I asked clarifying questions with the concerned detachment of a person used to the responsibility of interpreting medical information for others including the patient. The spot was not in the vicinity of the locus of Stephen’s epileptic activity as determined by a PET scan during his hospital stay. The spot was being termed an “incidental finding” to be monitored by a follow-up MRI before Stephen’s next neurology visit in November. The spot was consistent with the lesions often found in the brains of people who suffer from migraine headaches. Stephen doesn’t get migraines. The phone call ended and I resumed my drive.

As I drove, I slipped back into long practiced habits. I finished my Divine Mercy Chaplet for the afternoon and offered a few extra prayers accepting whatever the overall outcome might be but also with hope that Stephen’s continued bad health not lead us down the cancer trail into a terminal cul-de-sac. Then I picked up the phone and gave Pam’s mother the first call as I drove. It is not the type of phone call that I relish making, but I prefer to give correct and realistic information directly to Barb rather than have her hear half-information from second-hand sources. I called my brother Sean next because I’ve found that giving several key people complete information is much better than giving lots of people partial information. I called Abby as well and repeated almost verbatim what I had told Sean and Barbara.

I knew that none of them would splash the news onto Facebook, but all would be able to provide clarification once the news did hit social media. Everything eventually ends up on Facebook. Nicholas, unfortunately, found out that his mother had died via social media while he was on break at Straw Hat. I hadn’t considered that possibility when I informed several family members of Pam’s death, but chose not to tell Nicholas for safety reasons. I didn’t want him driving home in a condition where he couldn’t pay attention. I have since remembered to consider the possibility of a Facebook spill with sensitive information.

By that time I had arrived my parent’s house to pick up Natalie. (The bus drops her off there in case I am held up at work.) I let my parents know about the spot on Stephen’s MRI face-to-face. That is my preference for difficult news, but personal conversations are not always possible once the pebble has dropped into the pool in our information age. With both sets of grandparents dutifully briefed, I drove the couple of miles remaining through Streetsboro boulevards and avenues so that I could pass the bad news to Stephen. I expected that he would have questions. My son is in a much better place now with regard to paranoia, but I remember some very bad times with him after Pam’s death.

Instead Stephen smiled at the news and asked me why I didn’t remember watching Nicola Tesla. At first I thought he was talking gibberish, but after several minutes of further conversation, I realized that Stephen had remembered a forgotten incident from a decade previous back when we lived in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

A bi-polar child misdiagnosed as hyper-active, Stephen’s made a long promenade through various unsuccessful treatment plans until eventually a doctor decided that Stephen needed a brain MRI. In preparation for the scan Stephen had to stay up all night the day previous to his test. I stayed up with him. At about 4 AM we ended up watching a long documentary about the imminently brilliant and simultaneously wacked-out physicist Nicola Tesla. I had totally forgotten about the entire experience. Nothing to help Stephen’s condition was found by the MRI, but Stephen did remember being petrified by the discovery of an “incidental finding” of a spot on his brain that was not immediately dangerous but should be monitored in the future. I guess I forgot to do so.

I spent the next half an hour reeling back in the thread of incomplete information that I had earlier cast out. It made me chuckle to have finally found the missing bookend of experience to complete the short-lived horror from all those years ago. An incident that had appeared to be random and pointlessly scary until its import made its comet-like return to my solar system at a time so remote that only my most distracted son remembered the original occurrence. Because there is a God, I know that everything in my life has a purpose and a reason even when the mosaic of occurrences appears too close to be deciphered from my vantage point.

Unhappily, I was reminded that life can be hard to understand in a different way on Sunday. A 16 year-old daughter of a good friend from my youth died unexpectedly from a brain hemorrhage at Saturday field hockey practice at a high school in New England. I could see no purpose to the death of a young girl within a close proximity to her teammates. I have seen the impact of that type of situation on servicemen and can’t fathom how a bunch of young women will suffer the impact of witnessing the loss of a friend in those circumstances. Unfortunately, my imagination is probably sufficient to paint the details of the scene in my head if I try to do so: a teary-eyed teammate sprinting for help, an adult coach working to revive or fix something in a little girl’s body that cannot be repaired, a collapsed collection of sobbing teenagers left at the scene after the ambulance has departed. I can make no sense of what has become of the poor girl’s short and seemingly glorious years – she tutored underprivileged kids.

While there is a Mass card for her waiting for pickup in my mailbox, I have no adequate words to send to her teammates or family. Yet I do know that flowers of love will sprout from the death of Casey Dunne in Braintree, Massachusetts just as good things have come from Pam’s death years removed and a continent away. That does not mean that I am happy to have lost my wife, Barb’s daughter and the mother of my children. I accept the experience and understand that good was achieved through God’s plan. While I am very happy that it does not look like Stephen will need a craniotomy, I am no longer naive enough to believe that Pam’s death was the last tragedy that I will experience. I do know that I will accept what comes and trust in God’s goodness even when my human understanding is insufficient to grasp the providence of a horrifying situation.

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regrettablewritings · 7 years

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All the Write Words, Pt.III (Library AU!Vladimir Ranskahov x Reader)

A/N: I’m gonna be real, this is just total juvenile cheesecake because even at my age, I have the sense of humor of a baby. And let’s be real, this was bound to happen at some point. This is a Vladimir fic after all . . .

Prologue Part I Part II Part IV Part V

For the first time in a long while, Vladimir Ranskahov’s life had a schedule: Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every other Saturday, he was to be dropped off at the S. Lee Public Library from 10:45 AM to 1:30 PM. After every shift and on Tuesdays and Thursdays, he typically would resume his previous work at his and Anatoly’s taxi garage. On Sundays and nearly every single night when he figured he could manage, time was put aside for downing copious amounts of vodka and drunkenly praying to God that this bullshit would end soon.

If not for his upbringing by a God-fearing born-again woman, Vladimir’s belief in a higher power would have died completely the moment he realized the ordeal wasn’t disappearing any faster than it could have been. However, it made no sense to disbelieve in a god when every other day he had to face the Devil.

The Bible had it all wrong. The Devil was not called Lucifer or Satan, and he wasn’t red with horns or anything of that nature. Instead, he was much less predictable: He was a she. And her name was (Y/N). And she was not red and with horns, but brown and small (thought she might have horns lying beneath that bushel of curls, Vladimir suspected). And her domain wasn’t an infernal pit of whips and organ-pecking birds so much as it was a homey little den of a library (still, there was much suffering, it was just relative). And there weren’t any torture devices like spears and daggers and racks so much as there were plenty of books and ridiculous words and references that could make a man feel insignificant all the same.

Or the damn alphabet chart she kept using during their little lessons in the faculty lounge. It was definitely plucked from the children’s learning corner, and it was definitely humiliating that he was being taught pronunciation association with it. C’s cat and F’s fox mocked him with their cartoonish faces. He swore he could hear D’s toothy donkey wheeze with laughter.

Maybe they were (Y/N)’s little demon accomplices? Maybe he himself was so weak that they needn’t resume an actual three-dimensional form to torture and berate him? The thought would make Vladimir shake his head furiously and toss the shot glass to the side, going full-on swig with whatever remained in the vodka bottle he’d nicked from Anatoly’s wine rack. Christianity had gotten one thing right about her, though: She had soul-sucking eyes that could make you feel quiet and nude. Especially when she was certain she could gain an upper-hand. Which, with Vladimir, almost always seemed to be the case somehow.

Vladimir stared blankly at the book in the center of the table, part-because its original cover had been so mangled that at some point it’d been given a new “jacket” made out of folded paper and marker, and part-because with what little English he could read, there was oneword on that book cover that stood out to him the most. He’d seen it graffitied on the cell walls, heard it uttered a million times more, even said it himself plenty of times if the situation suited it. Enough to identify it by sound and connect it to the letters.

Fun with Dick and Jane.

Was he going to read/look at a porno? Vladimir fought to keep from smirking. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Sip. Oh. Wait.

“Well, I see that childish humor transcends all languages.” And already, today was back it being normal. Vladimir flashed (Y/N) a reproachful look. She sat on the other side of the round lounge table per unspoken request, wearing yet another baggy sweatshirt that ended practically midway down her thighs and was altogether swallowing her short form up. She should’ve been more than warm in that suffocating getup, but she still insisted upon helping herself to a Styrofoam cup of hot Swiss Miss. She also insisted that she coyly sip from said cup for what seemed like every ten seconds of silence.

“You can try to hide that smirk all you want but the proof is in the pudding, puddin’: you’re all giddy about that Dick.” Proud of her little joke, (Y/N) smiled into her cup. The roundness of her cheeks were still visible. Vladimir quickly tried to change the subject before he slapped that cup out of her hands in a childish revenge fashion.

“What sense does it make that I read this when I can barely write?” he questioned. It was a fair point: how could be possibly read when he didn’t understand what composed the words before him?!

(Y/N) pursed her lips in thought. “Weelll . . .” she dragged, tapping her fingers against the side of the cup. “To tell you the truth, I’ve actually never really taught before . . .” Her cheeks turned rosy slightly, and Vladimir knew instantly that was it wasn’t because of the Swiss Miss. Her tone indicated a sudden realization of the gravity of this task. Maybe it’d prove to be too heavy for her and she’d just give up, sign the papers, and set him loose? Vladimir hoped so.

But all at the same time, there was a small part of him, one he didn’t want to acknowledge too greatly, that wanted her to remain persistent. Just to see where and how far this all would go.

“B-but I have younger siblings, and I read to them occasionally. So . . . so I figured that if I tried reading some basic words to you, you’d begin to connect words to writing. Or at least get more enthusiastic . . .” She shyly played with one of her many curls, suddenly gaining an interest in the image of her Styrofoam cup. She bit at her lip slightly, repressing only a fragment of the smile that was beginning to grow on her face. “I guess I could be on the right track, though.” She glanced up at the rugged Russian. “After all, you could read ‘Dick.’”

A hiss of irritability escaped from Vladimir’s flared nostrils but nothing else. She had a point, as pissed as he was to find himself understanding and agreeing. He glanced back down at Fun with Dick and Jane with its printer paper makeshift cover. What the hell, his mind finally gave in. Jane was having fun with a dick, so maybe this wouldn’t be so bad . . .

“’See Jack laugh?’” A painted illustration of some nancy boy laughing at a clown on a clunky old TV set. “’See Jane play? Jane plays with the doll.’” A little blonde girl swearing a frilly blue dress, playing with a raggedy old doll that his mother probably wouldn’t want. “’Dick is running. Run, Dick, run!’”

Yeah, you dick: Run away for fooling me, Vladimir wanted to say. This was pure torture: Having the poofy-haired Devil read to him – and at such a slow-ass pace! (Y/N), at the very least, seemed to be enjoying herself in some way. Well, that’s what the tight smile plastered across her face had initially said. But about midway through, Vladimir began to suspect that it was because she, too, might be embarrassed by the childish display.

. . . Or maybe because there was something rather odd about having to constantly utter the word “Dick” in front of a guy with whom she was not involved with nor even on friendly terms. Either way, it managed to create a small sense of victory for Vladimir; the torturer suffering alongside the tortured. Beautiful.

Why should he care about the daily activities of Jane? Or that Spot the dog and Puff the cat liked to play? Or – aw, hell, who the hell is Pam and why is she being brought into the cast seventeen pages into this travesty?!

When (Y/N) began to talk about how Sally was “funny Sally, funny, funny Sally”, a knock came from the threshold. Vladimir’s relief was almost immediately run over by embarrassment as a certain pudgy young man appeared to have walked in on their little lesson.

“Uh, hope I’m not interrupting anything major,” Foggy said from the doorway. “But that one guy? Mr. Wesley? Yeah, he’s here for those language books but we’re having trouble locating the one on Mandarin.”

“Oh, really? Okay, hold on, I’ll be right out,” (Y/N) offered. The slight eagerness in her voice indicated that she was just as excited to stop reading the bore-fest. As she followed Foggy out to the front desk, she called back, “Few-minute break, my little big pupil! Hang tight, I’ll be right back.” Vladimir nearly broke his phone with how fast and frustratingly he whipped it out of his pocket. Immediately, he set to dialing one of the very few numbers he had.

“You should not be calling,” Anatoly greeted after the third ring. Before he could say anything more, Vladimir interrupted, his Russian becoming more like gibberish. “Brother, you have signed me up for sick torture. This -- this witch has me sitting here listening to her read about Jane and Dick and –”

“Zaderzhat, zaderzhat– khuy?! You are reading porn?!” Anatoly demanded. Judging by the harsh whisper he’d delivered the sentence in, it was safe for Vladimir to assume that he was in the garage surrounded by the employees. Vladimir opened his mouth to clarify but the elder Ranskahov went on. “What the hell are you reading porn in a goddamn library, you mudak?! I send you to make you better person, not to be like some horny teenage boy!”

“No, you idiot, listen! I – ”

“Volodya, I understand if last two years in jail were rough on you – urges is -- is normal. But just because it is so long, does not mean you go about letting your dick lead you like a dog on a leash. You are its owner, you control it. So stop hiding in back room and get to work!”

“Shut the fuck up and listen to me, you goddamn mudak!” Vladimir hissed. His pride had been severely wounded. How dare Anatoly assume he was stooping so low. Hell, how dare he assume he couldn’t just walk right out this library and get any! “Women is not problem for me! And to correct you, you idiot, is not porn, is a . . . a fucking book for children!”

“Ooohhh,” Anatoly muttered with slight relief. A beat occurred between them, with Vladimir too furious and embarrassed to say anything and Anatoly suddenly in thought.

“Why are you reading children’s book?” His voice broke the crisp silence. A flurry of emotions and thoughts banged against the walls of Vladimir’s skull. Like hell Anatoly was going to find it out now!

“Okay, I’m back,” (Y/N) said as she returned into the room. At that moment, Vladimir considered the little devil an angel. But just for a second. He quickly hung up on his brother without offering him an explanation and shoved the phone back into his pocket, his usual glare holding in place. “Sorry for the holdup,” the young woman said as she grabbed another cup from the counter. She was making yet another cup of Swiss Miss.

“Mr. Wesley is a man with some rather . . . high . . . expectations. He’s a bit of a butt if you don’t put things a certain way, though . . . Oh, well,” she sighed. But her words fell on deaf ears for Vladimir. As did her continued narration of yet another Dick and Jane segment. To be perfectly honest, Vladimir had bigger, better things going on in his mind. Like how his own flesh and blood had the audacity to accuse him of being like a hormonal plebian.

He was a grown-ass man, he was more than capable of controlling his hormones! So what if he hadn’t gotten any kind of anything in a while? . . . A rather long while . . . Vladimir unconsciously furrowed his brows in thought. How long had it been precisely?

“Ow! Dammit!” The little curse yanked Vladimir back into the world of reality. In reality, (Y/N) had spilled a majority of the hot Swiss Miss on to her baggy sweater. The large brown stain coupled with a hiss of minor pain caused (Y/N) to click her teeth with dismay. “Sorry ‘bout that, Vladimir, I was just – gimme a sec.” She said it as if Vladimir had actually made any attempts to help out with the situation. Mentally, the Russian scoffed as he took his seat once again. . . . Wait. When did he even get out of it?

(Y/N) sighed after further inspecting the damage the spill had caused. “It’s all damp and gross now . . .” she muttered, her shoulders slumping in defeat. It made Vladimir roll his eyes. Why did she care about it like a normal woman cares about actually fitting clothes? It was just a baggy, old sweater. Hell, it was probably just a burlap sack dyed a different color to hide just how rough it was. Silly peasants and their attachments to their trash. These thoughts rattled in Vladimir’s head, completely drowning out his previous mental documentation and the insults that had called for them.

Then he noticed (Y/N)’s arms disappearing from the sleeves of her sullied sweater. She began to do that all too familiar wriggle a person does when they were getting a shirt off. What the – ?

“Hope you don’t mind . . .” (Y/N)’s voice sounded bashful from behind the cloth as it covered her mouth. He could see her cheeks reddening as her face descended into the neck hole, the sweater completely swallowing her. “I – I just can’t wear something so damp. It’ll get chilly, I’m sorry if this comes off as unprofessional but – ” The rambling continued on as it normally did with (Y/N), muffled until the little woman emerged from the bottom of the jumper but the embarrassed blush of her face continued. Her brown eyes scurried to look anywhere but at her overgrown pupil. Had she looked up, she would’ve noticed a change in his demeanor.

Well. The Bible might have gotten one more thing right about the Devil: She could completely transform her impression by someone in the blink of an eye because damn was that sweater like a ragged snakeskin hiding a form like that. Maybe it was the way the black fitted t-shirt embraced the slopes of her curves. Maybe it was because without the low-hanging sweater, Vladimir could see that she had soft-looking thick thighs being hugged by comfortable jeans. Maybe he just liked how after the ordeal with removing the top, her hair had become a mess he had only ever seen after becoming very . . . “playful” with a woman. … Or maybe he just liked the fact that now he could confirm that she had a nice perky-looking set of –

Konechno net! Vladimir scolded himself. You are not some simpleton brat who gets a hard-on at the mere sight of a shoulder!

It was irritating to say the least and it rang in his head even as (Y/N) carried on like normal, clearing her throat as she resumed her place in the book. It was distressing how much Vladimir was actually forcing himself to pay attention to the words she read, especially after being so insistent that he do otherwise not too long ago. But then ago, not too long ago, he wasn’t trying to not think about the last time he’d been with a woman. And not too long ago, (Y/N) the Devil had been wearing an unflattering sweater that made Vladimir certain she probably had the body of a deflated potato. And not too long ago, he was certain the book was mostly focusing on the antics of Pam or Sally . . .

“Dick is lonely. Poor, lonely Dick,” he heard his teacher utter. He was almost certain he heard a wave in her voice as she said it (almost like a laugh attempting to flutter out) but decided against that possibility. But he did notice that among other things, he sat up straighter and his eyes searched frantically for other stimuli. Something, anything to dull out the ridiculous and rather suggestive sentences he had to hear her utter, even the minor add-ins she made to soothe the laughter he swore wasn’t there.

“Dick wants to play. Dick goes to play with Jane.”

This is absurd. This is ridiculous –

“Jane wants to play with Dick as well. Hurray!”

Surely these damn Americans knew how filthy this all sounded!

“Dick j-umps with happiness (Oh, God . . .).”

Focus! On that poster – shit, it’s in English. The fridge? How many dots are in the ceiling tiles?!

“‘Jump, Dick!’ says Sally (pfft!). Dick jumps high.”

Hell no, nothing down below was jumping, right? Nothing to get all jumpy down there about when you’re looking at – a toaster? Magnets? Napkins?! Hair? Her hair? All messy and curled against cheeks red from being flustered –

“Dick is b-big . . .”

Those curves that didn’t exist until now, that perfect handful set on her chest –

“Dick is bigger than Ja – I can’t do this!” Immediately, (Y/N) burst into what might have been the most juvenile laughter Vladimir had heard in a long time. Like a series of bubbles overflowing from her mouth, rampant and without any of the control or demure nature she’d appeared to have before. It was unsettling. “I – I’m zsorry, V-vladimir,” (Y/N) wheezed as she tried to pat the laughter back with gentle taps to her chest. “I dknow it’z childish but – but come on, it’z zso ridiculous!” Vladimir could only stare and fight off the feeling of gobbsmacked that he actually felt.

He had been brought back to reality by a thunderous laugh and yet he wasn’t sure how much of it was actually real.

“Shoot, man,” gasped (Y/N) when she’d finally managed to calm down. “I think I laughed myself a set of abs almost. Geez, I’m a child . . .” She shook her head. Vladimir was used to only her curls bouncing when she did this but with the sweater gone and her body still making minor heaves after such a laughing spell, he couldn’t help but notice some other things moving in a bouncy fashion as well. And he fucking hated that he noticed this. He also hated how when she laughed in that gross fashion, his face burned. What witchcraft was this freaking suka pulling?!

Knock-knock.

The two looked up to see Claire in the faculty lounge doorway. “Hey, (Y/N)? Yeah, a young man at the desk is asking about Arachnemania? That one book on spiders? I swear we have it somewhere but we can’t find it in our system, is there any way you could . . .?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Thanks Claire,” (Y/N) turned to Vladimir. “Hang tight for a sec. When I come back, we can start on some workbook crap, a’ight?”

Vladimir nodded slowly. He had to remind himself to make his perpetual scowl at last minute. It didn’t last long, however, as when (Y/N) turned to leave, Vladimir’s eyes could help but slink downward on her body. Well. Apparently there were now two things Vladimir didn’t hate about his teacher from Hell. It took the end of his shift and his distance from them for him to realize in pure frustration that the little cheeky devil had turned the things he liked against him to get into a false sense of enjoyment.

#what was i thinking when i wrote this??#vladimir ranskahov x reader #vladimir ranskahov imagine #vladimir ranskahov imagines #daredevil imagine #daredevil imagines #all the write words #Regrettablewritings

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like-a-bag-of-potatoes · 7 years

Text

With You By My Side - Three

A/N: I have no schedule for when I’m posting this, I will just post whenever a chapter is ready. Its planned out to the end, so all I really have to do is type it up, but I have a lot on my plate these days so I will make no promises. Thanks for all the feedback you all give me on this, that is always appreciated. And thanks to my beta @thorne93, you are the best.

Characters: Jensen, Reader.

Warnings: Angst, self doubt, cancer, language.

Wordcount: 1837

You can catch up HERE

*not my gif*

The two of you sat in your backyard as you walked him through what your doctor had told you, everything from the surgery the upcoming Monday to remove both your breasts, the way the cancer had spread to your liver and how you were to start chemotherapy as soon as your body was strong enough after the surgery.

“But if they want to start you on chemo, it must mean they think you have a shot right?” he asked hopefully. He had hardly spoken a word since you dropped the news on him, he just sat there with your hand in his, giving you his full attention as you talked.

The slight glimmer of hope that rose in his eyes and voice damn near shattered you. You wanted so badly to wrap your arms around him, to tell him everything would be alright, but you had never been capable of lying to him, even how much you wanted to in this moment. “The chemo is to stop the spreading. There are very few cases of breast cancer where it spreads to the liver, and mine is rapid, it's spreading fast and the only way to slow it down, or prevent it from spreading any further is chemo.”

A single tear escaped Jensen's eyes and made its way down across his face. “How long?” he asked in a thick voice.

“They don't know until they see how my body reacts to the treatment, but around 18 months, maybe less.”

Jensen didn't leave your side before he had to go back to Vancouver on Sunday evening, and if you hadn't driven him to the airport yourself he wouldn't have gone at all. The thought of you going through that surgery with no one by your side didn't sit right with him, especially after you had made him swear not to tell anyone what was going on.

When you had told him that you wanted to see him, to talk to him, he thought maybe you had changed your mind about breaking up, or maybe hoped was more like it. He, for one, had walked through your doors ready to ask you to come back to him, he was ready to do everything in his power to get you back, but right now you needed a friend so that was what he was going to be for you.

It was late Monday evening before your name flashed across the screen on his phone. “Y/N?”

“Hey, Jay,” you said in a groggy voice. “I just got back to my room.”

“It's so good to hear your voice, sweetheart.” He hadn't been able to concentrate all day. He kept messing up his lines and missing his cues. Finally they had decided to call it a day and he could retreat to his trailer, where he had been pacing back and forth, checking his phone every two minutes. “How did the surgery go?”

“I haven't seen my doctor yet, but my boobs are gone so I guess it went as planned,” you chuckled, which made you wince in pain. In reality this wasn't funny at all. You had always thought that if push came to shove and you had to remove your breasts it wouldn't be a big deal, but now that it was a reality it was so much different. You felt ashamed, which was stupid because you hadn't really seen anyone yet, except from the overly chipper nurse that supplied you with morphine.

“How are you doing then?”

“I'm alright. They put some pretty kickass pain meds in my IV.”

“I hate that I'm not there with you,” he said, running a hand over his face.

“I know, but there isn't anything you could do here anyway so.”

“I'll be there Thursday. And if you want to talk, you just call me, doesn't matter what time it is.”

The two of you said your goodnights and hung up the phone after you had convinced Jensen you were doing fine.

Tuesday and Wednesday went by in a blur of morphine, doctors visits, cat scans and bandage changes. Normally you would have been released from hospital the day after surgery, but because of the cancer your immune system was basically non existent you had to stay a couple of days extra.

Thursday morning your regular, chipper nurse came into your room. “You ready to go home today?” she asked, flashing you all of her pearly whites. Had the circumstances been different you would probably have appreciated her light hearted spirit, but in your state her bubbly nature did nothing to comfort you.

“I guess so.” You shrugged.

“Great. The doctor will be in in a little while to walk you through everything about your release and I was thinking that you and I could change your bandages now, that way you’re good to go once you have spoken with him,” she informed.

You sat up in bed and threw your legs off the edge like you had done during the previous changes, fixing your eyes on a spot at the wall so that you didn't have to watch her do it.

“Today I thought we could do it in the bathroom so you can watch and learn. They have to be changed every other day and I bet you don't want to come in here to do it.”

No, no, no. You weren't ready yet. One thing was to know that they were gone, another thing was to see it, to feel it. She probably noticed the panic in your eyes, because her face clouded over with compassion. It took a while for her to convince you to stand in front of the mirror, but somehow she had gotten through to you.

Your eyes were squeezed shut as she helped you out of your robe and bandages, your heart pounding a million miles an hour, a lump forming in your throat as you felt the cool air hit your bare chest.

“It's time to open your eyes, sweetie,” the nurse said in a soft voice. “You can do this.”

You eased your eyes open, trying to fix them on anything but the reflection in the mirror. It took a few moments before you mustered up the strength to look at yourself. Tears flowed down your cheeks as your eyes traced the two horizontal lines across your now flat chest. It looked disgusting, a swollen red line with stitches across it. Your hands flew up to wrap around yourself as you turned away from the mirror. Sobbs raced through your body and you hunched over trying to focus on keeping your breath steady. The nurses warm hands were on your shoulders as she said things like ‘it's okay’ and ‘just let it out’ in a comforting voice, but you didn't find it comforting at all. A part of your identity was gone, was that a silly way to feel? Like you had been stripped of your femininity? It really didn't matter if it was silly because it was how you felt.

“I look hideous,” you said after you and the nurse had gotten you wrapped up and changed into an oversized hoodie and a pair of loose pants.

“You look gorgeous.” She smiled at you through the mirror. “It might take some getting used to, but I have no doubt that you'll be just fine. Besides, it will look a whole lot different when the swelling goes down and the stitches come out,” she assured. God bless her and her positivity, even if it did little to comfort you right now.

You wiped your eyes one last time making sure all the tears were gone before you went back into your room to face the doctor that was there waiting for you.

He walked you through the procedure you had been through, told you a little bit about what to expect in the next few days regarding pain and mobility and such. You were still very sore, and lifting your hands above your chest hurt like a son of a bitch. “And when you come in to remove your stitches in 10 days, we will see if we can start you on chemo. The sooner the better,” he informed. “Any questions?”

“How sick will the chemo make me?”

“That varies from person to person. That being said, chemotherapy has come a long way in the last few years. You may experience some nausea, fatigue, lack of appetite and so on.”

“Will I lose my hair?” With your breasts being gone, you couldn't stand the thought of losing anything else of what made you you. It sounded so juvenile and superficial in your mind, but your body was sick, slowly killing you from the inside, you felt like you needed it not to be visible. Like if you couldn't see it it wasn't as real.

“Not everyone does. Some lose all their hair, some lose the hair on their head, some lose the hair on their legs and arms… there really isn't any guarantee.”

You were pleased with your doctor. He was a very professional man, straight to the point. He handed you the release papers for you to sign, shook your hand and then left the room, almost colliding with Jensen in the door.

A wide grin appeared on Jensen's lips as he saw you. He stretched out his arms to hug you as he came closer to the bed where you were sitting, but you placed a firm hand on his chest to stop him from wrapping you in his arms. If he gave you one of those tight, comforting hugs that he was known to give, you would be pressed up against him and he would be able to feel that you were different, and you were not ready for that.

He furrowed his brows for a brief second before he shrugged it off, you were probably in pain he thought. “Ready to head home?”

“Yeah,” you sighed. “Thanks for picking me up,” you said with a half hearted smile as you got up from your bed. You couldn't look at him, you couldn't let him see you like this, the large hoodie you wore was the only thing that gave you any comfort at this point.

The car ride back to your house was spent in silence, Jensen didn't know what to say to you, or, he knew what he wanted to say, but he couldn't get any words out. You noticed the glances he stole from the driver's side and how his mouth opened and closed as if he wanted to talk, but your mind was occupied elsewhere.

Since the day you were diagnosed all you had thought about was getting through this surgery, this was the first stop on a long road of treatments. Somehow you had managed to forget what comes next, somehow you had managed to forget that your life was about to come to an end and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Tags: (put yourself on my taglist HERE)

All things spn: @frenchybell @itseverythingilike @percywinchester27 @feelmyroarrrr @yoursmilemakesmeloveyou @mrswhozeewhatsis @you-know-whodoesthat-crazypeople @drbagels123 @sandlee44 @buckysmetallicstump @torn-and-frayed @thereisnolumos @tia58 @charliebradbury1104 @devilgirlsarah @shadowexorsist009 @bea789 @supernatural-jackles @mariairwin666 @madamelibrarian @atc74 @you-didnt-see-that-cuming @hanny-writes-spn @livelylaynie @therewillbeblood @ruprecht0420 @samgirlforeverandalways @youremycrimsonpain @melonberri @iamnotsaneatall @donnaintx @fangirlextraordinaire @fernandasvaldi @moonstar86

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#spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #spn reader insert #jensen ackles #jensen x reader #jensen ackles fanfic #spn angst #WYBMS

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angelbabymommy · 4 years

Text

Where do I begin? How do I tell this story? I guess the only way I know how.

I am 32 years old, I have carried and birthed 5 beautiful babies into this world, children I am thankful for each day, even more so now. Children I am blessed to hug, laugh with, make memories, and love always.

March 7, 2020 I gave birth to my fifth child. My partner and I both agreed we didn’t want another child for some time and I made the decision to use birth control. I was using the Xulane birth control patch. All was well.

In June 2020 I realized I hadn’t started a period. Surely I wasn’t pregnant but just to be safe we took a test, imagine our surprise to see two lines! Wait! What just happened!?!

It was overwhelming. We were scared. But we accepted it. My partner and I were warming up to the idea of another baby to adore. I found a midwife, I found a hospital that would allow me to have the water birth I always dreamed of having. I was going to stay team green and have my partner announce the gender of our baby to me at birth. I also had decided this would be my last baby for good. I began to envision this life with this child. I felt strongly and deeply in my heart it was a little girl. My heart was overjoyed.

July 14, 2020 we had our first ultrasound scan. We measured 6 weeks! Our baby had a heartbeat, 108 bpm. Everything looked normal. They scheduled us for a follow up scan for two weeks later. During those two weeks I experienced some nausea, my tests were still blazing positive. I craved foods and I was tired. But I was happy.

July 31, 2020 I should have been 8 weeks 3 days. We would see an even bigger baby with an even stronger heartbeat! I couldn’t wait, I had looked forward to this day so much. But when we did the scan my heart sunk. I am not an expert by no means but I’ve had enough babies and scans to know what we should have seen and we were not seeing that. The nurse said it was inconclusive. But I knew, I knew it wasn’t inconclusive. I knew my baby was gone. Taken from me. Why? What had I done wrong? I didn’t drink or do drugs. I took my prenatal vitamins every night before bed.

I came out to the car and burst into tears. Barely able to speak. I was a blubbering mess. My boyfriend was in denial. He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted a second opinion. My body didn’t warn me. It gave me no indication that something was wrong. It still believed it was pregnant. Why oh why? By Monday I began spotting pink. I knew my body was finally beginning to realize what had happened, that we lost the baby. It’s funny people say lost the baby, as if I somehow misplaced it. I didn’t lose it. Where did it go?

Tuesday I saw my old OB who had delivered my other babies. She remained optimistic. She drew blood. She wanted to check my hcg count before proceeding. The next day, Wednesday, August 5, 2020 my Dr called. My hcg count was 2500, that’s normal for a 6 week pregnancy. I knew then my baby had stopped developing right after that first scan. My pink spotting was beginning to turn more red and a bit more heavy.

That night around 7 PM I began bleeding uncontrollably. I was getting blood all over myself and my bathroom. My four year old was scared repeatedly asking me if I was okay. I assured him I would be okay. I finished making dinner, feeding my kiddos and bathing everyone and getting them off to bed. At that point I was soaking a pad in less than an hour. I tried to shower, to get blood off me, but blood poured out of me. It was like a scene from a horror film. I began passing clots. Some were as big as my hands. I started feeling weak, dizzy and faint. Any time I stood I would see spots and darkness. I knew this wasn’t normal.

My boyfriend had to leave for work. He works the overnight shift. Fortunately my mom was here. I hadn’t even announced my pregnancy yet but I had the unfortunate experience of having to explain to her what was going on. As I crawled my way out of the shower trying to dress myself with blood still running down my legs, my mom petrified, she called 911.

The ambulance rushed me to the hospital. My blood pressure remained stable. My heart was pounding against my chest, it was in a state of tachycardia. My hemoglobin levels were low at a 10. The nurse assigned to me immediately set up an IV, took blood and urine. The ER doctor said my hcg levels were now at 1700, they were definitely going down. Another ultrasound scan confirmed the pregnancy was no longer viable. At that point the doctor felt comfortable administering me medication to help with the cramping and bleeding.

They did a pelvic exam. The ER doctor gently used a speculum to open me up and used forceps to remove clots, lots of clots. Once he believed he had gotten them all he could get to my ER nurse took wipes and began cleaning my legs and feet for me. My bleeding began to slow down. My heart rate was still high though. Even after IV fluids my hemoglobin levels had gone down another 2 points. They wanted me to stay overnight, they talked about a possible D&C and blood transfusion.

But I couldn’t stay. My boyfriend at work, my grandma refusing to help and my mom having her own health issues (osteoarthritis & fibromyalgia) I had to make it home to my other kids. I sadly had to sign myself out of the hospital against medical advice. At 2 in the morning I waited for my Uber to take me home. I sat in the backseat of someone’s car wearing the pants I came to the hospital in, soaked and stained with blood. Praying that I didn’t bleed on their seat and get charged a cleaning fee.

I made it home. Shortly afterward my four month old awakened, I went to make him a bottle, feeling weak and dizzy again, I sat on my kitchen floor trying to regain my composure and ability to walk and stand. While sitting there, my heart pounding out of my chest and sounds slowly fading out I blacked out and fainted. I awoke after smacking my forehead and elbow into the high chair and my mom jumping up as quickly as I had ever seen her move in months, crying she said “You fell, you passed out.” I laid on the floor crying and telling her I couldn’t finish making the bottle. My mom made it and gave it to my baby for me.

I forced myself to eat and drink water. Still feeling weak I dragged myself to bed and slept. I woke up the next day feeling tired, my body sore, still a little shaky and weak but somehow I survived. I was lucky. I didn’t need the blood transfusion after all. Somehow my body pulled through on its own, maybe with some help from God or my guardian angel.

I called my Dr office and informed them I miscarried. They said they were sorry for my loss. My Dr will do blood draws every week until my hcg levels return to 0. Then they will know my body did the work of emptying the uterus of all the contents of this pregnancy. My body let go, but my heart is another story.

Physically I know I will heal. This physically pain won’t last forever. There will come a day when my bleeding stops all together. My body will feel great. But my heart doesn’t know better. My heart doesn’t want to let go, it wasn’t ready to say goodbye, when we never even got the chance to say hello.

Emotionally I feel like I’m being tortured, I feel like I’m living a nightmare. I don’t know why this happened to me. I will never have answers. I’m angry with God, why would he take my baby from me? I’m angry with my body for failing me. I want my baby back, but I know that won’t ever happen.

Last night I laid on the floor of my bathtub while water streamed down me from the shower head. I wasn’t even interested in showering. It was just somewhere to go to escape. I put on a strong front all day for my mom and kids but in the shower I cry. I allow the grief to wash over me and the water drowns out my tears. Those gut wrenching, soul crushing, tears, the kind that makes your nose snot up and you feel the lump in your throat and you can literally feel your heart breaking. I prayed to God harder than I ever have before. I prayed for strength. I prayed for comfort and peace. I prayed for understanding. I prayed that God mend my broken heart.

It’s a rollercoaster of emotions honestly. I’m terrified of ever becoming pregnant again. What if this happens again? I don’t know if I can bear this pain again. This pain is unbearable. It’s a pain and emptiness I wouldn’t wish even upon my worst enemy. I know if there ever is a next time I will spend that entire pregnancy in fear. Fear of becoming attached and losing another baby. I never thought it would or could happen to me until it did and now here I am. 1 in 4 is not just a statistic. I am that 1 in 4. And it’s truly heartbreaking. My dreams are shattered. This has got to be the most traumatic experience of my life ever.

On the other side never becoming pregnant again envelopes me in fear as well. What if I become infertile after this? What if I’m never able to achieve pregnancy again? I want my rainbow baby someday. I know my heart will never fully heal until I have my rainbow baby nestled safely in my arms. The thing is I don’t know when/if that will ever happen for me. And so I sit and wait in this limbo of emotional turmoil. Even a rainbow baby would never replace this angel baby of mine. I will always hold onto this sadness to some degree. It will never just go away, I will never stop talking about and remembering my baby. There will never be another day I live that I don’t think of my baby and all the what ifs.

I’m triggered by the foods I ate while pregnant. I’m triggered by the births of healthy newborns and others announcing their pregnancies. Why do they get to keep their baby but I didn’t get to keep mine? That sounds selfish. But it feels unfair. It is unfair. Nothing about this is right or okay. I randomly cry throughout the day, silently.

I don’t even know the gender of my baby. I submitted my ultrasound scan to the Ramzi theory group; 3 boy guesses and 2 girl guesses. I will never know until someday I get to meet my baby in Heaven and hold my baby in my arms. I hope my baby is safe and healthy and happy in the arms of Jesus right now. I hope my baby knows I loved them so so much and wanted them more than anything in this world. I would do anything to have you sweet baby with me again.

This is my story. This is miscarriage. This is what it feels like. There is no simple way of explaining it. I’m part of a special group of women that now have their very own and very special angel watching over them. I will never forget you. In my heart you live forever. Until we meet again...

Positive Pregnancy Test: 06/27/2020

First Ultrasound: 07/14/2020 108 bpm 💓

My Due Date: 03/09/2021

My Miscarriage Date: 08/05/2020

It was such a short time with you but I fell in love with you from the very start and I’ll never stop loving you with every beat of my heart.

“An angel opened the book of life and wrote down my baby’s birth. Then whispered softly as she closed the book, Too beautiful for Earth.”

Fly high angel baby 👼 Mommy loves you 💕

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preserving-ferretbrain · 5 years

Text

The Demon's Blah Blah Blah

by Wardog

Wednesday, 01 September 2010

Viorica was right, and Wardog was wrong. Wardog tears into The Demon's Covenant.~

The Demon’s Covenant is the sequel to The Demon’s Lexicon, which I reviewed

here

, and very much enjoyed. I sometimes suspect that being liked is a mixed blessing at Ferretbrain as all it does is prepare for the way for a crushing disappointment, and I was, indeed, disappointed by The Demon’s Covenant. I’m vaguely suspicious that I might have read a different book to the rest of the internet, because every single other review I’ve seen has been full of love and squee, and I won’t deny that The Demon’s Covenant is full of Brennan’s usual charm, but it’s also extremely self-indulgent and does very little beyond set up the third book.

It reminded me most strongly of Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire – not because there’s any real similarity between the texts themselves but because, at the point book IV came out, I was still a stalwart Harry Potter fan and, although I was surprised at the sudden jump in length compared to the third book, I decided to forgive the book its obvious flaws because I was so into the Harry Potter world. Of course by the time the fifth book came out it was clear that no amount of engagement in the text could save the series from what it had become: an undisciplined, unedited mess. The Demon’s Covenant is NOT Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire but compared to the tight plotting and exciting twists of the first book it might as well be.

In essence, nothing happens in The Demon’s Covenant until the final thirty pages. The story opens some time after the end of The Demon’s Lexicon, with Mae trying to get her normal life back, when she discovers Jamie is in contact with the Magicians. Needless to say she calls in Nick and Alan and that’s basically it until the very end of the novel when there’s a big fight between The Goblin Market and the Magicians’ Circles. Yes there’s some politicking, with Jamie being passed about like the magical McGuffin he so clearly is, and Alan does another one of his trademark manipulative switcheroos, but largely there is a lot of “stuff” in the story but not much to make it a coherent narrative.

Part of the problem, I suppose, is the natural move from novelty to familiarity that affects every sequel. There is no sense of discovery here, only further information about the people and places and concepts that were introduced to us in The Demon’s Lexicon, information which largely serves to render these things less interesting, rather than the reverse. Also the “Is Alan going to betray Nick” dance is performed a second time, although less effectively because the answer is self-evidently either “NO NEVER!” or “Probably not in the second book”. And I do recognise it’s meant to be about character not action but as much I like the characters I still felt the amount of time given over to their delineation was excessive, and the degree of detail borderline obsessive.

For example, part of the book consists of extracts from Alan’s father’s journal, charting his son’s attachment to the young demon and his own developing relationship with Nick. It a chilling, and heartbreaking account (“when I drew the blanket back, Alan was sleeping with one arm curled around the monster. In his other hand was an enchanted knife”) and yet also completely unnecessary. It doesn’t tell us anything we don’t already know, and it has to be bunged awkwardly into the narrative by having Mae read it aloud to Nick, who cannot read well when he’s emotionally distressed. Since the story is entirely told from Mae’s point of view, she spends a lot of time acting like Harry Potter with his invisibility cloak so she can be in on the right scenes for the sake of the reader. Furthermore, Alan’s father writes like a teenage girl with an LJ and literary pretentions, rather than a grief-stricken ordinary man, beset on all sides by enemies:

My blood ran heavy and cold through my veins, as if terror could turn me to stone, and I tried not to think of what bloody game or dark purpose the demon might intend for my son. That night I went upstairs with an enchanted knife in my hand and stood over the cradle. Drowning hadn’t worked, but this knife had the strongest spells the Goblin Market knew laid on it. The nightlight was on, casting a pattern of cheerful rabbits on the opposite wall. It [that’s the demon not the nightlight] lay sleeping in a pool light, but even sleeping it doesn’t look like a child. Not quite. I stood there sweating, the hilt of the knife turning slick my grasp. Then from the door, I heard Alan say, “Dad?” I turned and saw him looking at me, and the knife, and the demon. My little boy’s face went so pale it seemed translucent. He looked like the tired old ghost of a child long dead.

I know the effectiveness of first person narration depends largely on reader being willing to suspend disbelief, but there was something so self-consciously dramatised about Alan’s father’s journal that it consistently detached me from the story it was telling. I also suspect there’s a difference in a narrative being in the first person from the outset – you know it is not literally a journal any more than an epistolary novel is literally an exchange of letters – and a first person narrative being included in the body of the text as a found item, in which case basic plausibility demands that it sounds at least a little bit like what it’s supposed to be. And I’m honestly not sure what the journal of guy protecting a crazy magician ex-girlfriend and her demon spawn at the cost of his own son’s life and future happiness would sound like (Number of times tried to kill demon today: 7 –v. bad) but as much as I like the line “He looked like the tired old ghost of a child long dead” it just struck me as far too constructed to support the ‘reality’ of the journal as a journal.

Although I’m away I’m whinging here, and I have to say, I didn’t like The Demon’s Covenant, Brennan is a talented writer. She has a lot of wit and style, and I genuinely enjoy the experience of reading her, even if, in this instance, I didn’t actually like the book. Although I’d kind of reached information-overload on the emotional and psychological intricacies of the characters by the midpoint, I do have a degree of fondness for Nick, who is just as hot, ruthless, confused and genuinely entertaining as ever:

She glared at the back of Nick’s head and said, furious and irrational, “You could have danced with him at the club.” “I could have,” Nick said. “There were kids from school there. He gets hassled enough. Anyway, I don’t really dance for pleasure much.” “Uh – so you, uh, dance professionally, or what?” Seb asked. “Yeah,” said Nick. “The ballet is my passion.”

And I think I like Mae. She is strong, and compassionate and smart, and pretty much everything one would want in a female heroine, while still being flawed and human and making mistakes. The tone of the book is much more emotional than The Demon’s Lexicon, as one would expect now the point of view is not rooted in Nick, and perhaps Mae’s natural insight and interest in the people around her is partially responsible for the amount of time spent dwelling on the minutiae of character. But there was also a part of me that couldn’t shake the conviction that big advantage of Mae’s point of view for the author is that it liberates her to spend a lot of time describing hot dudes being manly and self-sacrificing at each other.

“Oh Nick,” he said in a soft, amazing voice. “No.” He limped the few steps towards his brother, then reached out. A shiver ran all the way through Nick, as if he was a spooked animal about to bolt, but he didn’t bolt. Alan’s hand settled on the back of his brother’s neck, and Nick bowed his head a little more and let him do it.

Just shag already!

Although I got through The Demon’s Covenant with my appreciation for Nick and Mae relatively unscathed, the same could not be said for Jamie and Alan. Jamie, at least, has stopped wearing purple and being fabulous, but the quirky charm I found reasonably endearing last book has paled through overuse to the point at which I find him genuinely grating. Again, this is probably completely unfair of me but from the fragments of Brennan’s LJ I have read here and there, his style and general approach to life is so reminiscent of hers that he’s evolving into some kind of gay Mary Sue:

“I can cook better than you,” Nick corrected absently. “I think monkeys can probably be taught to cook better than you.” “I’d like to have a monkey that cooked for me,” said Jamie. “I would pay him in bananas. His name would be Alphonse.”

Also I find his vulnerability when combined with his homosexuality bothersome. I know he’s a powerful magician, but he’s also sweet and forgiving to the extreme, subject to crazy crushes on unsuitable people (I mean he does kick off the books by canoodling with an incubus which naturally gives him a demon mark) and squeamish about violence. Couple this with a tendency to make a fool of himself in public and an inability to hold his drink and you’ve got a character so mind bogglingly pathetic I would be up in arms if she was a girl. Perhaps it is a symptom of my own internalised prejudice that I see these qualities as feminising but it’s less about Jamie being girly than the fact he is very much ‘other’ to the rest of the men in the text. I suppose I should probably just be relieved he’s not Magnus Bane but the implicit association of homosexuality with a ‘different’ set of virtues to those of straight men was not exactly comfortable for me.

And then there’s Alan. Oh dear. He was my favourite character in the first book, because he was unexpected, a supposedly “nice” guy, as cold and ruthless, in his way, as the demon he guards. However, in The Demon’s Covenant, his presentation seems to have moved into a space that is less interestingly ambiguous than completely unfocused. I skimmed a few reviews out there on the Internet at large and the general feeling is largely Squee!Alan. His fucked up, loveless life and his unrequited love for Mae seems to be winning him the pity vote. However, I found him icky, icky, icky and although that’s not a problem per se I couldn’t work to what extent I was meant to find him icky, icky, icky. The love triangle between Mae, Alan and Nick established in the first book is continued, or rather repeated, with little development. Alan is still in lurve with Mae, Mae still fancies the pants off Nick, Nick seems to feel some sort of reciprocal desire for Mae but obviously is supposedly incapable of love … and therefore thinks she should be with Alan, partially because he knows he can’t do the human emotions thing but also because he’d do anything, give up anything, for Alan, and if Alan wants Mae than Nick will probably do whatever it takes to ensure he gets her.

I don’t know if we’re meant to find this creepy and objectifying but it fucking well is, not least because it isn’t presented as a demon treating a human being as a trinket, but because everyone else in the book – including Mae – believe she’d be better off with Alan. And it’s annoying that Mae, who is a smart girl most of the time and managed to navigate the love triangle with some dignity intact last book, ends up in precisely the same mess this book – grinding with Nick while he’s pissed off with Alan until the point Alan interrupts them and Looks Sad. Get a new hobby, Alan, for God’s sake.

Mae also semi-encourages Alan’s attentions, even though she knows she doesn’t feel much of a spark, basically because she pities him. I know I am not the target market for The Demon’s Covenant but regardless of age and experience: pity is not the foundation of a healthy relationship. Just (wo)man up and tell him you don’t fancy him. Of course, midway through the pity fest, Alan lets rip with this little speech:

"After my dad died, I looked everywhere for someone to love me. I used to sit on the bus and watch people, see if they looked kind, try to make them smile at me. I had a hundred dreams about a hundred different people, loving me." Alan's voice was low, but he didn't falter. He reached out and touched her hair, very gently, pushing it behind her ear, "Of all the girls I ever saw," he said, "I dreamed of you the most.

Again, I know I’m not the target market here, so perhaps I’m more inclined to find things creepy that a teenage audience might find gloriously tragic and romantic but, seriously, if a man ever said that to me I’d run away screaming. Yes, right then, right there, because he clearly has a raging case of

Nice Guy Syndrome

. And guys who guild trip you into going out with them are so dreamy. Not. I’d take the demon anyday, he’s significantly less emotionally maladjusted.

And, this, I suppose was largely my problem with The Demon’s Covenant. I read lots of books for which I am not the market audience – I even enjoyed Twilight until I realised it had no sense of self-irony at all – but the more I read of The Demon’s Covenant, the more I felt the gap. I honestly just don’t get it, and I wonder if there’s just a fundamental disconnect between myself, the author and the world as envisioned by the author. One of the big themes of both books has been self-sacrifice – the brothers, and to a lesser extent Jamie and Mae, are always tumbling over each other to get themselves roundly shafted in the name of protecting the other person. I’m not saying that self-sacrifice is not a powerful device and all that, but it tends to work as a climax, or at the very least as a one-off. When people are constantly sacrificing themselves for each other, it soon loses its impact. I might be pulling justifications out of my arse here, but I also suspect is a trope that gets more play in fandom. Over-used, however, it rapidly degenerates into little more than emotional pornography.

And there’s an uncomfortable moral dimension to it: self-sacrifice, by its very nature, is an act performed in spite of, as much as because of, another person. Needless to say, because of this it tends to be largely non-consensual, which has the weird side-effect of infantalising and disempowering the sacrificee in a deeply unpleasant way. Ultimately every self-sacrifice involves a run-up of double-dealing and deceit, so that the act itself is a massive massive betrayal of trust – trust, that is somehow miraculously restored through the act of self-sacrifice.

To put it another way, mean, Sydney Carton’s sacrifice has nothing to do with Darnay – he does it for Lucie, because he loves her, and because she loves Darnay, and partially because Carton realises he’s wasted his life completely and therefore has little to give to the world, except his sacrifice for a better man. In the world of The Demon’s Covenant, Carton would love Darnay, and therefore trick Lucie into helping him look like he’s betrayed Darnay to allow him to sacrifice himself for Darnay instead.

Self-sacrifice becomes a closed system, in which the keyword seems to be “self” – it’s less about the person you save, than the personal act of saving, catching all the characters in a perpetual game of “I love you more”. Sacrificing yourself for the person you love is ultimately a pretty selfish act – essentially all you’re saying is that if someone has to live on miserably you’d rather it was then. Sacrificing yourself for the happiness of the person you love as Carton does actually has meaning. And, yes, I know, I know, Alan sacrifices himself for someone who isn’t Nick, but it’s basically sacrifice for the sake of sacrifice, and thus as irritating as hell. Of course it doesn’t help that it’s only the second book so most attempted self-sacrifices get derailed, so it seems we’re meant to be enjoying the exquisite anguish without having to actually, y’know, be upset or lose a character.

I guess I’ve been pretty harsh on The Demon’s Covenant. Although I found individual things to like about it, for example the strength of the characterisation, Mae and Nick, witty, lively writing, I can’t really say I enjoyed it. I’m willing to chalk up, largely, to me rather than the book since it seems to be generating rave reviews across the internet. I think maybe I’m just too old and grumpy.Themes:

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~Comments (

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Arthur B

at 13:52 on 2010-09-01I know this is absolutely nothing to do with the review, but what the hell is up with the cover?

I mean, seriously. If you ditched the title the cover only conveys four things:

- It takes place in London.

- There is a martial arts smackdown at some point.

- The weather is bad.

- Someone's been dying their hair.

None of which implies a fantasy novel, none of which implies demons, one of which implies pretty much anything I recognise from the review.

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Dan H

at 13:56 on 2010-09-01To be fair, I don't think the cover of a book with demons in it has to have a demon on the front.

Also, the word "Demon" in the title might be considered a clue.

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Arthur B

at 14:01 on 2010-09-01I dunno, "Enter the Dragon" didn't actually have any dragons in it. I think the chances of the book being mistaken for some sort of edgy modern day almost-cyberpunk martial arts thing aren't bad.

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Dan H

at 14:55 on 2010-09-01I really, really think you're reaching here.

Urban fantasy hardly *ever* has anything explicitly supernatural on the cover. You might as well complain that because /The God of Small Things/ has a flower on the cover, people might mistake it for a book about botany.

I'd also point out that this is another argument in favour of the Dark Fantasy section. Otherwise people might accidentally pick up Urban Fantasy books expecting ... umm ... cyberpunk martial arts novels.

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Arthur B

at 15:11 on 2010-09-01Actually I'm taking the piss. :P

Though that flower on GoST is floating down the river which is the allegorical spine of the book.

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http://mary-j-59.livejournal.com/

at 15:50 on 2010-09-01I kind of disagree about Nick's father's diary. It gave me more insight into Alan, and I found the man's progression from extreme hatred into love and protectiveness for Nick rather moving. I also ended up admiring Jamie, who seems braver (morally, I mean) and clearer-eyed than anyone else in the book. He may be a hopeless idealist, but I'm hoping he succeeds in finding a way to use magic for good, not evil. And I'm hoping Seb may be redeemable, in spite of his cowardice. Oh, and Annabelle rocked.

Back to Alan. I think he is creepy, and meant to be creepy, and the insight we get into his childhood explains why. I actually asked Sarah Reese Brennan about this, telling her that I found the prospect of Alan in a relationship scarier even than Nick in the same situation, because Alan is manipulative and profoundly damaged. She said I was right.

My two cents, as always. BTW, did you read "Fire"? I keep asking that!

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Wardog

at 16:32 on 2010-09-01I liked the arc, and I thought it was *interesting* - but I don't think it showed you anything you hadn't already seen, and in a book I personally found bloated with detail, it was simply one step too far. I might have liked it better had the book been generally tighter. Also the style bugegd me, as you know :)

I liked Annabelle, but I found the sudden intrusion of an adult presence a bit disconcerting, especially because of the role she plays. I think the problem with YA is that since they often function on an allegorical as well as literal level, adults strain, and sometimes break, that allegory.

I'm slightly comforted by the fact Alan was intended to come across as horrendously creepy - only slightly comforted, mind you, because that means most of the internet is REALLY SCARING ME now.

Your two cents are always welcome! I read Fire, and I loved it, I must review it :)

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http://mary-j-59.livejournal.com/

at 17:37 on 2010-09-01What you say about adults in YA is interesting. I hadn't quite thought of it that way, and it makes me wonder what people will make of the adults in my story, when/if I get it published. Glad you loved "Fire"! I think she is awesome, and I have to review that one myself.

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Sister Magpie

at 18:43 on 2010-09-01I, too, assumed that Alan was supposed to come across as unhealthy and damaged--and not really in love with Mae, tbh. I thought his late conversation with Mae was supposed to imply that, where she basically realizes that he's just manipulated her this whole time (and not even manipulated her through seduction but through pity) and seems surprised that he doesn't realized just how screwed up it is. I think she says something about how he made it impossible that he would be loved so he wasn't throwing anything away by betraying her. Like for him there was only manipulating her pity for him as someone disabled and loving her unrequitedly. Which was why his relationship with Sin seemed to have the most potential. Her repulsion to his limp made him want his good leg back.

One thing I wonder given your thoughts on Jamie--what did you think of Seb? Did he undercut the bad impressions about Jamie by passing for straight in Mae's eyes for so long?

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Wardog

at 21:16 on 2010-09-01It's possible I haven't quite appreciated the complexity of Alan - or given Brennan enough credit. But I don't think the portrayal is quite clear enough, one way or the other, and that goes beyond interesting ambiguity into slightly over-ambitious or perhaps unfocused characterisation. I mean, like I say, I think there's enough scope to read Alan as endearingly broken (he just needs someone to wuv him), and it seems a lot of people have. Again, I'm probably lying issues of interpretation at Brennan's feet unfairly

And I also read his love for Mae as sincere, although it's still something he's willing to give up or use to further his own ends, which, again I think is more interesting and complicated than straight forward exploitation.

The general feeling of other characters seems to be that Alan is a good guy but, again, perhaps that's just meant to reveal how good he is at concealing what a manipulative wreck he is. I guess I'll see how the third book plays out - and, yes, I will probably read it. Because having started I'll damn well finish.

I guess I would be interested in all these layers if there hadn't been so much to wade through.

I slightly preferred Seb, but then again, he's just another stereotype: The One Who Is Mean To The Out There Gay Because He Is Secretly Gay Himself, Zomg!

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Sister Magpie

at 21:30 on 2010-09-02

True. The reason I didn't consider him to be in love with Mae was really more that it seemed like the series in general, as stated by Mae, was sort of rejecting the idea that teenagers considering dating each other could be true love. Like at one point Mae said something about how nobody's going to "lose her" or whatever if they don't go out with her, they'll just date someone else. So it was kind of making a point of saying that romance at this point was not going to be the main driving force because nobody felt that deeply about anybody (perhaps only yet).

So the way I read the thing with Alan was that yes, he actually did have a crush on her. But once he decided to sacrifice that for Nick (like the self-sacrifice addict) that was what shaped his behavior. Like, if Alan was really hoping to date Mae he wouldn't be making speeches about dreaming about her the most because he's giving up anything like a healthy relationship chance in favor of guilting her and inspiring pity. But I could be totally wrong there. It's quite possible that that speech was Alan's true feelings coming out as a sort of tragic declaration out of hopelessness. As opposed to more of a perverse/bitter put down of himself as an object of pity that he's making work for him.

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http://katsullivan.insanejournal.com/

at 11:18 on 2010-09-07While I agree that Ryves Snr's diary did not read like the journal of a grown man, it's easily explained if you realize that Ryves had been a prose writer or poet before he became a demon huntert.

Again, this is probably completely unfair of me but from the fragments of Brennan’s LJ I have read here and there, his style and general approach to life is so reminiscent of hers that he’s evolving into some kind of gay Mary Sue

I definitely agree that Jamie comes across as authorial self-insert. Whether Brennan did this deliberately or this was subconscious is arguable. I don't think that automatically makes him a Mary Sue.

It's interesting that you found Book 2 so padded because I found it lacking in details about the mythology of the world. I still don't understand how Jamie's power is so dissociated from his free will that a Circle will go as far as to kidnap him to have it?

The reason I didn't consider him to be in love with Mae was really more that it seemed like the series in general, as stated by Mae, was sort of rejecting the idea that teenagers considering dating each other could be true love.

Interesting you should observe that, Magpie because that was definitely the impression I had got all through out the books and I found Mae's discovery that she is in love with Nick at the end of DC extremely profound because the distinction made it clear that it was no casual teenage-type of love that she was professing.

My one grouse with the characters is the lack of demographic diversity. All the main characters are White and this includes the protagonists and antagonists. Sarah Rees Brennan has written a lot of powerful articles about female represenation in stories but the fact is that a quarter of her main cast is female. And this person is also the most magically disempowered one. Her gay presentation, as you noted, is also problematic: Jamie and Seb.

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http://katsullivan.insanejournal.com/

at 11:20 on 2010-09-07I also found the death of Annabelle extremely problematic for the same reason. She reminds me of Spock's mother in the 2009 movie: she appears in the story just long enough for her to have a Meaningful Death for the benefit of her children's own story.

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Sister Magpie

at 21:19 on 2010-09-07

the main characters are White and this includes the protagonists and antagonists.

Except for Sin. Also I would quibble that while Mae is the one non-magical person, she's not exactly disempowered as she's being considered for what seems like a very important job in the magical world.

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http://katsullivan.insanejournal.com/

at 10:12 on 2010-09-08Have fun!

Except for Sin.

*face-palm* Why is it that when the race-fail or gender-fail in a story/TV show/movie is pointed out, the first response you get is almost always: “It can’t be racist if there is one Black/Asian/non-White supporting character in a sea of major White players.”? How does it help the conversation about racism and under-representation in fiction and fictional work (and the way that under-representation spills into real life) if every time the topic is raised, tokenism is used as a defence?

Sin is racially ambiguous – her little sister is described as blonde in the first book. She is also a peripheral player until hopefully the third book which is written from her PoV. (This may still not make her a major player, just the narrator.) Apart from all these things, Sin is still one character amongst White characters like: Mae, Nick, Alan and Jamie, Gerald, Black Arthur, Olivia, Sebastian, the female leader of the other Magician’s Circle (whose name I can’t recall), and Merris Cromwell.

Also I would quibble that while Mae is the one non-magical person, she's not exactly disempowered as she's being considered for what seems like a very important job in the magical world.

A job that can go to either Mae or Sin. So that’s two women fighting for a position of power (or a White woman making a power play for a Black woman's own position of power), which is far better than two women fighting for a man, but still two women fighting for one point of significance! As opposed to the men who get to be fought over for being uniquely powerful snowflakes.

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Dan H

at 13:38 on 2010-09-08

How does it help the conversation about racism and under-representation in fiction and fictional work (and the way that under-representation spills into real life) if every time the topic is raised, tokenism is used as a defence?

To be fair, I don't think Sister Magpie was trying to present a defence so much as a clarification. I could be wrong but I didn't read her comment as dismissing your concerns, just highlighting that rather containing exactly zero non-white characters, the book in fact contains exactly one.

I'd also agree (although I haven't actually read the book) that "least magically powerful" is not necessarily the same as "disempowered".

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Sister Magpie

at 15:22 on 2010-09-08

Why is it that when the race-fail or gender-fail in a story/TV show/movie is pointed out, the first response you get is almost always: “It can’t be racist if there is one Black/Asian/non-White supporting character in a sea of major White players.”?

Dan is right, I didn't say anything about how it couldn't be racist because there was one non-white supporting character. I just corrected the statement that there wasn't one single main character who wasn't white, and who I considered at least as important as the villains. She's not racially ambiguous, I believe she says flat out what her background is and it's biracial. I thought it was just giving a neutral fact.

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Leia

at 09:52 on 2010-09-09I think what Kat is saying and I agree is that nitpicking about supporting character Sin's race just derails the discussion about race and gender representation. And, for the record, I didn't know Sin was biracial until I read the comments.

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Arthur B

at 10:27 on 2010-09-09I think it depends on how the nitpicking's done. Pointing out Sin's race but emphasising that this doesn't really change the situation because Sin is arguably only there for reasons of tokenism is different from pointing out Sin's race and dismissing the argument entirely.

Ultimately, it doesn't help to let factual inaccuracies stand unquestioned because people have this tendency to say "Well, this one thing you said isn't actually correct, so I'm going to dismiss your entire argument". If the nitpicking is done with a view to strengthening and supporting the general point that's a bit different to nitpicking done to rip the argument apart.

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Sister Magpie

at 15:01 on 2010-09-09

I think what Kat is saying and I agree is that nitpicking about supporting character Sin's race just derails the discussion about race and gender representation. And, for the record, I didn't know Sin was biracial until I read the comments.

And I just didn't see how it could be derailing a discussion to correct something that I figured was an oversight. It didn't even seem like nitpicking to me.

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Dan H

at 15:13 on 2010-09-09I think the thing is that "correcting errors" is often used as a derailing tactic - while I don't think that was your intent in this case, people do tend to fixate on minor factual-level quibbles in this sort of discussion which isn't *necessarily* helpful.

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Sister Magpie

at 15:24 on 2010-09-09

I think the thing is that "correcting errors" is often used as a derailing tactic - while I don't think that was your intent in this case, people do tend to fixate on minor factual-level quibbles in this sort of discussion which isn't *necessarily* helpful.

True. Though in this case it seemed like the opposite to me, that you don't want to make it sound like it's important that there are absolutely no non-white characters anywhere when there is one. That just leaves you open to actual derailing in the future or accusations that you just erased the one non-white character.

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Arthur B

at 15:40 on 2010-09-09I think it's like I said earlier - it really depends on whether you are correcting the mistake in order to derail the argument, or correcting the mistake in order to tighten up the argument against precisely that sort of derailing attempt. And the thing is, people do the former

far

more than they do the latter, so even though I think Kat jumped to conclusions in interpreting your original comment I think it's a completely understandable jump.

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Leia

at 15:41 on 2010-09-09Maybe that wasn't the intention but the fact is that so far, all the discussion has been about a supporting character's ambiguos biracialness and there has been NO discussion about SRB's choice to make

all

the four main characters and

all

the principal villains white. Kat's point about Mae's mother's fridging has also been completely unaddressed. Whatever Sister Magpie's intention was, bringing up Sin's

ambiguosly presented

race has shifted the discussion from this.

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Arthur B

at 16:07 on 2010-09-09To be fair I think the discussion very swiftly shifted from Sin's race to the subject of derailing itself as it relates to this conversation, and the fact that this particular point doesn't actually change Kat's point.

In fact, I think more or less everyone has declared that they actually agree with Kat's point. Which, er, leaves us with nothing to discuss.

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Sister Magpie

at 16:15 on 2010-09-09

Maybe that wasn't the intention but the fact is that so far, all the discussion has been about a supporting character's ambiguos biracialness and there has been NO discussion about SRB's choice to make all the four main characters and all the principal villains white. Kat's point about Mae's mother's fridging has also been completely unaddressed. Whatever Sister Magpie's intention was, bringing up Sin's ambiguosly presented race has shifted the discussion from this.

Yes, they are all white. But it still seems a bit sneaky to complain about everyone discussing Sin's race (which hasn't really been what people are talking about) while making an argument twice, once in bold-faced, about Sin's race with the implication that this will be the last word on the subject.

Sin refers to herself as a dark-skinned girl, Mae has a moment of awkwardness about not wanting to say something racist in response, and then Sin says that her mother was Welsh and her father's family was from the Carribean originally. I do not think this absolves the book of any and all accusations of race, sexuality or gender fail. But it didn't read as ambiguous to me.

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Sister Magpie

at 16:18 on 2010-09-09p.s. Looking back on my original comment I can see how just saying "Except Sin" could read as a gotcha, like I was saying, "Um, except SIN! Who totally pwns your argument!" That was one of those times where how something sounds in your head doesn't come across on the page. In my head it was meant to be more, "Right, except Sin everyone is white."

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http://mary-j-59.livejournal.com/

at 03:16 on 2010-09-11It was absolutely clear to me that Sin is a girl of color. Because this is set in England, it didn't especially bother me that all the other main characters are white. After all, one of the chief main characters isn't even human! But I did find Annabelle's death problematic, and can't quite put my finger on why. What I said to Sarah Rees Brennan in a recent q and a session was that she runs off with her fencing foils to help in the fight, and we are never shown that the buttons are removed. Everyone else has sharps. Sarah Rees Brennan responded that the buttons had indeed been removed, but she didn't feel it necessary to show it. So - really, I guess my problem is that Annabelle was a pretty awesome character, but she existed (as a powerful and capable woman) primarily to die. And that does bug me a bit.

OTOH, the scene between Nick and Mae in the aftermath was really, really well-done.

My two cents! (again.)

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Leia

at 05:45 on 2010-09-11

Because this is set in England, it didn't especially bother me that all the other main characters are white.

*sighs* Which is why it's never *just* a story for people who don't have the privilege to assume their race is default. If your impression of England's demography is based on SRB's fantasy monochromatic England, it's not surprising you can make a statement like that.

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Arthur B

at 16:32 on 2010-09-11And in London, for that matter! Notable statistics are

here

. Note that this actually implies that London is more racially diverse than parts of the US.

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Dan H

at 17:36 on 2010-09-11

If your impression of England's demography is based on SRB's fantasy monochromatic England, it's not surprising you can make a statement like that.

Yeah, I was a bit confused by that as well.

I think this is one of the subtler and more pernicious forms of stereotyping, it's very easy to get into the habit of seeing ethnic diversity as something which only exists in America in the twentieth century - certainly I suspect that a lot of the reason most fantasy settings are so full of white people is that most people really believe that there *were* no dark-skinned people in Europe in the middle ages.

It's rather peculiar to see somebody applying the same logic to the country I live in - it's one of those things that encourages one to examine one's preconceptions.

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Wardog

at 18:00 on 2010-09-11I'm pretty sure there are black people in England ...

Also I'm pretty sure nobody was trying to derail or racefail here.

To be honest, I find Sin genuinely problematic as a character; she does, in fact, seem there largely to fill the "except Sin" role, and I find her sexualised exoticism a bit, err, dodgy when she is the ONLY non-white character in the book. I mean I know we all like the idea of hot black women dancing around but ... y'know ... it's especially problematic, I think, because the gypsy/other feel to the Goblin Market.

Also the whole "hey, the person I have raised to take over this might be rubbish at it so let's call in the inherently talented white girl" plot is a bit icky.

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http://cammalot.livejournal.com/

at 18:43 on 2010-09-11Aw, I wasn’t quick enough. I’m a chronic lurker here, but I was going to come out of hiding to point out that England is an *incredibly* diverse society! (I have spent far less time in Wales or Scotland and so don’t feel comfortable generalizing, but I do know there are people of color in those areas as well.) Just taking into account people from the Anglosphere/Commonwealth who emigrate or are educated there takes in huge swathes of Asia, Africa, the Caribbean, and so on, not to mention the generations of non-Anglo-Saxons who are born there, or people not from the Commonwealth/English-speaking nations.

I would not necessarily attribute not knowing that to Mary’s (alleged?) race, though. There are plenty of non-white people who think that the UK is wall-to-wall whiteness. I’ve found myself unable to persuade one or two of my own relatives to visit it, due to that belief and the complex attitudes and nervousness bound up in it. Possibly this comes from them not being exposed present-day UK media or whatever, I don’t know.

For the record, I am very lukewarm about both books in the “Demon’s” series. I am going to take a bit of a departure from consensus here, though. And I’m going to be a be anti-Barthian and resurrect The Author, at least for the duration of this post: I agree with Kat’s points in terms of literature as a general body, but I’m not sure I agree with them as regards this particular book, on the subject of race. Aside: I’m glad someone above clarified above that Annabelle being “fridged” was not just a matter of killing off a female character, but that the character existed, basically, *only* to die. I’m on board with that point.

In terms of race (and I speak *only* for my individual self — I’m a black, U.S. woman, and speaking with, I guess, middle-class and Western privilege) I’ve found that I much prefer to *not* see people like me in the books of authors who might not be able to pull it off properly. I’m not keen on the idea of reading practice-run depictions of people like me in the works of authors who are just learning how. It’s upsetting, not entertaining, and it’s gotten more upsetting as I get older and more exposed to subtler types of fail. If I’m going to be misrepresented, I would rather not be included at all, thanks, and I would devote my energies to getting more diverse authors out there and telling their own stories instead.

Therefore if a white Irish/British girl (I believe she has Welsh family? Not sure) wants to write about a bunch of white Irish/British people, I am not going to have a problem with this. This is absolutely NOT to say that everyone should be restricted to writing only about people exactly like themselves — they should not, that would be horrible, and boring, and would diminish the quality of literature in general. But if something is going to be done, it needs to be done excellently, for my satisfaction. It should not be done to check off a list, and believe me, I can tell. And to be blunt, there are more than enough diverse depictions of white people in existence that one or two newbie authors’ screwups will not affect how they are perceived and treated in the real world very much. A white (read male, straight, cis, et cetera also in here, as applicable) character gets to be much more of a blank slate, un-prejudged. Screwing up a character of color feeds into far larger and more pervasive existing stereotyping, prejudice, and bad press. And, to narrow it way down, it affects how people respond to me, for real, in the actual world.

Now, I like Brennan’s blog, and the voice that she uses in it. I have also read and enjoyed her Harry Potter fanfiction. However, there were several things in her fanfiction that pinged me, as a black person, in an unpleasant way. One thing that struck me particularly was a definite sense of Hermione’s hair (large, bushy, frizzy, curly, et cetera — hey, kinda like mine come to think of it, and I know of readers of Rowling’s original work who thought that canon Hermione was actually intended to be biracial due to descriptions of her hair) being unattractive and somewhat mockable, and looking better when controlled with potions or other means of straightening. This in contrast to Draco’s (blond, fine, very pale, described as “the impossible color of childhood” in very romantic passages), mentioned in nearly every description of the character, and even treated as his one beauty when characters have called him less than handsome (Veelas think he is one of them, but wonder if he has had a disfiguring facial accident).

There were also characters she wrote about quite often that I did not know were black characters until I found myself sucked in by a Wiki one day and saw the pictures of the actors portraying them...because...I am more familiar with her fanfiction than I am with the actual Harry Potter-verse. (Yeah, it’s weird, I know, I know. I’m not a fan of those books). There were mentions of Blaise Zabini being black and attractive, but the one time I can recall that involved any detailed description of the character cited his “sleek black hair falling over his face” or similar. Now believe me, I’m well aware there are many people identifying as black with a wide variety of non-chemically induced hair textures; it would be very hard for me to have missed this. But “sleek” and “smooth” remain the only hair textures that get mentioned as attractive: I believe she referred to Ginny’s hair as both pretty and curly, but I was still bothered by the overall emphasis on sleek textures, even on a black character, while the one character’s hair that I empathized with was made fun of.

I don’t exactly hold this against the author. Fanfiction is, to me, a learning workshop, and for at least some of this time period she was a teenager. And much of the more flowery prose, I think, attributable to the fact Draco was the general fetish object of most fanficcers writing at that time; his particular characteristics would therefore be the ones that got lauded and raised above other people’s. And Brennan gets points for outright calling him point-blank unattractive to the viewpoint character(s) in a few stories. Variety!

The thing is, when you put something in writing it doesn’t go away. Even though all official sources of Brennan’s fanfic have been removed from the Internet, it’s still possible to find these examples with a perfunctory Google. How much more indelible would it be if a problematic depiction found their way into a mainstream-published work?

And I certainly don’t see how including a non-white villain would improve this.

I do not know the reasons Brennan neglected to include more non-white characters — it is entirely possible that she could write some quite well at this stage, without including the things that irked me in her fanfiction. I’d like that. I don’t know if she consciously felt she couldn’t, or if it did not occur to her, or if she just plans to do more of it later. But I would rather wait for her to do it at a point in her writing life when she can do it excellently, and I can read it un-irked. I guess I’ll wait and see how she describes Sin’s hair.

And now I’m going to contradict myself — with the books set in London, it’s WEIRD not to see more diverse ethnicities running about even in the background. Lots of times people tend to hang out with people of their own group, and that could explain the main cast, sort of. But there is a distinct lack of background color in this book, and not just in terms of people — I did not get much sense of place in any aspect. Not seeing a variety of people just *being there* is a mischaracterization, I think.

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http://cammalot.livejournal.com/

at 19:48 on 2010-09-11

Not seeing a variety of people just *being there* is a mischaracterization, I think.

That should read "not EVEN seeing a variety of people just being there..." or "Not seeing a variety of people EVEN just being there"... etc. The way it reads above seems like I'm saying people of color *should* be relegated to just "being there," when in fact I'm trying to say that "being there" is a bare minimum, especially for a city like London.

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Shim

at 13:08 on 2010-09-12@Cammalot:

I suppose one difficulty with having a varied background cast is that it's quite difficult to do subtly, because unless you highlight people's appearance (or names, but that can get a bit stereotypey) readers will probably still assume they're white. In fact, it may be especially difficult with lower-tier characters (identifiable individuals who aren't significant characters, your "Angry Commuter" and "Girl in Café" types) because they probably wouldn't merit much description in the normal run of things, and if you start highlighting their ethnicity it might seem rather heavy-handed. For crowd scenes and the like you can at least imply variety.

I'm not saying that's a get-out, mind.

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http://katsullivan.insanejournal.com/

at 11:58 on 2010-09-13@cammalot: I remember reading Hermione as a Black girl, too. For all her faults, Rowling did

start

at least by making Hogwarts casually multi-racial: the Parvati twins, Lee Johnson, Dean Thomas, Cho Chang... Of course in the end, the people that really counted were White. Maybe the silky-haired Blaise thing in SRB’s fanfiction was a call-back from the time the whole of fandom thought he was an Italian girl?

@Kyra Smith:

To be honest, I find Sin genuinely problematic as a character; she does, in fact, seem there largely to fill the "except Sin" role, and I find her sexualised exoticism a bit, err, dodgy when she is the ONLY non-white character in the book. Also the whole "hey, the person I have raised to take over this might be rubbish at it so let's call in the inherently talented white girl" plot is a bit icky.

THIS. Perhaps if Sin wasn’t the ONLY non-white character. But as it is, it’s so many kinds of problematic. And maybe it’s too simplistic a solution, but rather than insert the token non-White character with all the common prejudices (comic relief Asian best friend, exotic biracial dancer), how about making one of the ‘default’ characters non-White? What’s wrong with Mae and Jamie being siblings with Indian ancestry? Or Dan Ryves and Black Arthur being, pun not intended, Black?

@SisterMagpie:

p.s. Looking back on my original comment I can see how just saying "Except Sin" could read as a gotcha, like I was saying, "Um, except SIN! Who totally pwns your argument!"

Yeah, that was the vibe I got.

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http://mary-j-59.livejournal.com/

at 15:56 on 2010-09-13Um - sorry. I have lived in England, and am aware that it is racially and culturally diverse - and also that it's probably far more so now than when I lived there as a child, thirty years ago. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. What I meant was: is it always automatically racist if a white person writes about her own culture? If so, why?

That said, I think can seem more racist to have a token person of color than to have no person of color at all. And Sin does seem to be the token person of color. But -

1. Sin is going to narrate/be the viewpoint character for the third book. Before making judgements about her as a character, I'd like to see how Sarah Rees Brennan pulls this off. I, for one, liked Mae a lot better in "Covenant" than I had in "Lexicon".

2. And I repeat that Alan is creepy, and is meant to be creepy. So I do think, Kyra, that you're not giving Sarah Rees Brennan enough credit. But we can't tell for sure until we have the last book in hand. Heaven knows I gave JKR far too much credit! But everything I've heard from SRB reassures me that I'm not making the same mistake twice.

Which is not to say they are great, great books. They aren't on the level of Michelle Paver or Catherine Fisher or Kristin Cashore. But they are smart and fun and seem to me (so far, at least) to have a pretty solid moral core. I may be wrong, but I am willing to wait and see.

That said, the big problem I had with "Covenant" was Annabelle. I've got dead mother figures in my story, too, but there is a difference between a character's dying during a story and a character's existing solely to die. Annabelle exists solely to die, after having been a nonentity in the first book and a large part of the second, and that does bother me.

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Arthur B

at 16:26 on 2010-09-13

What I meant was: is it always automatically racist if a white person writes about her own culture? If so, why?

The thing is, the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention when folk start talking about white people's culture, because they're usually referring to one of two things:

1: The mainstream culture of the UK, or the US, or some other country which is thought of as a "white" country. The problem here is that, whilst the mainstream culture of white-majority places is obviously going to be largely influenced by the majority (that being why it's mainstream), you can't simplify that to "mainstream culture = white culture" - if you do that, you're saying people who aren't white basically can't be part of mainstream culture, which by definition is marginalising.

2: An exclusive culture which belongs solely to white people and which folk who aren't white can't participate in or understand. The thing is, when people get enthused about celebrating that sort of thing, it's usually because they're Nazis of some persuasion or another.

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http://cammalot.livejournal.com/

at 23:37 on 2010-09-13

Maybe the silky-haired Blaise thing in SRB’s fanfiction was a call-back from the time the whole of fandom thought he was an Italian girl?

It’s possible. It didn’t seem to be a spoofy usage to me, though, and it was written well after Zabini’s identity was clarified. (SRB had a clever, funnier throwaway sequence in an earlier-written piece, about Zabini changing genders with the full moon.) And again, these were all relatively tiny things taken in isolation. They just had a cumulative effect on me. And her work is still, overall, a pretty freaking stellar example of Harry Potter fic.

I do wonder, and I ask this with no belligerence whatsoever, but genuine curiosity — would Lexicon and Convenant have worked better if SRB had simply not included a “token” person of color and a “token” gay person? (I’m using the quotes because the tokenism might be disproved in the third book.) If Sin and Jamie weren’t in there, would we have noticed an absence? (Hmm. I guess we would have, since there would have been even fewer female characters.)

What I meant was: is it always automatically racist if a white person writes about her own culture? If so, why?

I have a lot of contradictory feelings on this subject, all of which are extremely subjective and reflect FAR more of “what I would personally rather read” than “what should be done in society.”

1. If a white person has to be told to include non-white characters, their heart probably wasn’t in it to begin with, and they likely won’t do the best job. So they are better off writing white characters, and that in and of itself will not offend me. (Especially if the group of characters is small — e.g. involving a family or similar.) They need to write what they are enthusiastic about rather than checking off points on a list.

2. It will annoy me no end if the sort of writer above then goes on to write non-white characters half-heartedly (or with stereotypes and cliches) while a minority writer writing on the same topics nowadays will either get paid and publicized less, get marginalized on the store bookshelves, or be instructed by powers that be to shoehorn in white characters in order to be saleable.

3. A white writer who wants to write minority characters should be encouraged to do so. (I didn’t always feel this way, but I do now, strongly.) But I really want to see it done well, and such a writer has to assume the risk that they might not do it well and might be criticized -- and will definitely be more scrutinized as an outsider than a person writing from within the race/culture in question -- and must, well, regard that risk as an invigorating challenge, I guess. That whole “fail better” thing.

An exclusive culture which belongs solely to white people and which folk who aren't white can't participate in or understand. The thing is, when people get enthused about celebrating that sort of thing, it's usually because they're Nazis of some persuasion or another.

Yes. It also posits that white people have one big homogenous culture. (Or that anybody has managed to agree on what “white people” means in the first place.) There’s a difference between writing about “white people [within a larger, diverse culture],” writing about “*a* white culture,” and writing about “white culture” (which, come to think of it, could theoretically be done without white characters, like in postcolonial lit).

But no, I don't think it's automatically racist. I don't think it's a question of anyone being a big old bigot at all, what I'm seeing in this thread isn't an accusation of oooh-you-terrible-racist at anyone, but of leaving out things and people that are there and exist in the world that's being described. There are people in our society who need to see themselves included and represented more. (I'm just wondering how best -- and who is best -- to get that done.)

@ Shimmin: This is very true. I think it was Tobias Buckell recently writing about how if you say things like "bronze skin" people (well, Westerners of all shades) tend to assume you're talking about white skin that has been tanned. Maybe it's better at this point to go bigger with it, especially for minor characters? It's unwieldy to say "The East Asian girl at the corner table," but it might just be what needs to be done. (It bugs me to admit that, too, because I have in the past been very annoyed by descriptions that go "The Asian girl" and think they have actually finished giving an adequate visual.)

I thought China Mieville did a wonderful job using quite obvious names to denote ethnicity in "Un Lun Dun," for example -- and he let the South Asian girl be the heroine to boot. On the other hand, I've found myself, at my age, actually squeeing joyfully at a couple books when I realized the protagonist(s) I'd already made assumptions about were supposed to be dark-skinned. Neil Gaimian managed it in "Anansi Boys," and I think Holly Black pulled it off once by mentioning the color of a character's scars. I felt like I had unlocked a really cool puzzle. :-) And I loved how, in that subtle way, the dark skin was not presented as some sort of deviation from a norm. So I think it's a question of skill, not necessarily method.

All that said, the big problem *I* had with the "Demon's" series was the system of magic felt a bit scattered; I don’t really feel a sense of place; and for a preternaturally emotionless guy, Nick seems to be emoting left and right. (Which for me raises an interesting question — how clueless can you honestly be about human emotions and still manage to always be bitingly quippy? Can you *be * humorous, on purpose, if you don’t have emotions?)

I am tired of bad boys. I was never that fond of them to begin with. I loved Jamie’s saying out loud that whoever he fell in love with would be very nice to him all the time and try to make him happy.

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http://cammalot.livejournal.com/

at 23:37 on 2010-09-13meep! I got very wordy there...

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http://mary-j-59.livejournal.com/

at 02:03 on 2010-09-14I'm glad you did! Basically, I agree with everything you said, except that I haven't (yet) had any major problems with the series - except for the gratuitous offing of Annabelle. And I'd been feeling a bit under attack, though I brought it on myself, I suppose, by writing in haste and when tired.

I do agree with you about Nick, but I think the so-called lack of emotion isn't really such; Nick has lots of emotions. It's just that they are mostly what we would call negative - rage, frustration, etc. But he is capable of what we (or more accurately, I) would call positive emotions, as well. It's going to be interesting to see what happens to him in the final book. At the moment, I'm shipping Nick and Mae, but expecting dead Nick. We'll see.

As far as the system of magic goes, have you read the Bartimaeus Trilogy? It's brilliant, and it almost seems Brennan must have borrowed from it - except that I think she hasn't read those books.

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http://3stan1990.blogspot.com/

at 06:21 on 2010-09-14

Sorry if this is derailing, but katsullivan and cammalot's comments suggests this is the right kind of place to ask these kind of questions. Also, it'll be kind of rambling and will involve a lot of talking about me.

A bit of context: I'm a white, cis, middle class dude from a small Australian town where casual racism, sexism and homophobia was the norm, with a strong white English heritage (my grandparents are Welsh and English and moved here in the seventies). I've been trying to challenge my views and perceptions on race and gender in order to become a better, wiser person.

I'm also an aspiring writer, and I've been trying to work the kinds of things I've learned into my writing. The thing is, I'm not sure if the attitude I'm taking is still just well meaning tokenism.

As an example of what I'm worried about, I have an Indian character (currently nicknamed The Jack, after the video game archetype). Born in India, raised in India, moved to England to study engineering and medicine at the same time, snapped under the pressure, bought a gun, became a mercenary, and is now trying to live up to the 'ultra badass' stereotype. This is intended as a parody of the (as far as I know) Western concept of the Indian nerd (seen in shows like 'The Big Bang Theory' and the movie 'Inception', though Inception plays with the concept a little), as well as a commentary on ultra-badasses in Western media (he'll pull Kirk/Mal/Renegade Shepard style stunts, which will disturb and annoy the other characters). So basically I'm writing a white guy who happens to be Indian. Same with Noiry Thief Dude - he'll act pretty much like a classic Caucasian film noir protagonist, for what I think are perfectly legitimate reasons (analysing the concept of cynicism and the motivations stemming from it), except he just happens to be Japanese.

TL;DR I guess I'm wondering whether or not all my characters being heavily based on Western concepts, despite being from non-Western cultures, is a bad thing.

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Wardog

at 11:29 on 2010-09-14I will second the recommendation of the Bartimaeus Trilogy - I LOVED those.

This is just a general rather rather specific point and apologies if I fail all over it but it was in reference to the tokenism of Jamie and Sin. I never felt Jamie was tokenistic - I thought he was a problematic depiction of a gay person, for me, because his vulnerability seems to go hand-in-hand with his sexuality, but it's obvious SRB is pretty damn interested in him, either as a weird authorial self-insert or because fandom, in general, is very into gay men. I know being "interested" can sometimes be an issue in itself (Jay Lake is clearly "very" interested in Green... altogether now EEEEWWW) but it tends to stave off tokenism. I found Sin much more tokenistic because it seems pretty clear to me that Brennan really isn't interested in the hot black girl, and she's just there to be a contrast to Mae, as well as to demonstrate Mae being friendly with other women to show it's not just about Mae and all the hot men who fancy her.

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Wardog

at 11:31 on 2010-09-14Oh, and I meant to say thanks for taking the time to comment, Cammalot - I've found your take on the book fascinating, and I'm generally just delighted to discover I'm not the only person in the world who doesn't like it! :P

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Dan H

at 13:51 on 2010-09-14

What I meant was: is it always automatically racist if a white person writes about her own culture? If so, why?

I think this is a misleading question for a number of reasons. Firstly, I think getting hung up on questions of what is and is not "racist" is often misleading and distracting. It tends to lead to people getting defensive and turns the whole discussion into one about individual white people. Ironically the more seriously we take race issues, the more sensitive we get about the "danger" of calling a white person a racist.

This touches on what Kat was talking about earlier: if somebody says "hey, anybody else notice how all the important people in this book are white" then a lot of people will respond by saying "OMG HOW DARE YOU CALL MY FAVOURITE WRITER A RACIST" which simply isn't helpful. The question is not "is Sarah Rees Brennan a racist" it's "are people of colour underrepresented in Sarah Rees Brennan's imaginary world". The answer to the first question is "I don't know, but probably a little bit but hell so am I" whereas the answer to the second question is "yes".

Sorry, that was a long and distracting preamble.

To answer your question, the problem here is that talking about "a white person's culture" - as Arthur and Cammalot have pointed out - is actually rather misleading. One of the big important items on the White Privilege Checklist is the fact that your ethnicity *is not* a major part of your cultural identity. Although as Arthur points out, a lot of *extremely racist* people like to argue that this is actually a huge injustice.

Because I am a white person living in a white-dominated country (more generally, because I am a member of my country's ethnic majority) my "culture" is the entire culture of my country. In fact since I'm English, my culture actually includes pretty much the entire English-speaking world. Hell, it arguably includes large parts of the *non* English-speaking world, because my cultural heritage includes amongst other things the British Empire and Christianity.

Because my culture - whether I like it or not - is the dominant one in the English-speaking world I have to accept that my culture *does* include non-white people, and gay people, and for that matter women all of whom have been historically margainalized by my culture and whose contributions *to* that culture have been minimized.

If I write a book about - say - being a student at Oxford and that book contains only white characters (which, to be honest, it probably would) then not only would I be erasing and margainalising non-white Oxford students (of whom there are a great many) I would in fact be *misrepresenting* my actual experiences and therein lies the problem. When a white person presents a fictional setting which ignores or margainalises non-white people, it *is* reflective of a wider cultural tendency to ignore and margainalise non-white people *in general*.

Now from the point of view of an individual text, it might be far better to ignore and margainalize a group than to tokenize, fetishize, or demonize it, but that's a different issue altogether.

To draw a rather peculiar analogy, it's sort of like recycling. I generally recycle all of my rubbish but sometimes I don't, sometimes I will throw plastic bottles in the dustbin. The fact that I recycle 90% of my plastic does not change the fact that the other 10% of the plastic I send to landfill sites contributes to global warming. Even if a person's portrayal of race (or gender, or disability, or whatever) is 90% perfect, it is still possible for the remaining 10% to *actively contribute* to a racist society.

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http://mary-j-59.livejournal.com/

at 16:43 on 2010-09-14Dan, in spite of saying mine was a misleading question, you answered it here:

Now from the point of view of an individual text, it might be far better to ignore and margainalize a group than to tokenize, fetishize, or demonize it, but that's a different issue altogether.

That's pretty much what I meant (and failed, initially) to say.

But it is interesting that, as far as I can remember, no one considered Sarah Rees Brennan racist when reviewing "The Demon's Lexicon". The issue arose in Kyra's review of "The Demon's Covenant", because Sin really does seem like a token person of color. As I said above, she is to be the narrator in the third book, and I'm reserving judgement on the series as a whole until after I've read the third.

I read "Covenant" a bit differently from Kyra. I thought the main issue was: would Jamie be seduced by Gerald into using his magic? And, if he was, would he be able to find a way to use magic for good, or is it always corrupting? That, to me, was the driving tension of the plot - Jamie's struggle with his magic, and Mae's struggle to protect him from the magicians. And I found it interesting.

Although I feel like I'm dancing around a live wire in even bringing it up again, as a white person, I'd be scared to do what Sarah Rees Brennan is attempting, and to write from the POV of a young woman of color in real, modern-day England. In a fantasy world, it's not so intimidating. But in a real-world setting, I'd be terrified to get it wrong - what do I know about being a person of color in England or America? Being an outsider - yes, I understand that. But what are the limits of imagination? Do I, as a white person, have any right to attempt to write from the viewpoint of a person of color? Especially when there are so many fine writers of color who cannot get the buzz that white writers get? As a writer, I do think I have an obligation to present the world honestly, and that definitely includes having varied casts in my stories. As a reader, I have an obligation to read actively and intelligently. As a librarian, I have an obligation to support and promote good writers of all types, and to aim for diversity on my shelves. I do take my obligations seriously. Sorry if I sound defensive here! As I said, I'm feeling a bit attacked, and I really didn't mean to say anything offensive. I apologize if I have given offense, nonetheless.

But - although I can see where Kyra was coming from in the original post, I do actually like Brennan's books so far. The questions Kyra has raised, and which others here have elaborated on, are good and valid, but, as I've said, I'm waiting to see how she completes her trilogy before judging it. After all, if Rowling had stopped her series with OOTP, I would have been convinced it was a good set of books. Even HBP didn't disabuse me of my love for the books entirely; it took DH to disenchant me and break my heart. It was only after the last book had been finished that I had all the information I needed to judge the series as a whole. I'm still a pretty optimistic reader, I guess, and I'm hoping Brennan won't disappoint me as Rowling did.

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http://cammalot.livejournal.com/

at 17:44 on 2010-09-14

This is kind of what I mean about the magical system not hanging together -- as presented so far, this feels like cheating, to me. I want more clarification as to what the source of emotion is in her mythos, so that the scenes of emoting don't feel so convenient. I don't want "It was inside him all along." That would destroy the 1st book's twist. (Although, if SRB chooses to pull something in the final book like “Alan gave Nick a part of his human soul through being so loving, and changed Nick’s essential nature while they were kids”...I might buy it. I disliked “Lexicon” until the final twist convinced me that there was some real brilliance in it, so I’m willing to hold out. And SRB has earned huge amounts of leeway from me for her depictions of Pansy Parkinson. She rounded out, redeemed, and made pretty feminist a character created to be Rowling's buttmonkey, in my opinion.)

@Kyra: Thanks for clarifying about Jamie and Sin, re: tokenism. Sin is definitely a hard character to get a handle on this time around. (In Lexicon, I found the *majority* of the cast difficult to get a handle on -- their quip-ful conversations really got in my way -- so I hope that’s reason to believe there will be more to Sin in the third volume). I liked Jamie, but 1) a lot of that is because I like SRB, and I *did* see a lot of authorial-insertiness about him (he also has a great many of the qualities of her version of Draco, but with less of the overt strength and anger), and 2) I remember having been an embarrassingly zealous Minority Warrior for gay rights in my early twenties, and have since erred on the side deferring to the more knowledgeable and keeping quiet. I’m also trying to navigate writing gay characters properly in my own fiction, so...yeah. Shutting up and learning from others now. And I will definitely look into this Bartimaeus business. :-)

And that segues into Stan’s post -- this is so very difficult to tell without seeing the writing in question. As I said above: To me, it’s less about topic or method and more about skill of execution. You should have beta readers, and some of them should of the groups you’re dealing with, or as close as possible (and even that *will not be foolproof* for all readers). If you don’t have such betas IRL, get hold of willing and trusted Internet ones. Your heart’s in the right place, but you shouldn’t take chances. There WILL be small but telling things, and you WILL miss them unaided (because what reason would you have had in your life to know them?), and readers from those groups will notice and be annoyed. Betas. Get 'em. But don’t assume that just because a person is from the group(s) in question that they have the time or inclination to educate you. Get someone enthusiastic, and choose carefully and respectfully.

And I agree with everything Daniel just said.

But it is interesting that, as far as I can remember, no one considered Sarah Rees Brennan racist when reviewing "The Demon's Lexicon".

@Mary — I don’t think anyone is calling SRB (or you) a capital-R racist NOW. We’re giving the “R-word” too much power in this conversation now, I think, which is distracting: SRB’s character isn’t the issue. It’s not about attacking any individual -- you or Sarah. But racism permeates our culture, and sometimes it will manifest in us. Privilege also exists and will manifest. This is not something we can help. This doesn’t mean that anybody is an evil, irredeemable person, or that liking the books makes you terrible. (Wanna know something awful? I liked “300.” And that shite was “problematic” up, down, left, right, and backwards. Racist, *heinously* ableist, *laughably* homophobic considering the people it depicted -- all kinds of crap. There now. I’ve ruined my fledgling reputation already. In my shallow defense, I thought the creators were being more tongue-in-cheek than they really were).

But it does mean that we need to be constantly aware and vigilant of the problems and possible problems that exist, and how to deal with them. And I don’t think anyone has written off the upcoming third book. Try to look at this theoretically, not as personal attack?

SRB has proven herself a strong and resilient young woman, and she has lots of support. I think she’ll be fine and can deal with the fact that there are people who take issue with her work (as there are people who will take issue with any work; nothing’s perfect). And you should write what you feel passionate about -- but writing in public is an act of self-exposure and requires bravery.

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Dan H

at 18:47 on 2010-09-14

Wanna know something awful? I liked “300.” And that shite was “problematic” up, down, left, right, and backwards. Racist, *heinously* ableist, *laughably* homophobic considering the people it depicted -- all kinds of crap. There now. I’ve ruined my fledgling reputation already. In my shallow defense, I thought the creators were being more tongue-in-cheek than they really were

I think you have, in fact, ruined your FerretBrain cred forever.

My favourite comments on 300 have been from my Iranian students. Highlights include: "In my country ... we do not have ninjas" and "We remember Xerxes as a great man. He was not a Gay!"

The latter comment highlights another interesting point about this kind of thing, which is that a person can be offended by something while themselves being *quite offensive*.

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http://cammalot.livejournal.com/

at 19:41 on 2010-09-14

I think you have, in fact, ruined your FerretBrain cred forever.

I know, I know. I am duly ashamed.

I was watching it with a bona fide history professor, at midnight, and we sat there going "La la la, swordy things, la la la, loinclothery, la la la, anachronistic rock music, whoo-HOO, half-naked acrobatics, and hey, isn't that the hot skinny demon guy from 'Hex' -- hey wait, did he just diss ATHENIANS for sleeping with boys?" And then it occurred to us that the rest of the theater wasn't reacting the same way, as in, no, that line was not coming across as hypocrisy, it was coming off as "time to giggle at the gay now". And then there were more things (like "holy shit, did they just VALIDATE throwing babies away??"). And then the lack of irony slowly dawned on me. Much too slowly, really. As in, not before I left the theater. Don't know what to say about that, I had thought I was more astute. And then I read the source comic. (I had not been familiar with Frank Miller before.)

I was also overly impressed that the film acknowledged that black people were around and involved in classical antiquity. Except, you know, then the beheadings and Unfortunate Implications and oh god I'm sorry I'm sorry...

(It's all...yeah, I don't know. I especially don't know what to say about the roars of theater laughter when the head flew through the air. This was, um, not a white theater, shall we say. Things are complicated. I think a lot of the audience were appreciating it as though it were a horror movie.)

a person can be offended by something while themselves being *quite offensive*.

Too true. :-)

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Jamie Johnston

at 16:49 on 2010-09-19Just caught up on this discussion. It was interesting! I have nothing to add to it! This comment may be pointless and excessively exclamatory!

Hi to Cammalot & 3stan, neither of whom I've seen around here before (as far as I remember).

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Montavilla

at 20:55 on 2010-09-28Coming to the discussion late, as I am wont to do.

Wow. This is a great discussion about writing different cultures from your own -- whether race, sexual orientation, so on. I really love how honest people are being about difficult it is to approach racial and cultural inclusion.

Long ago and far away, I edited children's reading textbooks and believe me, inclusion was a major consideration. Along with deleting any possible objectionable material, which makes for great stories. True one: I once as a joke scared my supervising editor by suggesting the team names in a story ("red" and "blue") might cause parents to think we were promoting Communism. She nearly fainted.

Anyway, we were tasked with making sure that the depiction of minority/majority race characters matched the current American demographic breakdown: 16% black, 12% Latino, 6% Asian, 2% Native American, 2% physically challenged, 2% "other." Since we were trying to use as much pre-published material as possible (as opposed to commissioned writing), we ended up changing race/gender in many cases. We also specced artwork to include crowds of racially diverse people whenever possible. Then we had to go back and actually count heads in order to justify the inclusion.

It was all very silly and artificial, but it did have the virtue of showing kids a world where not everyone looks the same. And the California State Board of Education eventually got savvier and started demanding that we follow a demographic breakdown of writers and illustrators, instead of making Ramona Quimby Hispanic. :)

As a writer, I do think about trying to include more diversity in characters. But it intimidates me at the same time. My racial heritage is Italian, Filipino, and Spanish-American. But I don't know diddly about any of those cultures, really. For me to write about a Filipina character would be as inauthentic as my writing about an Iranian woman. But I think I have to try. My only other choice is to set everything in a fantasy world where any real world culture doesn't apply. And don't think I haven't thought about it.

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Cammalot

at 17:03 on 2011-07-12RE: The Demon's Surrender, the last book in this trilogy -- Based on the first few bits... I really wish Brennan had been writing from Sin’s POV all along. I’m much more immediately sucked in, this time.

(Heh. She is also

much more obviously black/biracial now

. Thank you, British bookbinder.)

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Kat S

at 09:40 on 2011-07-18@Cammalot: The UK Cover of Surrender with Sin in front bothers me. It bothers me a lot. It is not in the same style at all as the previous two covers. When you line up the books, Surrender is a different size and the spine lettering is arranged differently. They did just about everything possible to make the book about the PoC look like if it was from a different series.

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Cammalot

at 21:03 on 2011-07-18Hmm. It’s food for thought.

I know that there’s been a shift across the board toward more photographic-looking covers (the background skyline still seems similar, though also converted to more photo style, as is the saturated color and the backdrop-to-face size ratio. I don’t have a copy in hand yet, and have refused to buy the US versions. I can’t stand the US covers. Everyone looks stiff and mannequinlike, and Sin is whitewashed. And aged way up).

I can only guess at the rest, though. It’s weird.

I tend to hate it in general when the look of a series changes midway, and it’s been happening more and more lately. Busting out with much-pricier hardcovers to capitalize on a heretofore paperback series’ steady sales, and thus upping the per unit price by almost double, or more than double in some cases, that sort of thing. I’ve begun waiting up to two years for paperbacks to come out in order to have consistency — among them Simon R. Green, Patricia Briggs, and Jim Butcher (Yes I read some fluff. More important, I can wait a very long time to read fluff, there are other piles o’ books on my poor floor waiting for me, I will not be suckered in. ;-D). Similar happened with the “Monster-Ink Tattoo” series, and Patricia Bray’s books went from trade to hc too, I believe.

As I said, I don’t have a copy in hand yet. Have you got the hardcover? Is there a trade paper even out yet? Is your copy larger or smaller than previous?

This complicates things in my mind, but in a weird way. Publishers are driven by the desire to make cash. And they tend to think in very short and direct ways about it. (This cover sold well last week, let’s imitate it fortyfold, right this instant! Or, more annoyingly: This did not sell a million copies instantaneously, let us never do anything like it again! This is exaggeration on my part, but you get me. That last mentality has especially hurt books about girls and people of color.)

The photographic thing is a definite trend right now and supposed to up sales; this, I am sure, is the thinking, from what I’ve observed. (I’m in publishing. Sadly, never in a Big Decider capacity so far.) I’m kind of surprised they didn’t go that route on the first two. That plus the size change (opposite of what I would expect if they were trying play down the non-white angle) might make me think they want to call even more attention to it...so perhaps the previous two were not selling very well? (Based on what I see on chain-store bookshelves here, what’s actually on the floor displays and what’s even kept in stock, I would tend to believe this: I’m not seeing her on the shelves. Her series has to be doing well enough for them to let her try another -- unrelated -- book, but I don’t know that it’s a blockbuster.)

Increasing the size of this last book to hardcover might say to me that sales *are* going well, and they expect to shift just as many twice-the-price hardcover copies as they did cheaper paperback ones, and will likely even re-release previous entries in the series as hardcovers if the sales on this one hold steady. (Jim Butcher had a similar mid-series redesign, and hc versions of older books are being released. Briggs has had the hc re-release without the redesign, possibly because her books started out with semi-realistic pics of people to start with.)

Smaller size, on the other hand, might say they want to lower the price in order to sell more, possibly because the previous ones did not do as well as they’d hoped. (In this case, though, I would not expect them to put a person of color, and a girl, on the front.)

Either way, change says, to me, an attempt to get more attention.

Now, if they specifically want to CAPITALIZE on the non-white angle (as opposed to thinking “Well, this is surefire and will sell either way, so let’s take an easy risk and put a biracial girl on the front” -- I can’t imagine they’re thinking the third option: “Let’s put a person of color on the front and then downplay everything so no one will notice the book to buy it, and also let’s confuse and misdirect existing fans”) -- If they think a larger size and a brown face is going to move more copies or attract new buyers -- well I say go for it. I feel very mercenary about that. I’d like it if there were more of that sort of opinion happening in the States.

All this, of course, with the caveat that I am not British and so can’t claim insider knowledge of what might drive the British/UK publishing mind-set on the issue.

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Kat S

at 15:57 on 2011-07-19The trend of photographic-looking covers was already on-going when the publishers produced the first two books. As for capitalizing on Sin's PoC-ness, they could have done that without completely changing the style of the covers. Frankly, I doubt it. The changes in Demon's Surrender versus the other books is too close to the way "Urban" romances are usually packaged by publishers.

Not sure how I gave the impression that the size was increased to hard-cover. Demon's Surrender is in paper-back.

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Cammalot

at 19:27 on 2011-07-19You wrote:

Surrender is a different size

I couldn't tell from that wording in what way it was different -- bigger or smaller. (Thank you for clarifying.) On the webpage with the cover version we are discussing, Bookdepository.co.uk has it listed as available in a hardcover edition and a paperback. (The hardcover could actually refer to the U.S. edition, but I find the setup ambiguous.)

Yes, the trend towards more photographic covers has been around for a while, but 1. it hasn't been anything near universal even for North American books and would not necessarily have affected any one particular book we could select; 2. it hasn't been pushed quite as much in the U.K. (Google the original British covers for Melissa Marr, Stephanie Meyer, Rachel Caine, and so on); and 3. it is still trending. In my experience, at least for the past decade or so (possibly before that), British books have tended far more towards the artsy covers than towards the more full and/or photorealistic human representation that U.S covers were going for, especially in fantasy. It's still more or less down to editorial/marketing whim, and still doesn't really tell me anything.

That cover is the British version, and I don't know that "Urban" fiction is that big a genre or a draw in Britain. I would posit that it isn't, just because in my experience of the “Urban” genre as it is (euphemistically) defined here, it has been wildly,

intensely

, and kind of annoyingly) U.S.-centric, and because I haven't seen those marketing categories delineated in the U.K. in the same way they are in the U.S.

at all

. They do not divide up their shelves of genres in stores in the same way; particularly, they haven't, in my experience, been separating out "'urban'-aka-'black'-books" from other types of fiction in the way our "African American interest" sections do, but integrate their authors of various colors onto shelves by topic and subject matter, not ethnicity.

But, y'know, I wouldn't swear to it, since I haven't been there since '09. It could be a new thing. They seem to have a thing called

street fiction

. But not much of it expressly delineated as such, and still, the covers...

do not look like that

. Codes and subtexts are not the same for the two markets.

"Surrender's" differences from the previous two are not striking to me. Spine text is not a large enough indicator -- variations in spine text happen frequently with all sorts of series. The face on the cover, though photographic, is positioned in the same place and at a similar angle and size relative to background to the previous two (though more of her face is showing), and like the other two, does not involve her body. The background, though also more photographic, employs the same shading as the second book (indicating a progression of artistic vision, to me). The cracked-letter effect in the cover font is identical on all three, and in the same place. The author blurbs are also positioned in the same place across the board.

(I also think that there's too much fire in the background of "Surrender" [indicating subject matter larger in scope and apocalyptic than the usual plot of the "Urban" stuff I've come in contact with] and not enough of the young woman's breasts are on display, nor is she positioned "tough-ly" enough, for me to mistake if for Urb-Lit or Urb-Rom.)

Sizing also doesn’t tell me much, as it is not unique to this series and is far more often an indicator of either financial concerns (cost of physical paper fluctuates and has been going up for some time now -- some hardcovers have leaped to nearly $27 from $22 in just the past five years and non-genre authors are under a great deal of pressure to keep their novels to 300 pages or less), or perhaps an overall push to make paperback sizes more uniform. A quick Google tells me paperback sizes across the board have been in flux both in the U.S. and the U.K.

since at least around 2008/2009

. (As Brennan’s book hit shelves in mid-2009, most of the plans concerning its manufacture and release would have been well underway anywhere from 2 to 4 years before that, and the size change could easily have simply missed those first two.)

I'm just not seeing the publishers doing "everything possible" to make the book look like some other series. It doesn't exactly match, true, but this is not unique to this series or to books with women of color on them, and it seems to me that many elements were intentionally retained (I'm looking at Amazon UK right now) in order to link this book to its predecessors. I believe a redesign was intentional, yes, but I can easily see this new full-face style as an improvement, and --*if* the books sell well enough to go to a subsequent printing -- I would not be surprised to see the other two altered to match this one.

Further, I haven't seen any big push to masquerade books as more U.S-esque "Urban" style in the U.K., even with those written by actual black British people: See

Katherine Bing

Mike Gayle

, and I'm sure others can be quick-searched. (The Mike Gayle covers have indeed been revamped -- those versions are not the ones I own, so there seems to have been ample time to take him more "Urban," but this is not the direction they went in.)

The two Urb-Rom imprints I worked for didn't have much of a footprint in the U.K. (that is to say, no corporate presence at all, but you can get books nearly anywhere nowadays what with the Internet), but I can only speak to what I know; some British people might have to weigh in on whether or not going "Urban" would be considered an intelligent marketing strategy in the U.K., especially for Y.A. It also does not seem plausible to me that the marketing team would take the very last book of a trilogy and purposefully disguise it as a new genre (especially in a country that genre is not native to or apparently very popular in) in hopes of drawing a whole new audience and abandoning the previous one.

This is not to say that British publishing doesn't have its own problems --

it does

. And I think your concern is valid. But at the moment, in the particular case of this book, I do not share the concern.

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Leia

at 09:28 on 2011-07-20The times I have noticed UK covers make changes, they tend to adapt the US covers. That's what happened with Twilight and the Cassandra Clare books. Spine text is a pretty big indicator when you line up the books side by side. Are there considerably more letters in "Surrender" than in "Covenant"?

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Cammalot

at 17:10 on 2011-07-20

Spine text is a pretty big indicator when you line up the books side by side.

But an indicator of what, exactly? Intentional genre and audience shift and exploitation, or general reconsideration of overall design? Reconsideration of overall design is a given, here; it was publically touted as such. They did in fact reconsider the design, and took it in a different direction -- that's not in dispute.

I'm simply not seeing how it's more likely that the

intent

of that new artistic direction would be to mimic "Urban Lit," a genre for which I have seen no evidence of popularity in the U.K.; a genre which is extremely U.S.-centric and reliant on U.S. tropes, codes, and cultural signifiers; a genre that a great many British blacks (who are predominantly of direct-African and Caribbean descent) would be far less likely to relate to, understand, or drawn to purchase. Nor do I see how it would make sense to hype such a thing in the U.K. Instead of the U.S., or to trust such a thing to generate any hype. (Unless the thinking here is that they’re trying to get the book to fail?)

For my own, personal self, I am very,

extremely

wary and distrustful of overextending/overattributing U.S. mindsets to people it has no reason to apply to. We do this all too often, us Americans (in all our ethnic variety), and it gives us an inaccurate and offensive understanding of other people. I am speaking for myself here, and not assuming U.S-ness in anyone else.

There are a vast number of books being published every year in the UK, many of which go to multiple printings and show an evolution of cover design. A great many of these titles are never even available in the U.S. Often several versions of the cover art remain in print and available simultaneously. (For a very long time, they had both "regular" and "less-embarrassing, grown-up" covers available for the Harry Potter series in the U.K.) Saying that U.K. covers "tend" to adopt U.S. cover design, assigning this to an entire national industry, linking this phenomenon wholly to nothing but some attempt to copy America, is an extremely big and kind of presumptuous stretch, for me. (Not to mention there’s often a lot less “adoption” going on and a great deal more “importing the actual U.S.-produced physical product, because it costs less”.) Maybe for popular Y.A. American authors, they might -- it's far cheaper to “adopt” an existing design, after all, see parenthetical -- but I would hesitate very much to apply that reasoning in this particular case, when the U.S. cover actually features a red-headed white guy in an entirely different art style.

And it still bears noting that U.K. books, particularly in the genres in question, tend to start out more artsy and less photorealistic. (Sometimes they even have wholly different titles. It’s a different market — different things appeal.) I do indeed believe that with this particular book, this move to photorealism is an attempt to mimic the similar U.S. shift toward such trends

in Y.A.

, since these sorts of Y.A. covers have proven themselves more popular (for now) in the U.S. market. That’s business, especially when speaking in terms of specific titles, and it doesn’t always go in one direction either (see the U.S. habitually copying Japanese horror films, or remaking Britcoms, or the fact that we get any translated works here at all — they have to prove popularity at home first). But I'm still not seeing a shift to "Urban Lit" in this particular case, when this specific book by Brennan is not readily available (not without high shipping fees, or secondhand purchase, or knowing about Book Depository’s no-shipping-fees policy — basically, you have to seek this thing out) to the audience that would appreciate or buy Urban Lit.

Sophia McDougall’s (UK, not available in US) books got redesigned mid-series, just in time for the last book of the trilogy to arrive this summer — a much bigger redesign, with no art elements in common with the originals at all. Terry Prachett’s Discworld went through this several times, the UK versions shifting from something that resembled a Benny Hill chase scene to a woodcut-type design. Ian Rankin’s (UK, can’t really find it quite as readily in the US) mystery/crime series underwent a spontaneous size change in or around 2009. Over here, Kelly Armstrong’s latest Y.A. series went from a something with architecture on the front for the first novel to closeups of the lower half of a girl’s face for the second two, and moved from mass market to trade paperback. Octavia Butler’s books got reissued under several different covers; the Patternmaster series that I owned had similar cover designs but a font and paper texture change midway through (less gold-leaf). Then they all got re-released with photos on the covers. This happens with a large number of manga titles in the past few years (money matters, again, as “flipping” manga for Western ease of reading costs more). Ranma 1/2 got size switched (not an improvement, IMO; I stopped buying) without even the excuse of switching to right-to-left reading. Samuel Delany’s “Neveryon” series came out under a redesigned cover quite some years ago, and there has since been a push to re-realease a lot of his older works with covers that resemble those, particularly his literary and social theory. I'm looking at the spine text on Simon E. Green's "Nightside" series (US version) and his "Drood" series, lined up on my shelf, and there is a noticeable spine text shift, particularly on the seventh Nightside one. (I actually think the text shift is very unattractive.) This doesn't, however, say "rebranding" to me. Fans of Green can still read his name very clearly and locate the book, even when only placed spine-out on the shelves. Fans of Jim Butcher were similarly not much deterred when his books stopped looking this way and started looking like this, and then gained nearly an inch in height (and a dollar and change in price).

And if we haven’t seen this happening as much with people of color on the covers, surely we must take into consideration hat getting people of color onto the cover of “mainstream” books has been and still is still a big huge fight, so no, we

wouldn’t

have seen that happening as much, but that was BAD.

Redesigns take place primarily for economic reasons, and the direction those redesigns take come with all sorts of rationales, most of which lead back to “we want more money out of this.” (Unless it’s “We can’t afford to do this anymore, how can we cut corners.” Which is more or less the same thing.) All too often this rush to the cash leads to oversimplified, racist, and other socially problematic decisions, yes. But I am not, in this case, convinced that a British publisher would have any sane reason to cynically target what we know as the “Urban Lit” audience with a book meant for release in the U.K., nor am I convinced it would be a sound financial decision for them. It just doesn’t make any sense to me at all.

I am not willing to outright go: “They don’t have Urban Lit in the United Kingdom, or indeed outside the U.S. much,” but searching for “urban fiction” on Amazon.co.uk gives me this:

http://tinyurl.com/3gjp8oq

An “Urban Lit” search leads off with “urban fantasy/paranormal romance” titles and rounds off with books from America and books on city planning:

http://tinyurl.com/3nd54zn

Searching for “street fiction” gives me this:

http://tinyurl.com/4xf895g

And “street lit”:

http://tinyurl.com/3fvrer4

— again, the one fiction book on that page that fits the bill is an U.S. book. Not even a re-covered Brit version of a U.S. book — the U.S. version. (The major-player publishers of Urban Lit are a very rare thing -- independent publishers -- and they do not have international presence, as I said before. Which is cool, in its way— they haven’t been snapped up by conglomerates.)

And only searching for both together gives me some semblance of the very, extremely US-spawned and US-centric genre that we are speaking of.

The codes and tropes and shorthands are simply not identical. We are both part of the “Anglosphere,” and so the codes and tropes and shorthands are not fully foreign or impenetrable, but they are also not the same.

Now, what’s INSIDE the book is a different matter, and frankly I am filled with a great deal of trepidation about that. But I need to finish it first.

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Cammalot

at 17:17 on 2011-07-20Arrgh. Dropped two links.

Old Jim Butcher:

http://tinyurl.com/3fdjgmy

New Jim Butcher:

http://tinyurl.com/3wfp5sd

And for comparison, Brit Jim Butcher:

http://tinyurl.com/3clzw7s

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Cammalot

at 17:50 on 2011-07-20Completely irrelevant, but eye-catching:

http://www.amazon.fr/Furie-du-Curseur-Jim-Butcher/dp/2352944600/ref=pd_rhf_shvl_2

http://www.amazon.fr/Dossiers-Dresden-F%C3%A9e-dhiver/dp/2811203427/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1311180535&sr=1-5

(none of these referrings I'm doing should be considered any particular endorsement, by the way)

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Cammalot

at 19:17 on 2011-07-20Last edit for a bit: "and then gained nearly an inch in height (and a dollar and change in price)." should be "nearly half an inch."

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Leia

at 06:31 on 2011-07-21

Saying that U.K. covers "tend" to adopt U.S. cover design, assigning this to an entire national industry, linking this phenomenon wholly to nothing but some attempt to copy America, is an extremely big and kind of presumptuous stretch, for me.

I said the times *I* have noticed... You clearly know more about this than I do. For the record, I'm not a, American or b, inclined to go witch-racist hunting for the fun of it. And maybe you didn't mean it but the tone of your responses is border-line implying that. Bottom line: I don't have a bone in this and I'm just going to bow out of this conversation right now.

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Wardog

at 09:57 on 2011-07-21I'm sure nobody intended to suggest that you were witch-hunting - I think we've just hit on a topic which overlaps with Cammalot's professional experience.

I hadn't given much thought to this at all, to be honest, so I actually found this discussion really interesting. I remember feeling broadly positive about the UK covers of Lexicon and Covenant - I liked the stylised, slightly impressionistic art style for the characters (better for Lexicon than Covenant, though, Nick was very characterful, whereas Mae just looked like a girl with funny coloured hair). But equally I can see why you might have wanted Sin to look more "realistic", otherwise you've got a cover with an artist's impression of a black girl on the front. I think in this instance UK did way better than US, since I believe the US got a pouting pretty boy against an orange explosion? I do think replicates the major features of the previous covers, though - even if the artwork has changed. However, I do agree with Cammalot that the covers have enough stylistic elements in common (positioning, text style, etc) to seem to be recognizably connected to me. I certainly didn't see any attempt to distance Surrender from the other two books, because it has a POC on the front, or to make it look like another "type" of book.

And for the record, I know bugger all about this, so I could be talking out of my arse.

They do not divide up their shelves of genres in stores in the same way; particularly, they haven't, in my experience, been separating out "'urban'-aka-'black'-books" from other types of fiction in the way our "African American interest" sections do, but integrate their authors of various colors onto shelves by topic and subject matter, not ethnicity.

I do most of my book shopping online these days, but I have never seen anything like this in a British bookshop. You occasionally get "hey, read these books about black people!" displays but as a general rule you just get fiction, sci/fi fantasy, comics, crime, classic fiction, romance if you're very lucky and that's about it. The two genre emergences I've seen in the last few years have been "dark fantasy" and "young adult" - and I remember how tiny-mind-blown Arthur was the first time he saw a dark fantasy section in a bookshop. This being so, I can't imagine "urban" taking off any time soon, with relation to either adult or young adult fiction. But, as I say, that's an impression constructed from a position of absolute ignorance.

I haven't read this either, by the way - I am curious though. But it suddenly stopped being available on Kindle. MYSTERY!

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Arthur B

at 10:21 on 2011-07-21I admit to not really going out of my way to look for any, but the only time I've seen an "urban" fiction book in a UK bookshop it's been a lonely novel by 50 Cent crammed into the Crime/Thrillers section.

Oh, and if I'm remembering right it was a US import. I guess they bought it in due to the name recognition or something.

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Cammalot

at 15:04 on 2011-07-21I was in fact trying to be quite careful about assuming anyone else’s nationality when I said

"For my own, personal self, I am very, extremely wary and distrustful of overextending/overattributing U.S. mindsets to people it has no reason to apply to. We do this all too often, us Americans (in all our ethnic variety), and it gives us an inaccurate and offensive understanding of other people. I am speaking for myself here, and not assuming U.S-ness in anyone else."

However, in retrospect, I guess I used some pretty nonstandard grammar and orthography in there. :-)

This topic does ping on... nearly every aspect of me, really: For the record, I am a combo of a few ethnicities of black American; both the U.S. and the U.K. have played large roles in my educational and professional life; and I've worked in publishing for most of my adult life, although I promise to stop that fairly soon; and I have a

serious problem

with Urban Lit. I am never sure how much I can express how very big and angry and depressing a beef I have with Urban Lit without impacting myself professionally, so I do try to keep it vague online. (But this is a fairly anonymous place, I think?)

And I can be a very longwinded pedant. I like to at least attempt to make sure my assertions are covered. I hope I’m not sounding too Minority Warrior. Can I even BE a Minority Warrior when talking about the UK??? :-)

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Sister Magpie

at 18:00 on 2011-07-21

I do think replicates the major features of the previous covers, though - even if the artwork has changed.

FWIW, I would probably be more likely to compare it to the second book in the US version, since that one has Sin on the cover. She's dancing in a ring of fire, iirc.

Oh, and if I'm remembering right it was a US import. I guess they bought it in due to the name recognition or something.

Do you mean this cover is an import? It's not. The UK has different covers than the US versions for all of them (the UK's are better imo)--and I don't think the UK is publishing them for name recognition. It's a first novel series in both markets published at the same time.

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Cammalot

at 18:17 on 2011-07-21I think Arthur meant his Fitty-Cent book was an import. :-)

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Arthur B

at 18:48 on 2011-07-21That's exactly what I was saying. :)

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Sister Magpie

at 20:24 on 2011-07-21Ah! Now that I read it again that's obviously what you were saying. I think I ran several posts together in my head!

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Leia

at 08:29 on 2011-07-22@Cammalot: Sorry for jumping to conclusions there. I think I was projecting a little: just out of a conversation with someone about how the casting of the Prince of Persia wasn't in the least bit racist, at all.. *le sigh*

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Cammalot

at 17:17 on 2011-07-22@Leia -- Not at all, and rereading my thing I just want to make clear that I

think your and Kat’s question is an important thing to think about and ask, and keep asking, even though I don’t think it applies here specifically. There are a host of underlying daily frustrations and problems with publishing as an industry. When I said things like “not logical” I was talking about hypothetical British top-editors and marketers, not you guys.

(Actually I’m making assumptions by saying your question was the same as Kat’s; please correct me if I’m wrong.)

I’m sorry you had to deal with such a ninny. My own feelings on PoP are convoluted, filled with caveats, and pretty tl;dr (this is probably not surprising, by now ;-D), but it’s pretty ridiculous not to concede that they could easily have been much more inclusive.

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Robinson L

at 18:02 on 2012-04-16Warning: extremely long and probably ramble-y comment.

In response to the article, I find it pretty amusing that what

I interpreted

as "cool and intense character development," you interpreted as "nothing happens until the final thirty pages."

I'm also amused that what I read as really sweet fraternal affection between Alan and Nick, you read as blatant slashing.

Dan Ryves' journal struck me as stupid and artificial at first, and I suppose it was mostly just a lot of padding. But I did warm up to it by the end.

I'm ashamed to say I sort of missed Alan's creepiness when I read the book. I might have missed his assholishness too, had Rees Brennan not explicitly pointed it out a few times, as discussed in my review.

By now, I've also read

The Demon's Surrender

, and I think what Rees Brennan did with the Alan/Sin romance was pretty interesting. Granted, there were things about it which bugged the crap out of me (about which more later), but all through the first two books, he's like this untouchable master manipulator who can deceive absolutely anybody. Whereas in the third book, we see that he has limits, and he's not able to deceive people whose life circumstances also require that they be skilled at manipulation. (In this case, the metaphor is that of a performance, because it's from Sin's viewpoint and she's a performer.) The implication to me being that the only way Alan will be able to have a happy functional relationship is if his romantic partner is someone who can see through his subterfuges. Which I think is pretty neat.

I'm pretty sure

Surrender

has a call-back to that creepy line of Alan's: "Of all the girls I ever saw I dreamed of you the most." I don't have the book to hand, but I'm almost certain in

Surrender

, Alan tells Sin that he never dreamed about her because she was too unobtainable. I wish I'd been paying more attention when I read that line, because now I think about it, depending on the context, it could have been a really creepy pedestal line.

I'm so relieved that you liked Mae, though, because I really, really liked her in

Covenant

with Jamie being passed about like the magical McGuffin he so clearly is

I find this interesting in light of the fact that he also reads to you like a self-insert character. I'm trying to figure out what to make of that dynamic.

Interesting analysis of the whole self-sacrifice motif – something else I failed to pick up on at the time.

Re: Annabel

Kat Sullivan: She reminds me of Spock's mother in the 2009 movie: she appears in the story just long enough for her to have a Meaningful Death for the benefit of her children's own story.

Yikes, I wouldn't go that far. I mean, the portrayal of Spock's mother is probably one of my biggest personal irritants from Star Trek|| because she was blatantly there for no reason other than to get stuffed into the fridge and further Spock's storyline. If you took that aspect of her out of the movie, she wouldn't have had any reason for existing in it.

Whereas Annabel, apart from being awesome, had her own nice little character arc, and played a part in other characters' story arcs which went beyond passively providing motivation. You could remove her death from the story and her presence in it would still have meaning and purpose. (To be honest, I didn't pick up on the whole fridging angle until I read this.)

And continuing the theme of Stuff Robinson totally didn't notice until someone pointed it out, the only person of color in the first two books (Sin) is exoticized and a dancer (though not an exotic dancer). And the "let's bring in a white girl to take over instead of her" aspect (ick). I didn't so much mind the "two women vying over leadership of the Market" scenario at the end of this book, but that was partially because I didn't realize what a large role it would play in

The Demon's Surrender

. (To be fair to Rees Brennan, it was significantly less terrible than it might've been, but it still wasn't pretty.)

Cammalot: I’m going to be a be anti-Barthian and resurrect The Author

I'm going out on a tangent to gush about how much I adore this wording; lovely. And only slightly more on-topic, I think in this post-TeXt Factor Season 2 world, citing the Author in this manner is entirely reasonable. (I'm thinking about how much people's perceptions of "The Host" were filtered by the knowledge that it was written by Stephenie Meyer).

Maybe it's better at this point to go bigger with it, especially for minor characters? It's unwieldy to say "The East Asian girl at the corner table," but it might just be what needs to be done.

Maybe so. Unfortunately, this

still

doesn't work if you're trying to write far-future or alternate world speculative fiction (like I am. Still haven't entirely figured out a solution yet).

and for a preternaturally emotionless guy, Nick seems to be emoting left and right. (Which for me raises an interesting question — how clueless can you honestly be about human emotions and still manage to always be bitingly quippy? Can you *be * humorous, on purpose, if you don’t have emotions?)

The part which always strains my suspension of disbelief is how, as a demon who finds human speech difficult, he's incapable of telling a lie, but is completely comfortable dishing out sarcasm. The characters even lampshade it in this book, but Rees Brennan never explains how it's supposed to work.

Kyra: I will second the recommendation of the Bartimaeus Trilogy - I LOVED those.

I'll throw in on this one, too; great trilogy. The more recent installment,

Solomon's Ring

is somewhat weaker, but still very enjoyable, and the title character at least is entertaining as ever.

Dan: The question is not "is Sarah Rees Brennan a racist" it's "are people of colour underrepresented in Sarah Rees Brennan's imaginary world"

Superbly articulated as usual.

Mary J: That, to me, was the driving tension of the plot - Jamie's struggle with his magic, and Mae's struggle to protect him from the magicians. And I found it interesting.

I think that's more-or-less how I related to it, too.

Jamie: Just caught up on this discussion. It was interesting! I have nothing to add to it! This comment may be pointless and excessively exclamatory!

Out of curiosity, were you

trying

to imitate the “Jamie” from the books there? If so: good job!

Cammalot: I can’t stand the US covers. Everyone looks stiff and mannequinlike, and Sin is whitewashed. And aged way up

I read

Covenant

with the US cover and I missed that there was an age-up, but I couldn't for the life of me tell if the character on the cover was supposed to by a whitewashed Sin or a Mae with undyed hair. Answer: whitewashed Sin. Figures.

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Kat S

at 12:08 on 2012-06-25

The whole thing is incredibly colonialist, and indeed functions as a miniature of the colonial narrative: Mae, the rich, white foreigner comes in and revolutionizes a native's land with "superior" organization and technology. But it's all for the better, and the "native" (in this case, Sin) admits that, and eventually comes to support the usurper.

This is an excerpt from a review that pretty much highlighted every issue that I have with this book. The way Sin was portrayed in contrast to Mae sickened me at every turn.

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Wardog

at 12:40 on 2012-06-25I have the third book sitting in my tbr pile and I keep looking at it and making this face:

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http://melaniedavidson.livejournal.com/

at 21:26 on 2012-06-25

...I’ve found that I much prefer to *not* see people like me in the books of authors who might not be able to pull it off properly. I’m not keen on the idea of reading practice-run depictions of people like me in the works of authors who are just learning how. It’s upsetting, not entertaining, and it’s gotten more upsetting as I get older and more exposed to subtler types of fail.

I know this is old (but recently commented-on! Who else watches the recent activity page?), but I feel pretty much the same way. I know there are good arguments on the other side*, but for my personal enjoyment I would MUCH rather read, e.g., a story which "just happens"** not to have any women in it, than one which is horrible and faily with its female characters.

*Like the "token x" thing being in some sense a step forward from an implied "x's just don't fucking exist". I guess I see it as being that they both fail, but in different ways, and it's legitimate for someone to be bothered more by one way than the other. I was going to also say something about it possibly being, for some authors, a step towards

actually

writing non-faily depictions (if they're doing it in good faith, I mean) and that they won't get there if they don't ever try, even if the trying itself can be pretty bad--but you're right; their "practice runs" don't need to be public.

**That's a little sarcastic because I don't really mean that I honestly think it

actually

just sort of happens by pure coincidence that a story is like that, but you see what I mean, right? In-universe there could be a plausible reason or it could be sort of coincidential, like being explicitly set in a single-gender environment, or your example of just small groups of characters which wouldn't necessarily be representative.

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Cammalot

at 01:48 on 2012-06-26

And the "let's bring in a white girl to take over instead of her" aspect (ick). I didn't so much mind the "two women vying over leadership of the Market" scenario at the end of this book, but that was partially because I didn't realize what a large role it would play in The Demon's Surrender. (To be fair to Rees Brennan, it was significantly less terrible than it might've been, but it still wasn't pretty.)

Yeahhhhh... I did not like that at all. I did try to think well of it, as I liked much of what was done with the character beforehand (especially her mixed family, which is something I'm noticing a lot more in London now). But as the story veered more and more in that direction... It's like when you're used to driving on one side of the road, and you go off to a place where they drive on the opposite side, and you're sitting in what your lizard brain can't quite grasp is now the passenger's side, and you find yourself desperately trying to slam on the "brakes" to no avail...

I did NOT want it to go there. And then I hoped it might be going there in a different way... but no.

Also, thank you, Robinson.

@ Melanie -- yes! Ha ha -- this is why I try not to be too harsh on fanfiction. Practice does need to happen. (Of course, I also tend to avoid fanfiction -- some, not all -- so that might not be saying much, on my part.)

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Wardog

at 09:37 on 2012-06-26Hmm... I'm not sure but I think one of the, ah, 'problems' with fanfic is that is not, and should not be perceived, as 'practice' for 'real' writing (sorry for all the scare quotes). I think it's an entirely different entity, written in a different way, with a different purpose, for a different audience. I tend to get a lizard brain effect when I'm reading published books by authors who are influential in (and influenced by) fandom - it's rather like tea from the nutrimatic machine, y'know, almost but completely unlike a book. To be fair to SRB she's made the transition better than others I've experienced (peers at Cassie Clare).

Also I'm not sure if fandom could be sensibly relied upon to be a sensible practice audience - in the post you linked to, there's a response from SRB in which she basically criticises fandom for only being interested in straight (?) white boys.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm not sure it is possible to practice run at these things. I mean if you 'practice' on yourself and your friends you'll just confirm your own prejudices and sit around congratulation yourself on your splendid portrayal of somebody who is not you.

On the other hand, published and be damned and upsetting a bunch of people doesn't seem a legitimate way forward either...

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http://fishinginthemud.livejournal.com/

at 10:19 on 2012-06-26The only thing I can imagine fanfic being good "practice" for might be some technical issue like writing reasonable-sounding dialogue for an established character or setting up a scene. If the tv-writing business were less impenetrable, a lot of fic writers would probably do much better as guest writers on long-running series than they would as novelists.

As far as creating original characters or coming up with plots that haven't been done to death, I think fanfic-writing probably does more harm than good. I think another of Rowling's many crimes is making hackery look easier than it is.

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Wardog

at 10:25 on 2012-06-26Yes! Hackery is a fine old art and should be treated with the respect it deserves! (and I mean that seriously).

Sorry to randomly bring up an old article written by me (!) but I remember trying to read

City of Bones

and being struck by how ... oddly it was constructed. I probably articulated it in a way that would enrage all fanfic writers everywhere but I found even the technicalities of it (the way characterisation worked, the dialogue) noticeably different from original fiction.

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Arthur B

at 10:48 on 2012-06-26Genuine question: could there be a publisher-side role in helping writers get the sort of practice we're talking about without necessarily unleashing harmfully offensive texts on the public? I mean, commercial publication via a publisher is more or less the only place where writers are obliged to hold to any standard other than their own whim; self-publishing and fanfic doesn't really have any filters that an author couldn't bypass when it comes to getting a text to market. If editors took it on themselves to say things like "Are you sure your portrayal of this character isn't problematic for X reasons?" alongside points like "This looks like a typo but I'm not sure what you intended with it" and "Hang on, isn't this a continuity error?" then at least

someone

is flagging areas for improvement before a text is finalised.

Then again, that'd rely on the editors themselves being clued-in sorts who by and large "get it", and the publishers being willing to hold a book back until the author gets it right. And we live in a world where publishers are willing to put out

The Straight Razor Cure

so clearly offensive handling of race isn't enough of a commercial liability to put them off provided that there's a genre audience that's willing to accept it.

So basically bad authorial habits + fandom of enablers = more fail to come. :(

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Sister Magpie

at 15:39 on 2012-06-26It's an interesting question, though isn't it, exactly how bad it is to recognize fanfic styles in an original work? Is it just jarring or actually bad? I mean, the CoB article imo does a great job in pointing out the ways it can be a problem (and I didn't take it as insulting to fanfic, but that's me), but otoh there's probably a lot of things in fanfic that aren't bad when done in original work because people enjoy them in fanfic and will also enjoy them in original fic.

Like the post above, I do think fanfic can be helpful in improving some things--any writing can be good practice. It's just that there are other things it's not going to teach you how to do, and it can also give you bad habits. At least some of the fanfic writers who have gone pro were *very* popular writing fanfic, and while there are a lot of dismissive reasons for why they were popular (right pairings, right friends etc.), I think part of it was that they were often doing things that a lot of fanficcers lack or ignore.

That is, just as one can read a novel and recognize a fanfic style, one can also be reading a fanfic and realize hold on, this person's actually writing fic like an original work, which can be great. Rare, but great.

I'm not even sure that fanfic is always a good starting point for writing for a series, actually. I've never really written much fanfic (I've done Yuletide twice now, but since that's a fest for small fandoms and a couple of the stories I did wouldn't even qualify as fanfic because of the source material), but I've done tie-in novels and I think they rely much more on the standard "pro-fic" model rather than fanfic. Not that one can't crossover--as at least some Star Trek fic authors did, of course. I don't make the distinction that notorious anti-fanfic author Lee Goldberg does b/w tie-ins and fanfic but most fanfic couldn't be a tie-in novel any more than it could be an original novel. When I read the Sarah Monette books they also seemed very heavily influenced by fanfic to me, yet I don't think she's ever written any. (She does read it, though, so it could still be there.)

Basically I'm just wondering about whether fanfic is fundamentally different from any other type of writing that can influence an author. Like, I've noticed that I'll pick up habits from different writing jobs. The magazine that I work for has a very specific style (a fiction style, that is) that I have to remind myself isn't the law.

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http://fishinginthemud.livejournal.com/

at 15:52 on 2012-06-26

Sorry to randomly bring up an old article written by me (!) but I remember trying to read City of Bones and being struck by how ... oddly it was constructed.

Yeah, I was actually thinking of that article. Like you said there, that stupid scene with the boy at the piano would have worked if he had been Draco Malfoy. If you have a reasonable idea of who a character is, or at least the fanon version of him, you can put words in his mouth and make him do things that feel authentic. That's why I think the skills used in fanfic would actually transfer to writing for established tv shows in a way that they absolutely don't transfer to writing novels. It's not that fanfic makes you better at writing original fiction, it's that it makes you better at writing fanfic.

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http://fishinginthemud.livejournal.com/

at 16:00 on 2012-06-26

I've done tie-in novels and I think they rely much more on the standard "pro-fic" model rather than fanfic.

I didn't know that, but that makes sense too. I'm thinking of the few really good tv-based fics I've read where the dialogue sounds like it could have been on the show itself, and I wonder why this person isn't writing for the show. But of course there are other issues involved in tv writing that I don't know anything about.

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Sister Magpie

at 16:11 on 2012-06-26

If you have a reasonable idea of who a character is, or at least the fanon version of him, you can put words in his mouth and make him do things that feel authentic.

Within reason. Because let's not forget that OOC! is a common criticism of fanfic. The Draco Malfoy discovered playing piano is, after all, often referred to as fanon!Draco for a reason. The key is to sit the sweet spot where you're revealing something new about the character that deepens them and feels authentic but also doesn't feel like shifting the gravity of the piece to revolve around how deep they are, or make the audience feel like you're just fangirling that character, which has certainly been known to happen too. If you start doing that you might get the same "it's like fanfic" criticism.

The CoB example, for instance, really brings up the conundrum. The reveal of the piano scene lacks something because it's not actually Draco. But was Draco in HP lacking something because he had no "piano scenes?" (He did have something close to one in the bathroom in HBP, but compared to the fanfic version that scene's cut brutally short and the emotional fallout immediately smothered. I admit I did find the canon version unsatisfying because it didn't follow through emotionally, but a full-out fanfic version would undoubtedly be out of place even without the porn!)

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http://fishinginthemud.livejournal.com/

at 16:48 on 2012-06-26Yeah, the piano scene fits Draco because it calls up the popular conception that he has a lonely inner life and a genuine but somewhat strained connection to his family and his upbringing. I think the suicide mission of HBP fulfills essentially the same purpose. At this point it's arguably moot what anyone thinks is in character for anyone in HP, but back in the day I found fanon!Draco a reasonable interpretation of the character, mostly because there was so little to him that pretty much anything would have fit.

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Cammalot

at 18:53 on 2012-06-26Kyra, I think I really, really need you to read book three. I find myself craving an article on it. :-)

in the post you linked to, there's a response from SRB

Please pardon my dumb -- can you point me to this? I've scrolled through several times and can't find this link.

My opinions on fanfic are complicated and changeable, and affected by the fact that I haven't been involved in it since about 1999, which was a bit pre-Livejournal and pre-Google and was indeed a time when you wrote the fic predominantly for your friends of like mind in "webcircles," and there was, for the longest, just one guy out there called "Minotaur" (now sadly deceased) who had a website "workshop" to teach people (mostly straight girls) how to write (gay) sex. It was not an enlightened time.

I agree that fanfic writing and fiction writing/novel writing are two different things and require significantly different skill sets. (The fanfiction skill set might overlap more with comic-book or television writing. Not necessarily with tie-in novels, as there's often a great deal of backstory creation and filling in internal-thoughtstream and motivational blanks going on there.) And proficiency at one doesn't mean proficiency at the other.

But it also looks to me, from the periphery, that in the fanfiction world of today, especially since the advent of more community-based (and less Geocities-esque) Livejournal-type sites and large fic archive-type places, there is a wider audience for it, more opportunity for feedback from people who don't know you, and more opportunities for education archived in the Wank blogs and fan history wikis and the various "Sue" and other critique (and snark) communities -- especially post Racefail.

So I'm thinking somewhat selfishly that if people are going to screw up, it might be best for them to do it there, under a pseudonym, in a place where I can comfort myself post-rage by saying, "Well, it's an amateur and at least they are not getting paid for this," or more likely, where I can avoid it entirely.

Also I'm not sure if fandom could be sensibly relied upon to be a sensible practice audience -- in the post you linked to, there's a response from SRB in which she basically criticises fandom for only being interested in straight (?) white boys.

I've read far too much critique of poor handling of characters of color in fiction to believe that fandom is [em]only[/em] interested in white boys. People are producing these versions of characters that are getting critiques. Overall, fandom might be [em]predominantly[/em] interested in straight white boys, but that is also true of the world at large (see the debacle over Rue in the Hunger Games). I feel like there is a growing movement to be inclusive and to get it right. Possibly not as large or as fast-growing as it could be. And there are still areas that need a lot more work having awareness raised than others -- awareness of racism far outstrips awareness of ablism, and acceptance of gayness is more prevalent and even more understood than issues of gender fluidity -- but [disclosure] I was born in the early 70s, so a lot of the progress I see around me looks HUGE.

So it might not be the best practice for excellent novel-writing skills, but overall, if done in public, I think it is at least starter practice for not pissing people off by being socially insensitive.

Tangentially, I saw a huge billboard covering the side of a bus for Cassie Claire's "Angel" series two days ago. I felt very resigned.

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Cammalot

at 19:12 on 2012-06-26(Correction -- not pre Google, but it was very new, and I hadn't heard of it when I sort of petered out of fandom. It was all "search.com.")

Oh, and I've got typos in my html. Darn...

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http://melaniedavidson.livejournal.com/

at 20:11 on 2012-06-26

Genuine question: could there be a publisher-side role in helping writers get the sort of practice we're talking about without necessarily unleashing harmfully offensive texts on the public?

That is more or less what I was thinking of when I said it didn't need to be public, actually--it is at least the publisher's/editor's job to make sure the book is up to standards and ready to be published (as opposed to it

not

being the job of all [insert group here] everywhere to have to educate authors about how not to fail miserably when writing about [insert group here]). But that's thinking ideally (well, sort of ideally--

ideally

the problem wouldn't exist!) and the practical problems are as you said.

Yeah, it does seem that with fanfic there is a bit less distance between author and audience and possibly therefore a better chance that they will actually see that type of criticism (because it's more likely to be in the same actual community they're part of), either about their own work or about someone else's (as sometimes you see something someone

else

has done criticized and go, "oh shit, I've done that, too, time to stop").

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Cammalot

at 20:29 on 2012-06-26

Genuine question: could there be a publisher-side role in helping writers get the sort of practice we're talking about without necessarily unleashing harmfully offensive texts on the public?

I wonder about this a great deal.

On one hand, yes, they should. On the other, A) the primary goal of publishing corporations (maybe not academic presses, but they're included, to an extent) is to make money -- to find the hit that will appeal to large numbers of people and make the cash so they can stay in business, and B) the publishing industry seem to be very homogenous, to me -- a lot of the individual editors mean *very* well but might not *know* what they're looking for in order to correct it. I spent more of my time in magazines than in books, and so I'm sure my viewpoint is limited in that way, but I have also spent time as the Only Black in the Village attempting damage control at relatively late stages in the production process pointing out things that simply did not occur to my white colleagues. Also C) the people who are doing the hands-on selection of books aren't the corporate bigwigs who actually make the decisions that stick.

I have to sort that out in my head some more.

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Cammalot

at 20:46 on 2012-06-26(I forgot to disclaim I'm talking about the U.S., and the east coast U.S., for that matter.)

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Robinson L

at 22:02 on 2012-06-26You're welcome, Cammalot; I greatly appreciate getting your viewpoint on the issues on this thread.

Cammalot: Kyra, I think I really, really need you to read book three. I find myself craving an article on it. :-)

I'd like that, too. I've read

The Demon's Surrender

and I'd really like to see - and take part in - a discussion about it. I don't feel motivated to write a review myself (although I suppose I'm somewhat open to being badgered into it).

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Cammalot

at 02:38 on 2012-06-27*puppy eyes at Kyra*

CRIKEY. That was supposed to be "critique of poor handling of characters of color in "FANfiction." You know, I truly did do a preview...my screen is small... my dog ate my keyboard...

#Ferretbrain #The Demon’s Lexicon #The Demon's Covenant #Wardog #Sarah Rees Brennan

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