#no but seriously this entire flag was picked from that clip | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

calumcest · 4 years

Text

you and i were fireworks that went off too soon - chapter seven

[ao3]

did i just pull this entire chapter out of my arse tonight? maybe! not that i don’t write these chapters all in one sitting at like 9pm-1am every single time don’t get it twisted i’m not organised i am a binge-writer

i always do my long ass a/ns on ao3 i dont know why feels more REVEALING to do them here because i know people actually read them and i think probably one person on the whole planet has ever read my ao3 a/ns its a safe haven so i’m just going to say my brief thank yous: thank you to @clumsyclifford for literally everything you do always, thank you to @ashesonthefloor for listening too me bitch about this fic and having the most wonderful thoughts and ideas about it, thank you to @kaleidoscopeminds for motivating me to keep writing this fic w your kind words, thank you to @allsassnoclass for always being so wise and understanding of authors dilemmas and encouraging me w your lovely words, and thank you to my spoiler anon for being so lovely about this fic and holyverse and also for asking about another chapter because i swear to u i would have kept putting it off were it not for u. also big thank you to noel and liam gallagher for writing the SMASH hits i wrote this entire chapter to and for being [redacted] and also to richard madden because i just fancy him and feel like i should thank him for existing and allowing me to perceive him

It’s a twin room, thank God, because Luke would have rather slept in the hallway than shared a bed with Ashton for four weeks.

“I’m taking the window bed,” he announces, before Ashton has a chance to say anything, out of pure spite, because he knows Ashton likes sleeping by the window. Or knew, maybe. He’s not sure anymore.

Ashton opens and then closes his mouth, nods curtly, and puts his carry-on bag on the bed nearest the bathroom. Luke puts Clifford down on the bed first, muttering at him to stop fucking yapping (which Clifford, of course, ignores), and then drops his suitcases next to it with a sigh.

“So,” Ashton says, and his voice fills the entire room, too loud and too much, a jarring reminder that Ashton’s here, in Luke’s space, and Luke’s got no option but to live with it. “Should we go out?” Luke blinks at him.

“What?” he says.

“Well,” Ashton says, with an uncomfortable shrug. “Study doesn’t start ‘til tomorrow, and it’s only nine. Thought we could spend the day exploring?” Luke stares at him.

“Think I’d rather spend my last day of freedom alone,” he says, a little harshly. Ashton blinks, and Luke doesn’t miss the flash of hurt that crosses his face, but then he nods again.

“Have you still got my UK number?” he says, and Luke hesitates, and then nods. He’s not sure why it feels like he’s giving something away by admitting that he’d never deleted Ashton’s numbers; he’d been the one to text Ashton about the tattoos first, so clearly Ashton already knows that Luke still had his Australian number, at least. “Well. Text me if you need anything?”

“Don’t think I’ll need anything,” Luke says, and Ashton sighs, and Luke feels a little small, a little stupid, like Ashton’s a patient parent putting up with a melodramatic teenager.

“I’m going to head off, then,” Ashton says, a touch awkwardly, and Luke just nods, busying himself with getting Clifford out of his travel cage, thinking he’ll ask at reception for directions to the nearest park and let Clifford stretch his legs. He steadfastly doesn’t look at Ashton as Ashton gathers his things together, patting his coat pocket to make sure he’s got everything, and then slips out of the room, door clicking shut behind him.

As soon as Ashton’s left, Luke suddenly feels simultaneously relieved and overwhelmed. He feels like he can breathe a little easier, think a little clearer without Ashton in his personal space, making him feel like he has to be alert, on edge, but the hotel room feels strangely empty without him. Luke shakes his head, tries to get the latter thought out of his mind, focusing on Clifford’s insistent yaps to draw him back to reality and distract him.

“Alright, little man, we’re going,” Luke mutters, fumbling around in his bag for Clifford’s lead. Clifford jumps around at his feet, already panting, and Luke rolls his eyes, clips the lead on, checks he’s got his room key and phone in his pocket and heads out of the room.

He decides to take the stairs, since he doesn’t think Clifford’s got the patience to wait for the lift, which proves to be the right decision when Clifford’s straining at his lead trying to bound down the stairs, giving Luke reproachful looks whenever he tugs him back. They’re only on the second floor, so it’s not long before Luke’s back in the lobby, and Clifford finally pulls himself together and trots smartly at Luke’s heel, giving other people milling in the area imperious looks as they pass.

“Hi,” Luke says, and the receptionist smiles politely up at him. “I’d like to walk my dog. Can you tell me where the nearest park is?” She nods.

“Of course, sir,” she says, and pulls out a brochure. Luke mentally pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s going to look like a massive fucking tourist walking around with one of those. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get mugged.

“You just need to turn left out of the hotel, take a right at the end of the road, take the second left after that, take two rights, and you’ll be at the park,” she says, trailing her pen across the streets and ending it with a flourish, circling a rectangle of green on the map and smiling at him again. Luke smiles back, having taken absolutely none of that in, thanks her, pockets the map and decides he’ll probably just walk around the nearby backstreets for a while until Clifford’s worn out to lower his chances of getting lost.

Clifford, it turns out, is surprisingly tired, having apparently spent all of his energy on pestering Luke to take him out. He only manages about half an hour of walking up and down a few streets around the hotel before he’s flagging, sitting down and staring up at Luke beseechingly when Luke tries to pull him along. A passing couple throw Luke an amused look and titter to themselves, and Luke sighs.

“C’mon, little man,” he says, tugging again. Clifford refuses to budge, just stares up at Luke with a look that Luke knows all too well. “Come on, Cliff, you’re embarrassing me. It’s two streets away. You can walk that far.” Clifford stays put, and Luke rolls his eyes, but bends down and scoops Clifford up into his arms. Clifford immediately nuzzles into Luke happily, licking at his neck, and Luke pulls back, wrinkling his nose. “Gross, Cliff, don’t do that.”

Luke pretty much speedwalks back to the hotel because little though Clifford is, he’s surprisingly heavy after a while, and Luke’s much weaker than he looks. He throws the receptionist a polite smile on his way back up to the room, unclips Clifford from the lead as soon as he’s in there and rummages around in one of his suitcases for the bed Michael had shoved on top of all of Luke’s warmest clothes. Clifford watches him patiently, and hops into the bed as soon as Luke’s unfolded it, curls up and closes his eyes. Luke can’t help but smile fondly down at him, bending down to press a kiss to the top of Clifford’s head and scratching behind his ears.

“I’m going to go out again, little man,” he tells Clifford. “I’ll be back to give you your dinner, though.” Clifford just sniffs, which Luke takes to mean ‘yeah, sure, now fuck off and let me sleep’, and Luke straightens again, throws Clifford one final fond look and heads back out of the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

He decides it’s probably fine if he wanders aimlessly, since the brochure in his pocket has the name of the hotel on it and Michael had paid for his phone plan to cover the UK for six weeks so he can look it up when he inevitably gets lost. Having spent half an hour in the streets surrounding the hotel already, he decides to get on the tube and head somewhere new, picking a stop name he recognises - Leicester Square sounds vaguely familiar.

Leicester Square, it turns out, sounds familiar because it’s a tourist hotspot. Luke’s ducking and weaving between people, mumbling apologies as he slips through gaps that he doesn’t actually fit through and splits up groups (but seriously, he thinks, slightly irritated as he smiles politely, who the fuck walks in a row of five?). There are countless little side alleys and back roads leading off the main street, but even those are difficult to walk through, filled with the native Londoners who know their way through the labyrinth of twisting streets and know better than to be anywhere near Leicester Square in the first place.

Eventually, half to get out of the crowds and half because he’s actually pretty hungry, Luke ducks into a Costa and buys himself a ham and cheese toastie, balking at the price when the cashier rings it up. Five fucking pounds, what’s that, ten dollars? For one sandwich? Fucking hell. He’s definitely going to be demanding those reimbursements from the university.

He’s waiting for his sandwich to come out of the toaster, only two baristas serving a queue of at least twenty, when someone taps him on the shoulder a little tentatively, making him jump. He whips around, wondering whether he’s in the way or something, and comes face to face with-

Ashton.

“Are you serious?” he demands, before he can think about it. Ashton shrugs, and looks a little uncomfortable. “Are you following me?”

“I was already here,” Ashton says. “I’ve got a table.” He waves his hand in the directions of an empty table in the far corner, and Luke can see Ashton’s coat bunched up on one of the chairs.

“Oh,” Luke says. Ashton gives him a look, simultaneously sad and calculating, and for a brief moment, Luke thinks fuck, his eyes are pretty. Jesus Christ. Maybe he should have stayed at the hotel and napped.

“D’you want to sit with me?” Ashton says. Luke hesitates - not particularly , is the first petulant thought to cross his mind, before his rational side kicks in and tells him sleepily that he won’t find a seat anywhere else - and then nods.

“Ham and cheese toastie?” the barista calls, and Luke steps forwards, takes it from her hand and heads wordlessly in the direction of Ashton’s table, Ashton in tow.

“Sorry,” Ashton says, when Luke picks up Ashton’s coat off the seat and holds it out for him. He takes it from Luke and his finger brushes against Luke’s, and something like liquid gold rushes through Luke, making him giddy from head to toe. It’s the sleeplessness, he tells himself, averting his gaze and snatching his hand away. God knows he’s felt even more unexplainable things on the same amount of sleep.

“‘S alright,” Luke says, sitting down to avoid thinking about the warmth of Ashton’s finger brushing against his own and the way his finger is still burning from the contact. “You didn’t know I was going to be here.” Ashton hesitates, and then busies himself with tucking his coat behind him, like he’s looking for something to do that isn’t stare across the table at Luke. Luke’s not going to complain about that, and takes a bite out of the first half of the toastie so he won’t have to say anything else.

They sit in silence for a moment, Luke eating his toastie, Ashton fiddling with the bracelet on his left hand. The silence is uncomfortable, oppressive, and Luke kind of wishes he’d just sat on the fucking floor or something. Nothing makes him wish that more, though, than when Ashton opens his mouth and says: “I wondered.”

Luke swallows his last bite of toastie with a frown.

“You wondered what?” he says. Ashton shrugs, tension and discomfort visible in the movement.

“I wondered whether we’d bump into each other,” he says. Luke rolls his eyes.

“Not this again,” he mutters, but it’s more tired than anything. Ashton sighs, and drops his hands onto the table.

“Look,” he says carefully. “I don’t think us bumping into each other all the time is a coincidence.”

“Fucking hell,” Luke says, but there’s no heat behind the words. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and squeezes them shut. He’s too fucking tired for this.

“Luke,” Ashton says, like Luke’s being unreasonable. “We’ve lived in the same city for years-” Luke opens his mouth to interrupt, because Ashton was always away half the time when they were together, and he can’t imagine that’s changed much “-okay, on-off, because I’m in LA sometimes - but we’ve not once bumped into each other. Then we get the tattoos, and suddenly I’m seeing you every other week?”

“What’s your point?” Luke says, a little irritably. “You think this is some grand plan from the universe to make us fall back in love? What, I’m Cathy, you’re Heathcliff?” Ashton bites his lip, and Luke’s mouth twists bitterly in a humourless smile. “This isn’t fucking romantic, Ashton. You leaving me was-” he cuts himself off. He’s not quite ready to tell Ashton that , yet. “Awful,” he says, eventually. “This isn’t part of some, like, big romantic redemption arc for you. You fucked up, and you fucked me over, and we’ve just got to find some way to live with the tattoos. That’s why we’re both here, isn’t it?” Ashton’s silent for a moment, and if Luke’s not mistaken, looks a little paler than he had a minute ago, and then nods.

“Can we at least be civil?” Ashton says, and then, seeing the look on Luke’s face, adds: “We’re stuck together for four weeks, Luke. I know you don’t like me, and I’m not asking for- for friendship, or anything. I’m just asking for you to be civil with me.” Luke exhales heavily.

“Fine,” he says tiredly, before he has the chance to think too much about it. “Civil.”

“Civil,” Ashton agrees.

(Luke’s pretty sure civil doesn’t involve thinking God, I’d forgotten how long his eyelashes are, and the way you can see a hint of his dimple when he speaks, but he’s also pretty sure that’s entirely to do with the exhaustion, and nothing to do with him.)

-------

Ashton talks Luke into going down to the Houses of Parliament, with a combination of a sincere look on his face, big, serious eyes as he says look, we don’t want to risk another bumping-into-each-other tattoo, and it’ll just be civil, and the fact that Luke just doesn’t have the energy to argue. Plus, he thinks, Ashton seems to know where he’s going, and Luke had forgotten to take his charger with him so he’s kind of fucked if he gets lost.

The walk down from Costa to the Houses of Parliament is only about twenty minutes, but feels so much fucking longer, both of them all too aware of the awkward silence hanging between them, amplified by the noise of the city surrounding them. They walk through Trafalgar Square, and Ashton tells Luke something about art installations and the fourth plinth and Luke just nods along, trying his best to do this whole civil thing by quelling his instinct to snap I don’t fucking know what a plinth is and you know full fucking well I don’t care about art. Ashton seems to sense it from him anyway, though, because he falters and then says, with an uncomfortable laugh, “You probably don’t care about this anyway.”

“Not really,” Luke admits, because they’d said civil, not dishonest. Ashton smiles wryly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, and Luke just hums, and they fall back into an awkward silence.

It’s easier, Luke finds, when a man in a suit shoulders into him and keeps walking without so much as a mumbled apology and Ashton turns to him, outraged, and says Londoners really are cunts, if they interact with each other through their surroundings. Talking about people, things, even the fucking weather, adds a sheen of superficiality, a layer of removal that they can both look at and pretend there’s nothing more to it, no years of hurt and pain bubbling beneath the surface.

“How is it this sunny yet this cold?” Luke grumbles, shielding his eyes and squinting up at Big Ben.

“You should be here in April,” Ashton says, stabbing the button at the traffic light repeatedly.

“I’ve got no intentions of being here any longer than I have to be,” Luke mutters. “What are we looking at, again?”

“It’s parliament, Luke,” Ashton says, like that’s supposed to mean something to Luke.

“So?” Luke says. “We’ve got a parliament.”

“And? Have you ever seen it?” Ashton says shrewdly, and Luke scowls, biting back the scathing retort on the tip of his tongue. Civil and Ashton are two concepts that he assumes will take a while to marry in his mind.

“Whatever,” he says, stepping out into the road as the light turns green. “Just don’t get why I’m supposed to care about some random country’s government, is all.” Ashton doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that, jogging to catch up with Luke, and they walk the rest of the distance to the buildings in silence.

It’s quite imposing, Luke thinks, up close. The buildings are sort of dirty - or maybe they’re meant to look like that - and incredibly intricate, bordering on fussy. It towers over them, looking more like a palace than a place of governance, Big Ben casting a long shadow across the road. He’s not sure he’d want to be governed from this place.

“I don’t like it,” he says.

“Really?” Ashton says, squinting up at the buildings. “I think it’s kind of pretty.” You would, Luke thinks darkly. Old, ornate and overcomplicated? That’s exactly the kind of thing Ashton would get excited about and find unwarranted symbolism in.

“Yeah, well,” Luke says instead, because he’s pretty sure that thought doesn’t count as civil. “Think it’s just a bit too elaborate.”

“It’s Gothic Revival,” Ashton says, like Luke’s supposed to have a single fucking clue what that means. Actually, Luke thinks bitterly, he’s probably fully aware that Luke doesn’t have any idea what that means, and is hoping Luke will take the bait and ask so Ashton can demonstrate his massive intellect, or whatever.

“Right,” Luke says, a little shortly. Ashton glances at him, looking a touch taken aback, but then looks back at the buildings.

“We can go somewhere else,” he says, and it’s an offer. An olive branch.

“Yeah,” Luke says, because annoyance at not knowing anything about architectural styles aside, looking at an old building is just pretty fucking boring.

“There’s an aquarium not too far away,” Ashton says. “I remember you-” he stops himself, and Luke swallows. Yeah. He loves aquariums. He loves them so much that Ashton had taken him to the Sydney Aquarium for their third anniversary, a month or two before he’d broken up with Luke.

(Two months on the dot. Not that Luke has both dates seared into his mind, or anything.)

“Yeah,” Luke says again, to fill the silence of both of them thinking back to that day. “Let’s go to the aquarium.” Ashton hesitates, and glances at Luke like he wants to say something else, a sort of semi-pained expression on his face, and then he sighs, shakes his head, and throws Luke a tight smile.

“Let’s go to the aquarium,” he agrees.

-------

The aquarium, it turns out, is a much better choice.

Despite the odd screaming child, the aquarium has a calming silence to it, an almost pensive quiet that pierces to the depths of Luke’s soul. It settles the air between him and Ashton, means they’re not silent for lack of civil things to say, but rather because they’re both caught up in the muted beauty of the ocean.

They don’t walk together, because Ashton likes to pore over every single placard and study every creature in minute detail and Luke’s drawn to the pretty, colourful fish. It’s Luke, though, who’s always the last to move on, and Ashton waits for him before they head to the next room. It’s almost nice, Luke thinks, as he heads for the door and sees Ashton slip through it when he sees Luke’s ready to move on, that they don’t have to have awkward conversations about it, that they can just understand and fall into it.

(He tries not to think about why.)

They spend hours in the aquarium, dawdling in every room, because they spent so much fucking money on it and they’re both going to be damned if they won’t milk it for all it’s worth. Luke spends an extra long time looking at the clownfish, for some reason, hypnotised by the way they can weave in and out of the anemones. There’s some kind of symbolism to be found there, he thinks, something about toxicity and safety, but he’s too tired to come up with it himself. Ashton would probably correct him if he tried, anyway.

Ashton’s particularly taken by the sharks, it turns out. He’s already staring at the huge tank in awe when Luke gets into the room, barely even blinking as his eyes follow one shark after the other. The room itself is dark, like the rest of the aquarium, but the tank’s so huge that Ashton’s bathed in light, rippling and shimmering and Luke, for the briefest of moments, feels something sharp stab at his heart, something he remembers feeling the last time he’d stood in an aquarium with Ashton. It makes his stomach clench, twist in on itself, because he knows exactly what he’d identified that feeling as before.

“They’re fucking beautiful, aren’t they?” Ashton says, interrupting Luke’s train of thought before it can take the leap off the cliff edge of panic, and Luke looks up at the sharks.

“I guess?” he says, because he doesn’t really see it.

“You used to like them,” Ashton says, sounding a little surprised.

“I used to like a lot of things,” Luke says. I used to like you, he adds spitefully in his head, and sort of hopes Ashton’s telepathic.

“Guess I’ve got to get to know you again,” Ashton says, and it’s a little wistful, a little sad. Luke doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t know what would sum up I’m not sure I want you to, I don’t think I’ll give you a chance and Good fucking luck in a civil way.

They stand there for a while, watching the sharks, and people filter in and out of the room behind them. It feels oddly hypnotic, being stood there with Ashton, the only two static parts of a moving whole. He wonders if the sharks feel the same, swimming aimlessly in their tank, watching the world pass by and powerless to move with it.

“I’m sorry,” Ashton says quietly, after at least ten minutes have passed. It’s so quiet that Luke thinks he might have misheard it - maybe it was the family behind them, or just the sound of the tank - but he can sense Ashton stiffen next to him, like he’s preparing for backlash of some sort.

“What?” Luke says, just to make sure he’s heard right.

“I’m sorry,” Ashton repeats. Luke pauses, waiting for Ashton to elaborate, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t really have to, though, Luke finds, because he knows what Ashton means.

“I know,” Luke says eventually. Ashton swallows, but says nothing, just carries on gazing at the sharks, but out of the corner of his eye Luke can see that Ashton’s gaze is fixed now, not following the sharks around.

They stand in silence until an announcement blares through the system telling them that the aquarium is closing soon, making them both jump.

“What time is it?” Luke asks, just for something to say.

“Uh,” Ashton says, pulling his phone out. “Five.” Fucking hell. It feels much later than that. “Do you want to go back to the hotel?” Ashton adds, like he knows what Luke’s thinking. Luke nods.

“I’m fucking exhausted,” he admits, as they head back up the steps away from the sharks and towards the exit.

“Me too,” Ashton says. “I wanted to stay up until at least ten, but…” he trails off, stifling a yawn, and Luke can’t help but snort. Ashton smiles, small but genuine. “Fuck off,” he says, but it’s good-natured.

“Yeah,” Luke says, as they traipse out into the little shop. “Think I’m just going to crash when we get back.” Ashton nods, pushing open the door to the exit. Luke’s expecting the glare of brilliant sunlight to hit him, squints in preparation for the onslaught of light, but it’s pitch fucking black.

“What the fuck?” he says, sounding kind of perplexed and kind of outraged.

“What?” Ashton says. Luke gestures up at the sky with one hand, and uses the other to pull his coat in closer towards himself, because fucking hell, it’s freezing.

“It’s five o’clock,” he says. Ashton looks up at the sky, and then at him, an amused expression on his face.

“Wrong hemisphere,” he says, and Luke rolls his eyes.

“Fucking miserable place,” Luke grumbles, tucking his arms in and huddling in on himself. “No wonder they invaded the rest of the fucking world, Jesus. I wouldn’t want to stay here either.” Ashton says nothing, but when they pass under a streetlight, Luke sees the corners of his lips tilted upwards, and something warm and pleasant spreads from his stomach outwards.

“D’you actually know where you’re going?” he asks, when Ashton takes a sharp right turn onto a bridge.

“Of course I know,” Ashton says, in that infuriating, I’m-Ashton-Irwin-and-I’m-an-intellectual manner that Luke had never liked. Luke rolls his eyes, not entirely playfully, and jogs to keep up with him.

Ashton leads them across the bridge, past the parliament buildings again, up a long road that a lot of people are ambling down, and then cuts into a small alley on the right.

“You definitely don’t fucking know where you’re going,” Luke says, standing at the mouth of the road, something uneasy in his stomach. “I’m not going down here.”

“I know where I’m going,” Ashton says.

“Where are you going?” Luke says sceptically.

“Charing Cross.”

“Why is that down an alleyway?”

“It’s just a shortcut.” Luke stares at him, narrowing his eyes.

“Why can’t we walk on the main road?” he asks, because it feels right. Something about the alleyway feels wrong.

“We can,” Ashton says. “But it’ll take longer.” Luke makes no indications of moving, and Ashton sighs, and it’s tinged with sadness. “Come on, Luke, are you serious? You think I’m going to, what, murder you in an alley in London?” Well. Not specifically, but something’s telling Luke not to follow Ashton into that alley. Much more than that, it’s telling him not to let Ashton into that alley, but Luke’s trying to ignore that part of it.

“I just don’t want to go that way,” Luke says stubbornly. “Let’s just go on the main road.”

“It’ll take much longer that way,” Ashton says.

“I don’t care,” Luke says. “We’re not exactly fucking wanting for time, are we?” Ashton takes a step further into the alleyway, almost out of Luke’s line of vision.

“Come on , Luke,” he says, and takes another step, and Luke’s stomach tightens uncomfortably as he does.

“Don’t,” Luke says, before he can stop himself.

“Why?” Ashton says, sounding exasperated. “Look, the longer you stand here arguing, the longer it’ll take us either way.”

“I’m taking the main road,” Luke says. “Just- let’s fucking walk on the main road.”

“You don’t even know the way,” Ashton says. “I know the way.”

“I’m not going that way.” Even in the darkness and despite the distance, Luke can see Ashton roll his eyes.

“There’s nothing fucking down here, Luke,” Ashton calls, taking another step into the alleyway, and Luke edges forwards without even thinking about it, needing to keep Ashton in sight. It’s not really working, though, because Ashton’s walking further in and Luke’s at an angle to the alleyway, and it’s making him panic a little.

“Don’t fucking go down there,” Luke says, through gritted teeth. “Ashton, seriously. Just fucking come on the main road with me.”

“What’s your problem?” Ashton says, and even though he sounds genuinely surprised and curious, it makes a flash of anger flare up in Luke.

“Can you stop being a cunt for, like, two fucking minutes?” he bites out.

“Luke, I-” Ashton cuts himself off with a shout, and the anger’s gone, replaced with pure fucking fear and panic and protect protect protect running through Luke’s mind, and Luke’s barely even aware of his surroundings as he takes off, sprinting as fast as he can to the alleyway, getting to the entrance to it just as Ashton comes running out, wild-eyed. He doesn’t stop or say anything, just grabs Luke’s hand as he passes and tugs him hard in the opposite direction. They run to the main road, Luke’s heart pounding in a way that definitely isn’t just from the exercise, and then they run up it, and they don’t stop running until they’re outside the station. Luke doesn’t even realise that they’re still holding hands until Ashton drops his hand to lean on his knees, panting, hair completely windswept as it falls into his eyes.

“What the fuck was that?” Luke spits, fury beginning to set in between the racing heartbeats and gasped breaths.

“Someone fucking-” Ashton waves a hand, like it’s going to explain what ‘someone’ did. It doesn’t fucking matter, because those two words alone are enough to make Luke’s heart tighten, to make his stomach clench

“I fucking said-”

“I know, but it’s fucking five p.m., and I always go that way-”

“I told you-”

“I know, Luke,” Ashton says, breathing almost back to normal, and he straightens and gives Luke a look that looks almost sad. “Why d’you think that was?”

“Why do I- are you fucking insane? Because it’s a creepy fucking alleyway? Anyone would fucking know not to go down there!” Luke says, throwing his hands in the air.

“You were so fucking adamant,” Ashton says.

“Yeah, and if you’d fucking listened-”

“Luke,” Ashton interrupts. “I didn’t sense fucking anything.” Luke stops.

“Are you trying to say this is another fucking soulmate experience?” he says. “We don’t have three. Most people don’t even have one. ”

“No,” Ashton says. “I think it’s the same one. The first one. The protecting one.”

Oh.

It’s kind of a blur already, even though it’s only been like, three minutes, but Luke remembers the haze of protect protect protect that clouded every single other one of his thoughts, that stopped anything and everything else - including his own safety - from mattering, that made him move without even thinking, running straight fucking into the alleyway he’d been so uneasy about because nothing mattered more than Ashton.

“Fuck,” he says, and Ashton nods grimly.

“Yeah,” he says. Neither of them need to say didn’t realise it went both ways, because it’s both written clearly across their faces.

“You got this on the fucking phone?” Luke can’t help but ask.

“Yeah,” Ashton says again. Luke rakes a hand through his hair, trying to organise his thoughts. All he can really focus on is the what the fuck and Jesus Christ and fucking hell swirling around in a mess in his mind.

“Well,” he says. “Shit.” Ashton huffs out a shaky laugh, raises his eyebrows, and nods, and Luke thinks that about sums it up.

-------

They don’t talk much on the journey back to the hotel. Luke snipes at Ashton when Ashton tries to show him how to use his contactless card on the barriers, because he’d much rather use a paper ticket, thank you very fucking much, and Ashton calls Luke back when he heads down the wrong escalator. Luke asks once what their stop is and nods when Ashton answers him, and then they don’t speak again until they’re in the safety of the brightly-lit hotel lobby.

Luke’s not entirely sure how to take the silence between them in the lift up to the second floor. It still feels awkward, stilted, uncomfortable, but there’s something grander now, something bigger than the both of them that they can both feel but neither of them want to acknowledge.

Luke fusses over Clifford when they get back into the hotel room, pulls out the pack of dog food he’d brought with him because he hadn’t been sure what brands the UK would have, and Clifford munches his dinner happily while Luke carefully removes his coat and plugs his phone in to charge, not looking at Ashton. It feels overcrowded, even though the room is made for two people and certainly big enough to accommodate both of them.

He takes his time washing up Clifford’s bowl, refilling his water, but Clifford seems perfectly content to doze back off to sleep after his meal, leaving Luke with nothing to do but think about how fucking tired he actually is.

“I think I might sleep,” he says, even though he doesn’t really have to announce it to Ashton. Ashton looks up from where he is on his bed, book in his hand, and nods.

“I think I might too,” he says. “Do you want the bathroom first?” Luke blinks at him.

“Oh,” he says. “Uh. Yeah. Thanks.” Ashton nods, and turns back to his book, but when Luke turns his back to get his things out of his still-packed suitcase, he can feel Ashton’s eyes on him.

He makes quick work of putting his pyjamas on and brushing his teeth, only hesitating with his hand on the bathroom door handle to leave as he throws a quick glance at himself in the mirror, because he looks so fucking disarmed in his pyjamas, so strangely small and vulnerable. Whatever, he thinks, forcing himself to push the door open, because what the fuck else is he going to do, sleep in the bathroom?

“Bathroom’s free,” he says, because it feels like what he should say, turning his back to Ashton and making a show out of putting his clothes in his suitcase. He should probably just unpack it, he thinks - he is going to be here for four weeks, after all - but not tonight. He’s too fucking tired for that.

“Thanks,” Ashton says, and Luke hears the sound of a book closing and then feet shuffling as Ashton heads for the bathroom. He waits for the door to click shut behind him before tucking himself into bed, drawing the duvet close to his chin to try and keep the cold out. Why the fuck is it so cold in England, seriously?

Ashton doesn’t take long, or maybe Luke falls into microsleep, or something, because it feels like it’s about two seconds before he’s coming out of the bathroom, placing his clothes on the chair opposite his bed, and getting into bed. He’s got plaid pyjama bottoms and a casual t-shirt on, and he looks just as disarmed and vulnerable as Luke had in the mirror, which makes Luke feel simultaneously better and worse.

“Can I turn the light off?” Ashton asks, and Luke nods. Ashton reaches over, clicks the light switch, and they’re plunged into darkness.

“Night,” Ashton says after a moment, and there’s a shuffling sound from his bed.

“Night,” Luke says, suddenly wide awake. He rolls onto his side and stares at the wall opposite him, willing the exhaustion that he’s felt all day to return. Even if he hadn’t slept, like, three fucking hours, he should be tired; it’s the middle of the night in Sydney.

He feels the time passing, times it by Ashton’s shuffling and Clifford’s even breathing and the noises from the street outside, and he’s sure it’s been at least an hour before there’s what sounds like Ashton flopping onto his back and sighing.

“Are you awake?” he whispers. Luke debates saying nothing, but knows if he evens his breathing out now it’s going to be pretty fucking obvious he wasn’t.

“Yeah,” he says, a little reluctantly.

“I can’t sleep,” Ashton says.

“Me either.” There’s a moment of silence, and then Ashton says-

“We could push the beds together?” Luke squeezes his eyes shut, and Ashton takes the silence as hesitation. “Just for tonight. We’d sleep much better, and we probably need it for tomorrow.”

“No,” Luke says. Civil is one thing, but spending an entire night pressed up against Ashton? That’s something else entirely.

“Luke, I-”

“Ashton, I said no.” Ashton’s silent for a moment, and then sighs.

“Okay,” he says, and it sounds a little small. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to, like. Push.” Luke inhales deeply, exhales heavily, and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“It’s fine,” he says.

Ashton says nothing, but Luke doesn’t hear his breathing even out until Luke himself falls into an uneasy, dreamless sleep, and when he wakes up in the morning, exhausted and grumpy, Ashton’s staring up at the ceiling again (or maybe still).

taglist: @sadistmichael @callmeboatboy @clumsyclifford @angel-cal @queer-5sos @haikucal @tirednotflirting @cthofficial @tigerteeff @i-am-wierd-always

if you want to be added to my taglist pls fill in this form!

#lashton #malum #5sos fic #5sos fanfiction #5sos fanfic #i am so exhausted i am gonna answer messages tomorrow i'm so sorry #but i hve seen and appreciate all of them and i LOVE each and every one of u #and i do not deserve any of u #u are all so lovely and sweet to me and then in return i give u This #hmm...helen is cancelled #its confirmed

32 notes · View notes

itsallavengers · 5 years

Text

Word of Mouth

“Let me speak to them.”

Natasha and Fury turned as Steve stormed in, both of their faces hardening. Nat stepped forward, a placating hand outstretched and telling him to stop, but Steve ignored her without sparing a second glance. His eyes were on the screen pulled up in the middle of the room, where two men were stood, semi-automatics in hand and ridiculous Vendetta masks perched on their faces. In between them, tied up to a chair and unconscious, was Tony. Steve gave him a visual once-over. He seemed okay. Bruised face, but nothing severe.

“Captain,” Fury began coldly, but Steve turned to him and levelled him with such a glare that it made even the Director pause. He was going to be having serious words with the man for not informing him that they were in contact with the kidnappers later– Nat too, for that matter. But for now, he didn’t care about the other two people in the room.

No. The only thing that mattered was right in front of him, thrown up on the holographic screen and showing his husband, alive and currently being ransomed by what Steve predicted were two young men that barely even seemed out of their teens, going by stature and build and professionalism.

Seriously? Vendetta masks? That was just tacky.

But tacky and unprofessional or not, they’d still managed to snatch Tony right from under all their noses, hurt him, and then demand a ransom without leaving a trace. Steve hated to admit that this wasn’t the first time it had happened, but it didn’t make it any easier. Every single occasion left him feeling sick to his stomach, and filled with a tension under his skin that would only be released when he either got Tony back safe, or got rid of whatever was hurting him. In whatever way he had to.

Maybe that was why Fury and Natasha hadn’t informed him that the kidnappers had made contact. Luckily, JARVIS, who had been monitoring every network and recording on the planet for a glimpse of Tony, had been the one to let him know. Ever the reliable AI.

Steve clenched his fists as he looked at the mask of the man stood one step in front of the other. Taking lead. Fine by him. “You have a name I can use?” Steve asked, voice clipped.

“Steve, stand down, we are dealing with th–”

“Just call me The Investor,” the man said, and Steve felt like he was grinning behind the mask as he waved toward Tony, “and call this my investment.”

Steve smiled, but there was not a trace of warmth in it. He knew how he looked just then; standing to his full height of 6′4, muscles tensed and flexing against the hard lines of his uniform. He stared straight into the camera, eyes drilling into the mask through the deep furrow of his brow. He didn’t speak for a second or so, and the room was eerily silent. It furthered Steve’s belief that these people weren’t professionals, and this was at least one of their first runs. Trained ransomers never allowed there to be a power-play on the other end, which was what Steve was doing right now. They would simply fill the silence with words. These men, this organisation, whatever it was, were letting Steve stare them down.

Big mistake

“Okay, Investor,” Steve leaned forward on the table, keeping his face calm. Despite what Nat and Fury might think, he was good at this. He wasn’t going to mess up, not when Tony’s life was on the line. “Make your demands. Let’s hear them.”

The man cocked his head, triumphant that he had gotten Captain America to listen to him. “What we want, Rogers, is a simple transaction. We know Tony Stark has files on the Rendition Program. We know he keeps them on hardcopy somewhere. We would simply like to have them, and in return, once he has translated and decrypted them for us, we will give you back your Iron Man.”

Seemingly hearing the voices around him, Tony stirred in his chair, moaning gently as he came around. Steve watched, forcing his face to remain steady as Tony blinked in the harsh light and then glanced at what must have been a computer in which Steve’s face was showing through. Tony’s pained expression curled into a weak smile. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he mumbled, “bad morning to you two incompetent fucks. I was gonna get a manicure today. Marissa is going to be pissed–”

“Shut your mouth, bitch,” the one closest to Tony said, cuffing him across the temple and sending Tony’s head snapping sideways. Steve heard the glass table under his fingers shatter, and felt Natasha’s presence step close behind him, but he didn’t turn around or flinch at the pain. None of it was important.

Tony’s head dropped, and it didn’t come back up again. Steve watched through the grainy live feed as blood oozed down the cut that the man had put on his husband’s skin.

He turned his gaze to said man. “You shouldn’t have done that in front of me,” he said softly, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. He did not shout. He did not even change his tone to an aggressive one. But there was a promise in his voice, in the way that he held himself, and the man in question shifted just the tiniest bit.

Nervousness.

“Here’s the thing,” Steve continued, leaning a little further forward, “I understand you’re probably feeling rather proud of yourselves right now. Capturing Iron Man. Making demands to the Avengers. I’m sure you feel unstoppable.”

The two men looked to one another, and the front guy probably would have spoken up if Steve hadn’t cut him off with a small smile that projected a truly deadly sort of violence. It was obvious enough that some long-lost survival instinct within the two kidnappers kicked in, because Steve saw the brief flex of fingers against their guns. He just smiled harder.

“We’ll give you the Rendition Program,” Steve said with a shrug, “we’ll meet at your rendezvous point, we’ll see to your demands. But let me just ask you this– do you think that this is the first time someone has tried to take my husband from me?”

The front man stepped forward. “If you’re not careful, we’ll be the last, Captain.”

“No, you won’t,” Steve told them simply, “because you need him to decrypt it. You need him alive until we arrive, and when we arrive, I assure you, it will be the end of you. You’re smart kids. I assume you’re piggybacking the SHIELD network in order to send this recording. So do something clever, and look up the reports of every other attempted kidnapping or assassination of Tony Stark.” Steve gritted his teeth together, finally letting some of the anger seep into his voice. “Look up the Serum Replication Effort of HYDRA in 2012. The Sentry Guard Attempt of 2015. The Tower Siege, 2017.”

“You’re not the one calling the shots here, Captain–”

“No. I’m not. You are. And your orders just involved hurting my husband in front of me, and threatening his life. I don’t think that was your wisest choice. Do you want to know the common factor in all those previous attempts I just mentioned?” Steve grinned, all teeth, pointing a finger into his own chest. “Me. And would you like to know the survival rate of the people that I saw or knew were hurting my husband? Or can you guess?”

It was zero, in case anyone was curious. It was the only time when Steve never even thought about it. The only time he ever lacked a shred of guilt. People who touched Tony ended up dead, because Tony was not theirs to touch. And Steve would not hesitate for a single second to permanently incapacitate someone who threatened Tony’s life.

“I’m giving you one chance,” Steve told them quietly. “Take five minutes. Look up those reports. Look at what happens; and what I will do to you if I get my hands on you. Because I promise you, if Tony is damaged permanently in any way shape or form, there will not be a rock you can hide under. There won’t be a crevice you can squeeze into or a safe house you can scurry to where I will not be able to drag you from. And when I do?” Steve leaned back, turning his eyes back on Tony. “I will make you regret every single decision you ever made that led you up to this point. And that, Mr Investor, is a promise I will spend the rest of my considerable life committing to. So if you want to make your decision right now, by all means, go ahead. But I assure you, you’re signing your death warrant. I can crush steel. Your skulls will hardly be a fucking problem once I get them.”

He stared at the two men impassively for another second, while they silently looked back through their emotionless masks. Then the lead man gave the smallest of cutting actions, and a moment later the video feed cut, leaving static in its wake.

Steve stared up at the empty screen, hearing Fury begin to shout about misconduct and compromising the entire negotiation process. But Natasha at his other side appeared to be smiling slightly, something knowing and dangerously triumphant as she raised her eyebrow to Steve.

They’d both seen the body language on their two masked villains. They both knew that Steve had not been lying, and Tony’s kidnappers knew it too.

Steve would rip this whole Earth apart to get to his husband, and after so many years, the criminal underworld had gotten that message too. Nowadays, if they were going to stage some sort of hostile situation, they either took both of them or neither of them, unless they were a very high profile organisation that had the resources to at least attempt to keep Steve away.

These Goddamn idiots were not HYDRA though, they weren’t AIM or SUBCON or any of the other well-funded domestic terror groups that had sprung up over the years. They were just criminals trying to catch their big break. And they’d just picked the worst target in the entire motherfucking world.

Steve sat down on one of the chairs on the conference table as calmly as he could, and he waited.

–

Twenty minutes later, JARVIS flagged an alert.

“It appears that Sir has just been dropped off on the side of a road out in Waterford, Pennsylvania,” the AI declared, while Steve jumped to his feet immediately and began his walk toward the jet. “Setting coordinates into the Quinjet now. I suggest an immediate retrieval.”

Behind him, he could hear Clint talking confusedly. “Did you say they just– they just dropped him? Why the hell would they back out now? They got through the hardest part!”

Natasha grinned at Steve’s side, jogging into the jet and tying her hair up as she went. “Steve’s very scary when he wants to be,” she told Clint, “I think he may have persuaded them to try stealing the technology of a… less well protected individual.”

Steve felt their eyes on him, but he was too focused on the immediate task of getting Tony back into his arms to bother with banter. It all faded away into a vague hum, and he ran a hand back and forth over the rim of his shield absently as the jet took off. It was a comfort thing. He imagined ramming it down into the necks of Tony’s attackers briefly, but discarded it. If there was anything more than surface damage on Tony’s body, he might consider bringing the thought back again. But for now, it wasn’t important.

The journey was faster than it would have taken for the Philly police or ambulance to arrive, so they didn’t bother to ring them up and ask for assistance. The trip was done in less than five minutes, and perhaps there were a few people who weren’t all too pleased at having a large jet land in the middle of the road and block their path, but Steve couldn’t really say he gave a damn.

He saw Tony immediately, dumped against one of the posts at the side of the road and surrounded by a handful of people who were trying to help him. He was still cuffed, and Steve noticed the head wound still slowly oozing blood across his face as it fell to the Earth. The thoughts of killing whoever had put that there rose up to the surface again.

He sprinted across the road, leaping over a car that didn’t stop and landing swiftly on his feet. He vaulted the metal fencing and pushed past the small crowd wordlessly, hearing Natasha’s diplomatic voice excusing his behaviour behind him. Getting to his knees in front of Tony, his fingers went instantly to the man’s neck to check the pulse.

Slow, steady. He was simply unconscious. It didn’t seem to be too severe, but one never knew with head injuries. He looked up at the closest person; a man in his late fifties, probably. “Did you move him?” He asked, voice clipped.

The man shook his head, clearly a little shocked that he’d just seemingly gotten into the middle of some serious Avengers business. “I–ah, no. We found him like this. Didn’t wanna– in case of breaks, you know.”

Steve nodded and looked back down to Tony, his hands gently beginning an evaluation of his husband’s neck, his spine, checking everything was in place. “S’okay,” he murmured, even though Tony couldn’t hear him, “I’ve got you now.”

Seemed that those kidnappers had looked at the files after all. And they’d made the right call, it seemed. They valued their lives over their pride.

Tony’s spine was intact, and there were no other serious injuries to contend with, so with a quick tug, Steve broke apart the cuffs on Tony’s wrists and then curled his hands underneath the smaller man, pulling him up off the floor and cradling him into his chest. He’d been gone 24 hours. Not the longest stretch by a long shot, but again, that didn’t mean this was easy.

Steve shut his eyes and pressed his mouth softly against Tony’s temple, finally allowing something other than the razor-sharp focus on finding his husband cloud his mind. The rest of the team had silently taken on crowd control, thanking those who had stopped their cars to help and explaining the situation to the angry drivers whose passage had been blocked. Steve let it all fizzle away. There was just Tony, there, in his arms. Safe.

And, as if to prove the statement, a second later Steve felt his husband stir slightly. Steve soothed him with his voice immediately as he rushed them back into the jet, keeping the tones low and comforting. “It’s alright,” he whispered, “I’m here, I’ve got you, it’s over. You’re on the jet. You’re safe.”

Tony’s eyes focused in on him blearily. Definitely concussed. He frowned slightly at Steve, before hissing in distress when he became aware of the pain. Steve lowered him onto the cot as the others jogged back into the jet, and his hand very delicately stroked Tony’s hair away from the man’s face. “I know it hurts, angel,” Steve told him lightly, “but we’ll get some painkillers into you, you’ll be fine.”

Tony was still looking at him. Then, suddenly, he began to giggle. Steve blinked at him, wondering how bad the concussion was. “Tony?”

“You…” Tony tried to find the words, clicking his fingers awkwardly and smiling as he shut his eyes and leaned into the hand on his face. “You made ‘em give… they gave me up without you even being in the room. You just glared at them. Glared!” Tony cackled again, even though it must have hurt, and Steve couldn’t help but smile back at his husband, leaning down to press a touching kiss to his nose.

“It’s a very good glare,” he said with a shrug, “what did they do to you? Can you tell me now, or should it wait?”

Tony sighed and brought his hand up to his face. “Standard kidnapping fanfare,” he mumbled, wincing as he spoke, “Steve, my head hurts.”

“I know. But you’ll be okay.”

Tony nodded. “’Cuz you yelled at them, and they decided it wasn’t worth you gettin’ mad at ‘em.” He dissolved into laughter again. “Steve, I love you. I love… lots.”

The jet engines started up again as Clint got himself into place and began to fly them home, and Steve’s whole body softened at Tony’s apparent calmness and relatively good health. Could’ve been a hell of a lot worse, Steve thought darkly, thinking back to the horrible month back in 2015. That had been… well- difficult was putting it lightly.

But this– this was okay. These kidnappers, at the very least, had had the sense not to follow the team of 2015 down into the grave and had instead just run for their lives. Steve was glad of that.

He sighed in relief, leaning downward until their foreheads were pressed delicately together. His hand rested gently against Tony’s cheek, and Tony’s hand came to settle around it, their fingers interlocking as they breathed one another in. Faintly, Steve heard the clink of their wedding rings, and the final nugget of tension released itself at the familiar sound. The world had righted itself. Tony was home.

He figured those particular kidnappers probably wouldn’t try for a repeat performance.

—-

Ao3 // commission a piece // donate to my kofi!

#stevetony #itsallavengers writes #kidnappings #hurt comfort #steve is a bad motherfucking BITCH and nothing else matters except Tony

805 notes · View notes

shy-magpie · 4 years

Text

RQG 152

Poor Alex, there was no way to know and changing the story would be more of a breach of the implied contract than going forward. Plus side this warning implies we'll get more info on how the biology of the infection works before RSB actually explodes. To be clear I am all for warnings, I just imagine this was one heck of an awkward position for Alex & co to find themselves in. Well one would think they wanted to get through the intros as fast as physically possible! Seriously bless em for sticking with the structure instead of saying screw it and diving right in. Must be frustrating but it really helps me get in the right space to listen. Yeah it was a bit of an altruism run. That Ben physically ill at the prospect of characters talking? Yuck it up, I was specifically promised three (3) distinct topics would be addressed including both coping mechanisms and back stories. Poor Azu. If someone doesn't hold her while she has a proper cry I will be an unhappy Magpie. Are the new kids going to be invited to the conversations that are totally for sure not going to be put off for a month? Retcon: Barnes and Carter actually fought well it. I guess they were just down to the tricky ones. Theatrical much? Cel is great, have I said that enough? Well obviously not it should be declared at least hourly: "2 o' clock and Cel is great". But right after last episode instead of backing down (and IDK implying Wilde told the new kids their pronouns), Cel is immediately introducing themself with them and emphasizing their importance. Hamid right in there with the leadership, telling the duo that the party needs to go into isolation. I know having Zolf around must have took some weight off his shoulders but the man has grown since season one or even since Prague. He didn't lose that just because he cheers up when not solely responsible for leading the party. Note there is a messy negotiation with Zolf about who is in charge coming up and it is a mark of my trust in this show that I'm not dreading it. Am curious if it will be explicit enough for the white picket fence kids to pick up on, I know I have a thing about rank but some people seem to miss that aspect entirely. OK point Zolf but even with his charisma score there has to be a better way to put it than "do that and you are responsible for infecting Jasper and the village". Wow I guess that is the case isn't it. Thank you leader!Hamid coming in again. Getting Cel the kind of updates on home Hamid was denied in quarantine is fairly low risk for great gains in Cel's comfort with the whole thing. Point of clarity: as much as I hate to admit it, once the quarantine began they couldn't really keep Hamid in the loop since Ishaq was in the care of the Harlequins. Its been implied even without simply escaping an infected person could have means of communication that work in am anti magic cell. The village however is public info. Zolf, I want that again in small words! Are we talking black death or infrastructure problems? Because a few targeted infections could take out the government but not directly kill the citizens. Cel is doing the forced cheer again. What the hell have they been through that they default to words of affirmation for gory violence? Like most characters acknowledge the gore or that it was helpful, not both. Barnes is more reserved outside of the fight. Issues? Trauma? Oh Helen spelling it out, he's my type, crap. "Emotionally unavailable pirate" is a lot of people's type TBF. No wonder I made a warding gesture on hearing Zolf's description and didn't warm up till Dover. These characters wear the red flag as a cape and I'm surprised when my heart gets broken every time. Eh Zolf came back and is doing well enough, maybe Barnes will turn out to just not be chatty vs heart rending. And Hamid in there with the initiative casting Detect Magic so they don't have to face all the risks implied with not checking over the bodies. Barnes and Carter are glowing "like a fireworks factory where things have gone wrong". Only Water Breathing on the mooks. Speaking of emotionally unavailable pirates, Zolf sounds resigned as hell. I know he's working on it but the situation would depress anyone and he's been having a time of it, what with the puzzles and all. Shutting down isn't actually coping better than being shouty just more convenient. Have I already mentioned I want someone to comfort Azu on screen so she can put herself first for once? Remember how bright she shone in Cairo? If she doesn't process soon she's going to echo Zolf's arc. Carter is trying to looking at the bright side. Thank you Ben and Alex, not only a mood lightener but one that reminds us that Zolf asks direct questions now. And Zolf just moved as clearly as possible to protect Azu after Carter lashed out in response to her. I know they have a ways to get to where Grizzop & Azu were but I think they are at least proper team mates. Maybe having Zolf on this side of the bars this time will ease anything Azu is carrying from their introduction. Cel is a delight. Did they just suggest hamster balls? I love how Alex jokes about his own set design. Ah there is Ben's Minecraft joke. I think that's what you call environmental story telling. I love the mental image of them making their entrance crashing the mine cart into the ambush, like half way between a roller-coaster and sledding. Ah its been so long Zolf can't apply his memories of mining. They are officially out! Azu and Zolf are finally breathing right. Hey Zolf broke the weather machine! Cel takes a look see. Plumes of smoke from Shoin's? Wreckage from all the storms. Zolf joins Cel and USES HIS WORDS! I am so proud of him. Like not kidding learning to proactively offer praise & comfort instead of only offering concrete assistance in reaction is a huge step. Oh Cel! Getting yourself killed fighting alone would not have been better than defending your patch. And Zolf is right there, god remember Paris? Remember Prague? Now look at him. And there is the reality check. Not as jarring as it could have been. Azu is face down on the ground near Hamid! No more putting on her game face and slogging through it! Yes, process all you need darlin, no reason to rush. Hamid checks in! Azu takes his hand and explicitly talks about how scary it was when he was missing. Hamid talks about putting on a brave face for Skraak! RQG really just said "we're giving the fandom everything they want" in an episode recorded before we had a chance to ask. Azu checks in with Hamid! Oh Hamid its ok not to be ok. Oh hat Azu! Hamid call your family 18mumble is a go! Alex I will scream if he gets another delaying tactic. Cross your fingers we might get Ishaq and Saira! Azu assures him it would OK. Timing Zolf Horses! Topaz! Barnes: right Well that's a fair reaction to a celestial camel, he doesn't even know what the T stands for. Azu hugs Topaz Thank you Alex for making judgmental celestial camel canon. How GMs don't all go insane with power from the moment it hits they can rewrite their world on a whim is beyond me. A Shetland for Hamid, a standard sounding horse for Cel, a cart horse for Azu, and another Shetland for Zolf. Carter can't get the question out before Zolf shuts him down. He is sticking to his word to Skraak, the island belongs to the Kobolds. Hamid calls en route! Bryn remembers to roll for it! Ishaq is a great kid, such a good sign he sounds like a kid too. Yes the kids are all together in the country house! Dad is at a redacted location, thank you Alex! Mom is alright! Saira is busy and the biggest problem with Ismail is that he is now taller than Ishaq! Ismail is good at magic too. Family bonding time. Einstein is working. Emeka & Veseek are helping things. Ed is with the family. Zolf is not happy about the call. Fair Zolf but none of us are regretting that call. Eh it being a one time thing is fair. Have I mentioned I like how Hamid & Zolf bicker? Its not like with Grizzop. They assume good faith and argue about the issue not score points. Part of why I shipped them in the beginning honestly: charismatic as Hamid is he probably impressioned like a duck on the first person to care more about what he was saying than how he said it. They joke about how hard nonverbal shots are in a podcast. Yes Alex we really do respect your craft. Might have been reassuring Ben. Helen is on the audience's side as always and tells him to pay up on the promised coping mechanisms talk. And Alex makes them roll a perception check. Do not talk block. Carter has been trying to eavesdrop. Azu tells him he isn't invited and Zolf tosses something at his head. Carter slinks back off. Zolf is still not good with words but he is resisting the urge to take it back. That counts damn it! Azu: your not good at talking for someone who says we need to talk. Yes Azu, and thats what makes it special. He is willing to put himself out there and do things he is bad at for the sake of the team. I like how Helen plays Azu getting over her issues with Zolf rather than just leaping to "Hamid vouched for you so we're besties". I need a clip of this, Zolf is offering to listen and be there while respecting boundaries and citing his own experience. Helen is great, Azu jumps right into the 18 months by asking about his relationship with Poseidon. Which again makes sense, as Azu is still working on "we met after you drugged, trapped, and imprisoned me". Which I get but seriously couldn't it have been in the stew or something? Drugging a woman's drink has connotations. Azu backstory(ish) oh thank Alex her cult is still doing the good work. Zolf tells Azu this, and offers her an out? Hamid & Zolf offer reassurance. Yes Hamid specifically tells her it isn't her fault. Zolf assures her that she isn't responsible for Sasha's decisions. Cel and Carter are chatting about what they've seen on the island. Barnes tells them to keep the volume down and does Zolf's thing of bouncing something off Carter's head when he's loud again. Hamid moves to check in with Cel. Cel calls him on it. Hamid asks what Cel plans to do after quarantine! Thank you Bryn! Cel doesn't know, ow. Cel feels obligated to be more proactive. Hamid reassures and points out that they were able to do it as a team so its not on Cel for not acting alone. Cel what is your backstory, afraid of being the monster. Thank you, I could wrap myself in this episode like a blanket. Cel how do you know that about being friends with mercs? Hamid would do it again but wants them to have a choice. Cel: When I call you little buddy I m not referring to the size of your heart. And that was veering saccharine so Ben swoops in with the Harrison Campbell joke. Do not make me get into why Hamid might be using snobbery as a cover for continuing to care more about what people might think than what he wants. Its a cheap shot for what could equally be he's that age and still has some flaws to work through. Thank you Alex for being realistic about horse pace without turning it into a word problem. Wilde! Cel points out the inn keeper could be infected, the boys explain the system of watching one another. Zolf is not letting Wilde get cute with his team again. Wilde wants them "fully supervised" in the bath. I feared that Alex, Wilde turned himself off again. Zolf calls him on it, kinda. They skim past the bath, thank you that could have been problematic. Thank goodness they are leaving the cell door open but locking the trap door. The new kids are in quarantine with them. Fair, going to be fun, but fair.

#live blog thingy #Rusty Quill Gaming #RQG spoilers #RQG season 4 #RQG 152 #long post

7 notes · View notes

lucyintheskywithtemplars · 4 years

Text

AC: Ragnarok--no, that’s a Thor movie--Valhalla!

Okay! So. I was in a teleconference today (because the one thing that hasn’t shut down during this pandemic is Construction, Especially of Hospitals) when Ubisoft did their Thing. So I missed it. But now: time to watch the trailer.

(I did get to passively, distractedly watch the art thing yesterday they did on twitter, but all I got from it was pretty landscapes and silhouette of a Big Guy, so aside from the Ubisoft AC Special (TM), and VIKINGS, I don’t know what I’m about to see. Huzzah!)

Disclaimer: I tried to keep my language clean, but that failed at some point

Bullet points, go!

1. So.... that’s looking to be a fairly burly guy. Or at least very well armoured.

2. If there is no option to play as a lady this time I will S C R E A M and then promptly wage internet war (no I won’t). Kass spoiled me, you can’t take that away from me, Ubisoft!

3. A priestess woman... is she our female playable character?

4. It’s taken me until now to figure out that the voice over narration is an actual character speaking and not just... a random voice over narrator.

5. LOL the narration is all about how they kill indiscriminately and of course Ubisoft pairs that with a “oh look at this woman and her child(ren?), let’s allow them to run away from the fighting and violence and not kill them” and I mean. This is AC of course they’re going to make their protag / protag’s people look good, so I’m not surprised, and knowing that this is a character narration means it’s propaganda to some degree (Templaaaaars!). I’m just. You’re really going out of your way to show where the lines are drawn, but in the most subtle manner you can manage, eh?

6. I gotta say: that switch from actual battle to play fighting and training with the fam? That’s a nice transition. Almost as good as the ones for the Origins Theatrical Trailer (all caps, because that? Is the shit. Still my favourite. Leonard Cohen! Bayek! Aya/Amunet! Egypt! Cleo and Caesar and did I say Bayek! And SENU, MY LOVE <3 <3 <3 <3 <3).

7. I didn’t bother to look up what year (decade) this is set in exactly, but I’m going to assume it’s pre-Christianization of the Scandiwegian countries/lands, so that means A) this is probably not going to have a happy ending, and B) my immediate reaction of KING JOHN! WHERE IS ROBIN HOOD? Is way off base

8. Guy in the background is reminding me of what’s his face from ACII. Damn it. I remember Savonarola, but not him. The Gonfallioniere (sp?). I’m recording all of my thoughts trying to remember this fool’s name because it’s bugging me so much I SHOULD KNOW IT. Um. What’s his face. The Betrayer. That guy. Getting those same vibes from Mister Background For The King. (An eminence grise?)

9. AAAAAAND... BATTLE! This is feeling like that one mission in AC3, where they tricked us into thinking we could do the same thing in actual play as Connor did in the trailer. THAT’S WHAT I’M FEELING, I am Worried. Not super stealthy to be front and centre in a giant free for all!

10. (I say like the entire premise of this game isn’t VIKINGS. What do I know)

11. WHAT IS THAT FLORENTINE LAWYER GUY’S NAME?????

12. So the... leader? Chief? Head honcho? The dude gets taken out and the guy-who-is-I-guess-our-boy just lobs that... axe? Very nice.

13. A hooded person! So maybe we actually ARE being stealthy? Is that our boy/girl?

14. No, my bad, that was just fucking god. (KASS? IS THAT YOU?)

15. “Odin is with us!” Well, that was definitely our standard bird of prey that just took off (I’m including Corvids in this--I just 100% typo’ed that as “Covid”, I’ve Pavlov’d my fingers apparently). So random hooded person who is Not Odin what is wrong with you is... maybe probably our boy/girl? Nice. And dude who is speaking is not?

(15.2. I have to admit, I’m on my second watch, and I’m still having trouble keeping track of who is who between each scene. Is the guy who meets the priestess and gets blood markings the same one we see talking? Is it the leader who gets shanked in the battle? Is it someone else entirely? I don’t know! I’m just going to assume that we’re focusing on the guy who speaks during the battle because of Reasons From Further Points.)

16. No, seriously, what is that fool’s name from Florence? Damnit.

17. Dude-on-a-horse! ...I’m assuming you’re the guy from the scene with the King. And now you’re on a horse! With a... giant of a man beside you. (Ser Gregor Clegane, is that you?)

18. Holy shit it might be, I want a normal person to stand beside both Mister Mountain and our boy, how big are you guys????? Height, muscle, mass, weight, armour, all of the above? The scales for these people look. So weird.

19. Mario Kart 64 had the battle rounds for two or more players? And when you selected it there was that (Luigi?) voice clip that said, “Battol!” Yeah, I definitely heard that when our boy faced off with Mister Mountain.

20. NOT LOOKING TOO HOT THERE, P.O.V. CHARACTER, MAYBE YOU NEED A LITTLE HELP FROM YOUR HOODED FRIEND?

21. HA! HELP GRANTED AND--

22. YOU ARE FUCKING KIDDING ME. Now I need to go back and rewatch and see if I can pick up on that bracer from earlier scenes. (And over the back of the hand? Definitely a follow through Origins then.)

23. THE SHIT. IS THIS.

24. !!!!!!!! ALBERTO UMBERTI! YOU FUCKER I FORGOT YOUR NAME!!!! Anyway.

25. But yeah, I was really hoping for some kind of surprise stealth kill like the arrow storms from Brotherhood, but... this works? I guess? I DON’T KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT THIS.

26. I lied--I know exactly how I feel about this. Very... RPG-ish, more God of War than AC. I’m probably going to enjoy it anyway because I do enjoy God of War, but since this is supposed to fit in the timeline between Origins and ACI (Altair! It’s been too long, I’ve missed you, your arrogant prick), I was kind of hoping for something that leaned more towards the stealth of Altair (except for when I’m playing the game) and less the knock-em-down, drag-em-out brawling of Odyssey.

On the other hand, our boy (and hopefully lady!) goes a-viking, so. I don’t know why I thought it might be anything different?

27. I didn’t comment on the music but! This sounds familiar! It has a very Woodkid-vibe to it, but without being Woodkid (I think?????). And lots of sound effects, of course, so I’m going to have to look this up to get a proper feel for it. It just sort of... faded into the background except in one or two spots, and I know that’s what you want for good sound mixing, but this is a trailer, not a feature length film, I want to hear the song. I’m assuming it was chosen for a reason, I’d like to be able to tell what that reason is.

(27.2 They actually used a song from Jonsi for the Black Flag trailer, and since Sigur Ros is from Iceland this might have been the better time to use it... oh! Wait I can just go look up if they have a track similar to this. Exciting!) (I apologize for the lack of proper spelling there, I’m fighting with my keyboard to make it type English characters properly, let alone ones that my computer considers “special” characters :\ )

Thoughts: Okay, well, one trailer and me otherwise ignoring all the rumours for AC means I have nothing solid to really form an opinion about. Aside from A+++++ animation quality, Ubisoft, you never fail in that department. (Game quality and glitches, on the other hand... I still remember Arno’s L’Oreal commercial, Ubisoft,)

I’m excited to see northern Europe and the British Isles in game form! It might be the only form of travelling I get to do in the next few months. ...even though this is supposed to be out just before New Years?

I said just above that I had Thoughts on how the story would be bridged between Origins and ACI, and I still do, but I’m intrigued to see where and how Ubisoft is going to take this and play with it. I also need to check and see if they’ve confirmed a timeline/decade/year that this takes place in, so I can go pour over all the history from that time period. ...and maaaaaaybe we’ll get to go see Constantinople when it was Constantinople and before it became Istanbul during Ezio’s lifetime (ish)?

AC: Revelations: fighting with Jannisaries. AC: Valhalla (DLC?): fighting as a Varangian Guard (the sort-of precursor to the Jannisaries)

A girl can dream, right?

#meco livefails ACV #HA #I DON'T NEED TO COME UP WITH A ANOTHER WAY TO WRITE THE ACRONYM!#SUCCESS!#ACO and ACOdy kept messing me up lbr #anyway #I might post my Thoughts about bridging ACO to ACV later #and yes #it really did bother me that much that I couldn't remember Umberti's name #I'm still not 100% sure that's right #but I can't actually be assed to look it up #assassin's creed #assassin's creed valhalla

6 notes · View notes

itsstickball · 5 years

Text

Rivalry pt.2

(pt.1, pt.3)

Things progressed normally through the regular season and Neil soon found himself breathless staring up at a scoreboard that meant the Furies were going to the National Cup Championship. A moment was all he had to breathe it in before his entire team was swamping the court and sweeping him up into their raucous celebration.

Later, after press duty, showering and changing, Neil checked his phone. There were the usual messages of congratulations, asks to hang out later, a rare “good job” from Kevin – whose own team had qualified the week prior. He was significantly more surprised, however, by the twitter notification saying that he’d been tagged in a message from @AJminyard. It was mostly odd in that Andrew rarely actually tweeted anything his publicist didn’t mandate, and even rarer in that he actually tagged someone rather than just using their actual name.

Curious, he swiped the app open.

Sure enough, Andrew had attached a brief clip of the Furies’ celebration, mostly centered on Neil being hoisted above their heads as the smallest player, his face nearly split in half with a grin. The article it was attached to was fairly congratulatory, and Neil skimmed it for only a moment. Andrew’s comment however, was far more succinct and far less generous.

-Shame @NJos10 won’t be celebrating like that two weeks from now.-

Two weeks, of course, was when the Furies would play the Miami Marauders. For all that Andrew claimed to hate the game, Neil knew that he’d bring his best that night and had every intention of rising to the challenge. And if he played hard enough to beg off from going out with his teammate afterward, no one would blame him.

-We’ll see. @AJminyard-

He replied, swiping back to his texts with a private smile. The rest of the team was waiting in the lounge as he strolled out, duffle in one hand, phone in the other.

“Aw man, look at that baby face! Neil, when are you gonna buck up and let us meet this secret admirer of yours?”

“My what?”

He looked up from his phone to stare quizzically at Martin.

“You’ve got that sappy look.”

Neil turned to Lovejoy for help, but the older man just nodded his head sagely.

“I’m looking at pictures of Matt’s puppy?”

He explained slowly, showing them the most recent round, in which Boulder is dressed in a different doggy jersey for his, Matt’s, Andrew’s and Kevin’s teams, plus a custom one for Dan’s Class II collegiate team, the Devils.

Both older men let out a sigh, but then dutifully comment on how good the puppy looks wearing their purple and red. Neil texts their responses back to Matt and then closes out of his phone. Nila Jones, their female offensive dealer picks that time to sling an arm around Neil’s shoulder and simultaneously join their conversation and steer them out of the room with the rest of the team.

“Hey y’all, the vote was unanimous, for once in our goddamn lives. So, everyone’s off to Chewy’s to celebrate.”

She looked at their various expressions and the way they’d been huddled around Neil’s phone and continues before any of the men can get a word in edgewise.

“What’s with the pow-wow? Don’t tell me you were trash-talking Minyard without me again. I still owe him for that return ball to the ass.”

This time it was Lovejoy and Martin’s turn to look confused.

“Why would we be trash talking Minyard?”

Nila shared a long-suffering look with Neil, who just shrugged and correctly assumed that she’d explain it for him.

“Uh, because the midget just threw down a gauntlet on twitter?”

“Who did what!?”

Another voice called out, drawn in by Nila’s naturally loud voice and fiery attitude.

“Andrew Minyard’s already talking shit to Josten about the playoff game.”

A third voice chimed in, Henry Beckett already passing his phone around with the exchange pulled up.

“Of course, he is.”

Someone else sighed amongst other mutterings or exclamations as the topic of conversation grew to include the rest of the team. Thankfully, their stomachs were just as big of a deal as their chirping and the group continued to migrate out to their cars. Since they were all going to the same place, it was typical to carpool in smaller groups. Neil was less than surprised when several players packed themselves into his “mom car.” It had plenty of seats and a guaranteed DD. He did smile as the conversation washed pleasantly over him, though. Being the driver also had the excuse of having to pay attention to the road rather than feel obligated to join in.

A few minutes in, however, despite those in the back having long moved on to a different topic, Martin brought Andrew’s tweet back up.

“Seriously though, don’t stress yourself about that Marauders game.”

Neil glanced over at him with bland incredulity written on his face.

“Why would I be worried? I practiced against Andrew for four years.”

One of which he was probably actively trying to keep from killing me. He doesn’t add.

Martin laughed, softly and warmly.

“Maybe you wouldn’t be. I just wanted to remind you that we’ve got your back. And if Minyard tries to start anything, I’ve got 40lbs and ten inches on him.”

Neil seriously doubted that was as much of an advantage as Martin thought it was. Andrew could wipe the floor with him. He nodded anyway.

“I’m fine…but uh, thanks.”

Practices for the next two weeks include a lot of speed and precision drills and even more scrimmages. When they play the Arizona Diamondbacks, the win comes almost too easily – even with Laila Dermott in goal. It’s definitely one of the more brutal games of the season, with everyone on both teams pushing themselves to be the better player, but Neil flies through it with single-minded focus. When they line up to shake hands after the match, Neil is only a little surprised when her grip pulls him into a fierce hug.

“Give him hell next week, Josten.”

To anyone watching or listening, her show of support banked on the rivalry. It wasn’t hard to tell that she’s talking about Andrew. But there was a warmth and amusement in her eyes that told Neil she didn’t believe the hype and it settled him. He returned her grin and tightened his grip on her arm before letting go.

“With pleasure, Dermott.”

St. Louis and Miami were far enough away that there was no question of whether the Furies would be flying or driving. Neil snapped a picture of the runway from his window seat and sent it to Andrew as they waited for the rest of the plane to finish boarding.

-On my way-

It didn’t take long for the goalie to respond with a curt -154%- and Neil found himself smiling at it before he put his phone in airplane mode and pulled up the “TRAVEL” playlist Nicky and the girls had made for him his Junior year. (Directly below that was a playlist labelled “Neil’s pop culture education” and below that one labelled “Junkie” that consisted solely of songs about obsession created by Andrew.) Neil certainly didn’t have the fear of heights that Andrew did, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed being stuck in a metal tube hurdling through the air. Luckily it wasn’t that long of a flight and his teammates were just as eager to talk Exy when they got bored as he was, so it wasn’t too bad overall.

When they landed in Miami, Neil was hit with two things; the roar of a crowd and a wave of humidity. Even in early October the heat was suffocating. Neil found it amusing for a moment that Andrew had been willing to put up with it just for the sake of denying Kevin’s campaign to get him to sign to Chicago with him. It was just absurd enough to be perfectly, quintessentially Andrew that Neil found himself smiling. Despite his discomfort, the soft grin remained as the team was shuffled through the crowds by their security team.

Stepping into Miami’s inner court had a similar effect. The Marauders’ maroon and sky-blue color scheme coupled with their pirate mascot lead to a very other-worldly feel to their court. It exhilarated Neil to feel like he was encroaching on the territory of some long-lost pirate king, to know that he’d be facing down Andrew when the doors locked and the buzzer sounded. It bolstered the blood pumping through his veins and the lazy grin that liked to take residence on his face on game-days.

“Now there’s the Neil Josten the world knows!”

Martin crooned, ruffling Neil’s hair and bouncing off of him to swat playfully at the rest of the team before taking up his proper spot in line.

“Ah, yes, the true Fury. Honestly, with someone like Josten around, why do we even have a mascot?”

Nila joked, her own face lit up with a fierce grin.

The Furies were hardly the Foxes, but regardless of their pasts, they banded together over the thrill of dominating on the court, of struggling for every win and fighting tooth-and-nail against every loss. They were a team of passion and adrenaline. Sometimes that meant they made mistakes or pushed themselves or their opponents too hard, but they never regretted it. Neil, never regretted it.

“All right team, listen up!” Their coach called, shouting to be heard over the crowd just outside of the tunnel and the announcer making his way through the Marauders’ line-up.

“You’ve been working hard all week and all season. I know there are some other external factors pushing you to be your best for this game,” His gaze dragged over Neil for just a moment. “and while I’m glad it’s pulled some of your heads out of your asses, don’t let it make you sloppy. This may be a pirate court, but ships burn and flags fall to even the slightest miscalculation. Now let’s show those Marauders who’s boss!”

And with that warning and pep-talk all wrapped up into one, the Furies turned their attention to the court and stepped into the roaring wave of supporters and enemies alike.

Neil had warned his fellow strikers in the practices leading up to the game of Andrew’s unpredictability. “He’ll try to shut me out completely, but there’s no telling if he’ll put the effort in against anyone else.” He half-explained. “We need to put as many points on the board as possible before that happens.”

The Marauders liked using Andrew as a last line of defense, throwing him on in the second half. Even a bored Andrew had the potential to make better saves than any other goalie, plus it gave him time to watch how the other team’s strikers played. Thankfully, the Furies typically played Neil at the start and end of the games. Unlike the Foxes, they had more than enough people to switch people out in a quarterly fashion rather than waiting until a substitute was actually necessary. It allowed him to play hard and start the team off on the right foot and then rest before giving it his all to clinch a win, or at least drag the score closer to even. This meant that Neil and Andrew didn’t share the court until part-way through the second half.

He heard the crowd roaring, a chorus of cheers and boos, as he stepped into the court and clacked sticks with the striker he was replacing. However, he only had eyes for Andrew. The goalie had been casually resetting from the goal his strikers had just scored, but his stance shifted when he caught Neil’s gaze. Though it was nearly impossible to see from halfway across the court, Neil grinned. What was clearly visible, however, was the mocking two-finger salute he gave Andrew before taking his starting spot on the half-line. For the first time all game, when the buzzer sounded Minyard looked tensed to protect his goal.

The Furies’ plan to rack up as many points as possible before Neil and Andrew faced off went about as well as possible considering that they still had the whole rest of the team of professional players to deal with in that time. Andrew didn’t put up much of a fight against Neil’s fellow strikers, but he didn’t just stand there disinterested either. They had a two-point lead when Neil came on and he would be damned if he let that slip.

The Marauder’s backline, newly replenished, had apparently made it their goal to keep Neil from even getting near the goal. Their efforts would have been admirable if their rivalry had any actual substance to it, but even just the fact that Neil knew their persistence and borderline fouls bothered Andrew more than it bothered him gave him extra strength to push through. In the end, their efforts were futile. He was too quick, too resigned to the possibility of injury and too determined to make his shots to be stopped by something as mundane as solidarity.

Andrew, it seemed, didn’t appreciate this either.

The first shot Neil took on him, ricocheted all the way to the far court wall.

Even inside their plexiglass box, the scream of the crowd at that power move and Andrew’s return salute was deafening. Neil bared his teeth and kept going.

His second, third and fourth attempts were similarly thwarted, though the last time, Andrew had the audacity to slam it back at him fact and hard enough that Neil stumbled back several steps in order to retain possession long enough to pass it back to his dealer. It was a warning and a challenge all in one. Neil couldn’t out-power Andrew like he had the backliners, not when Andrew knew him so well. He had to play smarter.

A thrill ran through him, even as the Furies lost possession and their goal lit up red. By the time they’d moved into position to restart play, Neil had already planned out his next goal, the possibilities stretching out before him like a hundred different threads of light – all leading to the wall behind Andrew’s back. He turned to look at his fellow striker, inclining his head once he had Beckett’s attention. The man grinned back and let out a whoop as the buzzer sounded.

Neil, who typically sprinted at the start of play, hesitated for just a moment. Nila had possession of the ball to start the game and Beckett was the obvious choice to pass to given their positions. She didn’t waste time throwing a quizzical look in Neil’s direction, but everyone knew his main strength was his speed. Likewise, he kept his focus on the backliner charging towards him and counted to three in his head before finally taking off. For a moment, it looked like he would hit the man head-on, but then he swerved, changing his course so that he was on the opposite side of the course. Beckett passed him the ball high off of the wall and then juked out of the way of his own backliner’s attempt to check him. Neil knew they only had a few moments to plan his best route before both of the backliners would converge on him.

He wasn’t in the ideal position and ten steps wouldn’t be enough to get there, so he shot the ball back to Beckett, diverting the woman who was supposed to be Neil’s mark to guard him. Their brief encounter provided him with the time he needed to get around his own new mark. He whistled and kept moving towards the back wall, picking up speed so that his backliner had to sprint to keep up. Finally, Beckett found the opening and shot the ball back to him with impressive accuracy.

When it found its way into Neil’s waiting net, the backliner was almost upon him, but it was too late. The back wall loomed up in front of him and Andrew had shifted to place himself between Neil and the goal. It was possible that he’d pass it back to Beckett or Nila, but both were tied up with their own defensemen and Andrew could smell a shot like a shark drawn to blood. Four steps and he’d be even with Andrew, six and he’d hit the wall. His backliner breathed down his neck, ready to turn that six into three. Instead of dodging, however, Neil pushed himself harder and launched himself at the wall just before his mark could shove him into it. His right foot propelled him off of the ground and his left reversed his momentum from the wall back toward the court. He twisted his torso and passed to himself off of the wall, catching it just after clearing his backliner’s hunched form.

The first step stumbled.

The second secured.

The third pivoted.

The fourth provided enough torque for a backhand shot right into the unprotected center of Andrew’s goal.

Neil didn’t know what was more deafening, the utter silence from the players and crowd as the goal lit up red, or the roar of disbelief as the buzzer sounded half a second too late and everyone went wild.

He did know, however, that the momentum from his trick shot him forward so that he tumbled head over heels to lay flat on his back in the mayhem. He grinned up at the ceiling as everyone around him freaked out. Intellectually, he knew he should get up before that freak-out turned from excitement to dread at a possible injury, but for now he was content to lay there and absorb the moment.

Beckett reached him first.

“You know,” He said, towering over him like a friendly shadow giant against the bright lights of the stadium. “I thought you were absolutely nuts when you first started adding all of those jumps and gymnastics to your circuit. But if that’s what comes out of it, then damn, sign me up.”

Neil’s grin widened and he accepted Beckett’s hand up. Once his pads were straightened out, he turned back towards the goal.

Andrew stood there like a statue, immoveable, immutable, invincible. Except Neil had just scored on him. The goalie wore his disdain plainly on his face and Neil knew, short of another crazy stunt or miracle, it was the last goal their team would make that night. But it was worth it. Worth it for the thrill, the point, the so-called rivalry. It was worth it for the way Andrew stood on an Exy court and felt – even if his feelings had more to do with his annoyance for Neil than the actual game.

This time, when Neil smiled, it was small and private. And even though there was no way for Andrew to see it, he huffed and called out after him in Russian.

“Idiot.”

“How much money do you think I just won Allison?”

Neil replied cheekily.

The rest of the players froze for a moment, given that Andrew very rarely said anything to anyone on the court – especially not to the other team, but when Neil walked calmly away, they followed suit.

True to his prediction, Andrew locked down the goal for the rest of the game, regardless of who was shooting at him. Despite this, Neil put his best effort in. He used the time more to irritate Andrew with trick shots that made him work for it or aiming at the top of the goalie’s helmet or his left foot. He’d probably pay for it later on, but it was worth it for the fire he saw in Andrew’s eyes each time.

The Furies won 7-6.

No matter how they tried to play things, the Furies knew there was no escaping Neil doing press duty for the game. It was too exciting of a game and his reported rivalry with Andrew was too high-profile for anyone in the room to let it go. So rather than waste other players’ time fielding questions that weren’t actually for them, Coach threw Neil out after their showers alongside the team’s captain with a strict warning not to start anything.

He knew how futile it would have been to demand he remain completely civil.

“Raymond! That was one hell of a game. How do you feel about the Furies’ chance for the National Cup this year?”

Neil’s captain grinned.

“Honestly, Julia, I think the team really showed themselves tonight. We were up against a tough opponent on their home court, but still managed to come out on top. We couldn’t have done that without relying on each other and staying sharp. I think tonight’s game is a good indicator of the season the Furies are looking forward to.”

Predictably, the actual Exy questions ran out long before their time with the press did. Neil wanted to look at his watch to gauge how long they’d managed to stay on topic, but he kept his attention on the reporter as they inevitably brought up Andrew.

“Neil, how did tonight’s game feel for you? That was one hell of a goal in the second half, but it had to have been frustrating to be shut out the rest of the game.”

“We came into this game expecting a hard fight. If the goalie wanted to add a little personal challenge to it, then that’s his prerogative. It wasn’t a perfect game, but the way I see it, we won. I’m more than happy with the results.”

“Speaking of personal challenge, both you and Minyard have been incredibly vague about this growing rivalry, but after tonight, it doesn’t seem like it’s likely to die down anytime soon.”

“Is there a question in there?”

The Furies’ captain admonished. The reporter inclined their head and rephrased their point, still directing it at Neil.

“If you could, perhaps, shed a little light on how, exactly this rivalry came to be or why you both seem intent on letting it continue?”

Neil shrugged.

“Andrew hates me. Always has. As for me, well, I guess my survival instincts aren’t as good as they used to be.”

He grinned sharply into the camera, too smug to resemble his father.

“Now, are there any more questions actually relevant to tonight’s game? I did just spend two hours running around and the hotel we’re staying at has a Jacuzzi.”

Beside him, his captain muttered a quiet “thank god” when no one responded and he was able to wrap things up with a quick goodbye before herding Neil as far away from the microphones as possible. Neil found it funny that he thought they’d gotten off lightly.

While he hadn’t lied about being tired, or the hotel room having a nice tub, Neil did not return to it when he begged off celebrating with the team early on. Instead, he typed a familiar address into his GPS and drove 20 minutes to a more suburban area, pulling his crossover into the open garage of a nondescript grey house. Beside it, long cooled, resided a black Maserati.

“Took your time.”

Said the figure lurking in the doorway into the house, clad completely in black. Neil looked up from the car to meet Andrew’s hazel eyes. He shrugged.

“Some of us actually make an effort to bond with our team.”

“Well if you’d rather do that, then don’t let me get in your way.”

Andrew’s comment was snide, but his tone level. Still, Neil rolled his eyes and walked around his car to the steps in front of Andrew.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Pity.”

Andrew replied, acknowledging his current height advantage only with a sweep of his eyes. After a moment, he pushed off of the door jamb and turned to go back inside.

“I’m not kissing you in the garage.”

He called back, leaving Neil to shut the outer door and follow him hastily inside.

“You were great tonight, you know.” He yelled in after the blonde. The thud of the freezer door told him Andrew was in the kitchen.

“I’m certainly not touching you if you’re going to talk about Exy the whole time.”

Neil grinned, watching shamelessly as Andrew stood from returning his ice-cream to the freezer. He waited until he had the blonde’s full attention before he stepped up into his space, his eyes glittering with playful question.

“Then why don’t you shut me up?”

Andrew rolled his eyes, but the kiss he pulled Neil into betrayed him and Neil sank into it.

#aftg #tfc #neil josten #Andrew MinyarD #andriel #the rivalry #a whole slew of oc professional exy players bc neil deserves good things and supportive people in his life #in which I try to write #idk if there will be more in this au #this is all i have so far tho #jk #there's a part 3 now

248 notes · View notes

deltaengineering · 5 years

Text

Winter Anime 2019 Part 3: High on Concept

If you wait long enough, you’ll find something good to say.

Doukyonin wa Hiza, Tokidoki, Atama no Ue / My Roommate is a Cat

What: Misanthropic mystery author picks up tough stray cat, both get healed.

✅ The cat acts like a cat, the misanthrope acts like a misanthrope.

✅ The approach of telling the same simple story from the perspective of two characters that can’t really communicate effectively is interesting.

✅ This is very basic, but it works. I like both characters, and it's generally inoffensive. Pretty much Barakamon with less of a focus on telling you exactly what to feel. Might watch more of this.

❌ I see we’re now at the point where shows get localized titles that sound like lazy translations of bland Japanese names even when the Japanese title is not that bland to begin with. Lovely.

Dimension High School

What: A bunch of kids press XXX and YYY and are sucked. Wooow.

✅✅ The wraparound segments look extremely realistic. If there was more lensflares and shots of feet I’d almost say someone has finally beaten KyoAni in making anime look like a cheap, egregiously overacted J-Drama.

❌❌ Sadly, the puzzle dimension they end up in just looks like homemade MMD animation, because it is. I mean, at least it’s mocapped, but apparently with a Kinect.

❌❌ E.g., they make jokes about clipping and they kinda have to because everything clips into everything else all the time.

❌❌ Did I mention that all they actually do is solve lame puzzles and fail to be funny about it? It’s really getting to the levels of the dreaded “barely animated voice actor improv podcast” at these points.

♎ Suwabe’s in it, and that’s never an outright bad thing. He’s voicing the quizmaster, in the process proving he’d do anything for a paycheck. I wonder if he has a fiverr acocunt.

Domestic na Kanojo

What: Highschooler loses virginity to one night stand, finds out that it was the sister of the teacher he has a crush on. Incidentally, the mother of both also just married his father. Zany!

✅ This is presented like a low-key, slow drama, and it’s not even bad at that. Some good directing going on here, at least in the beginning.

❌❌ Really just too bad that it’s impossible to take seriously with a setup as contrived as this, not to mention taking it as seriously as it apparently wants to be taken. It’s also not exactly original.

❌ I’m not gonna say that sketchy relationships can’t work (it worked fine for KoiAme, for example), but embedding your suddenly also incestuous pupil-teacher affair in the setting of a harem comedy, complete with other sister walking in on attempted drunk blackout kiss, is not giving me confidence that this has the chops to pull it off.

❌❌ The show this reminds me the most of is Love and Lies, and that’s a real bad calling card to have.

Girly Air Force

What: Girl-shaped fighter jets fall in love with a dude.

❌❌ It’s just another military-hardware-is-cute-girls-actually show in the vein of Strike Witches, the kind where they think that having a few plane CG models is already thrilling content.

❌❌ But then it doesn’t even turn out to be that in practice, because most of the episode is taken up by lame “worldbuilding” (i.e., coming up with excuses for why your fanservice show has to be the way it is) and trying to make your bland harem lead interesting, which is a futile endeavour.

❌ The most interesting part is still the CG dogfighting, such as it is. It’s not great either. Also, girly planes are pink.

♎ Honestly got a laugh out of them randomly picking a Gripen as heroine unit in addition to actual JSADF hardware, because that’s a sleek-looking plane. The biggest prank the JSADF ever pulled on the otaku industry is buying the chubby F-35, which is nowhere to be seen here.

Go-toubun no Hanayome / The Quintessential Quintuplets

What: Empoverished highschooler is hired as a tutor for some rich quintuplets with large breasts.

❌ This is a blatant harem setup that would make a 2003 bishoujo VN blush.

✅ However, in practice it’s much better than it sounds. It knows it’s a wacky romcom with a dumb premise and it does not pretend otherwise.

✅ So it’s lighthearted, but it’s also surprisingly classy. In fact, it’s classier than Domestic no Kanojo, which is a show that’s actually trying to look respectable and failing.

✅ The relationships are also very feisty, with an energy that a comedy needs. There’s a lot of sass to go around here. Probably the best of these I’ve seen in a while, so I’ll give it three eps.

Kemurikusa

What: After getting pulled off the sequel, the Kemono Friends crew made their own version. Presumably there are blackjack and hookers in this show’s future.

❌ If you are a fan of KF’s “charms”, fear not, you would not be able to tell these people made another anime before. It's still total amateur hour.

❌❌ It’s not even the “looks”, though those certainly are not a highlight. The design is okay and the animation is bad, but I’m not incapable of enjoying shows with bad animation. What really kills it is the editing. I usually don’t comment on editing because that’s almost always competent and only very rarely great, but Kemurikusa has uniquely lazy and badly timed editing. Every shot being seconds longer than it needs to be is already an annoyance in low-key dialog scenes, but the alleged action is laughable and allows you a long, unblinking stare at every frame of bad animation. I really do wonder why they even bother with it when it’s so terrible.

✅ The setting seems alright, even though it’s just a reskinned Kemono Friends. At least it’s not gijinka nonsense this time (which makes one wonder where the gimmick characters are supposed to come from, but I digress), and it’s more upfront about what it actually is too. I’d call it mildly intriguing.

❌ I don’t mind mystery and certainly prefer it to exposition bombs, but instead of that this episode quickly establishes the most basic facts... and then repeats them over and over and over some more. Combined with non-editing, this makes for horrible pacing.

♎ I had no opinion on KF’s longer-term qualities, because the first episode was so boring I never got any further. I won’t have an opinion on this show’s long-term qualities for the same reason.

Magical Girl Spec-Ops Asuka

What: Magical girls are tragic, shoot gun’s.

❌❌ Yo bro, what if magical girls but dark? Surely such a thing has never been attempted.

❌ The particular source of grim here is that these girls are war vets and fight with semi-realistic weaponry, so there’s a fair bit of the ol’ milwank in this one as well.

❌ The best part of the entire show is that the enemies they originally fought looked like cute teddy bears. Of course, this is dropped in favor of just slicing and dicing some random terrorists in the main narrative. I guess “dark magical girl” is still too outlandish a concept, gotta go with ripping off The Punisher again.

❌ The characters so far are nothing special, you got your PTSD Rambo and the generically cute tomodachis she swears to protect. Such contrast!

❌❌ If you must make these 80s action movies with some otaku gimmick pasted on top, would you mind making the action look good at least? Because I don’t care how many gallons of blood you paint in your dramatic but conspicuously non-moving pans.

Meiji Tokyo Renka

What: Spiritually sensitive lonelygirl gets kitsuned to the Meiji era, which is full of delicious beef and some handsome men too I guess.

✅ This isn’t an outright comedy, but it goes all in on everyone’s fabulosity level to a degree that it’s really already three quarters to Dame x Prince.

✅ Similarly, the lead is not quite as unimpressed with these hams as Ani was, but she certainly has a lot more interest in roast beef than in these guys always trying to pull her into sparkly chin-holding poses &c.

✅ Meiji Tokyo Renka doesn’t seem to be anything special, but it gets the tone right and is expressive enough to not become boring.

♎ While certainly watchable right now, with these there’s always the chance that it decides to launch into real drama in the long run, which in turn almost always goes wrong.

Yakusoku no Neverland / The Promised Neverland

What: An orphanage’s happy daily life gets upended by the realisation that they’re just pizza rolls for some demonic entities.

✅ I watched this right after Kemurikusa and let me tell you, it sure helps if you’ve got professionals on the team. This is a highly competent show as far as cinematography and editing is concerned. While there isn’t any reason to go all out on the action sakuga, this show looks real good.

❌ I’m not feeling the character design, to be specific I think everyone’s chin is too big. This sounds like a real assholy nitpick, but be aware that this will impact around 90% of the time you watch this.

✅ The premise is workable for a shounen manga, even if hardly original (remember Owari no Seraph?) At least it’s not kids with superpowers spamming beams at each other while discussing the nature of heroism, and seems to be going for a more mindgames-based approach in the vein of Death Note. The characters are just barely good enough so far. In the end it’s not so much the premise, but how well the production values are able to sell it. And that’s what Neverland is good at.

❌ It’s specifically a Weekly Shounen Jump manga, and that is huge red flag. Sure enough, while the visuals and mood deliver, the dialog writing justifiably assumes the reader is a moron. Almost every line in this is either straight universe exposition or someone reading someone else’s character sheet back to them. It’s insane and not even necessary because their actions establish all of this just fine, but hey, WSJ readers amirite?

❌ Also, since it’s a successful WSJ property, don’t expect an ending or be prepared to watch this show for years. Most likely both.

♎ This seems like it could be entertaining once the exposition is out of the way and the real meat of the narrative starts. Then again, at that point pacing would come into play, which is yet another achilles heel of WSJ-style shounen manga. Against my better judgement, I’ll probably have a look how this develops, but I don’t expect much.

#anime #winter2019 #impressions #meiji tokyo renka #yakusoku no neverland #the promised neverland #Doukyonin wa Hiza Tokidoki Atama no Ue #My Roommate is a Cat #dimension high school #domestic na kanojo #girly air force #go-toubun no hanayome #the quintessential quintuplets #Magical Girl Spec-Ops Asuka

186 notes · View notes

80srockher · 6 years

Text

Yuri on Ice Re-Watch and Live Commentary, Episode 12: Final Skate: Gotta Super-Super-Supercharge It!!! Grand Prix Final Free Skate

It. Is. FINISHED.

You know that feeling when a fan-nish project is projected to take only a few weeks, during the Summer, mind you, but ends up spanning, oh, about three months? I do, now.

**Begin rant**

Me, too, Vitya! End what, Yuri??

I mean, it's more than a little crazy that he thought this is something Victor would be relieved to here. It's as if they have been existing on different planes of reality.

Listen. Victor has shed tears a grand total of two times in 12 episodes and both incidents involved Yuri. Yet Yuri still doesn't think he’s important enough to merit more of his Victor’s time away from skating. Just. YURI. AUGH!!!

The actor's decision to read this line as if Yuri's revelation has not stabbed Victor in the heart is masterful. There's only so much pretending the man is capable of.

This is hella relatable as someone who also doesn't want to be touched when I'm upset by THE VERY PERSON WHO UPSET ME. Give him a minute to process this, Yuri.

This is just a horrible, horrible cap. Vitya is thoroughly in kicked-puppy-mode.

Um, did you ignore absolutely everything else that occurred afterwards? Including when he straight-up said to your face that he wishes you'd never retire?

Don't fire him, Yuri!

Yuri was really out there listenin' to friends instead of Victor. How many times did Victor ignore the others' entreaties to return to competition to remain his coach? Don't join that Greek chorus. Yuri.

I beg to differ. He's always concerned about your well-being, which is why you gave him an expensive-ass symbol of devotion and put it on his ring finger. Good God, boy.

This inspiration thing goes both ways, Yuri. LISTEN TO VICTOR. He is telling you what HE wants In This Moment. Not what YOU think is best for HIM.

Like hell! You two hash this out right now!

**End rant**

Look, a skater who was popular back when I used to watch. LOL. Stephane L-l-l-l-lambiel!

So, sports reporter Marooka remarks about how Yuri hasn't been seen practicing in public since the day after the short program, which has worried his fans (see, Yuri, you have FANS.) You mean to tell me Yuri and Victor have been at odds with each other for two whole days now?!?!

Cartoon!Lambiel picks up on Yuri and Victor's uncharacteristically low energy.

You don't say, Stephane.

Also: Victor knows Stephane, personally. What a celeb.

At least flag guy has re-energized himself since JJ's short program.

"Don't eff it up."

He eff'd it up.

Wow, shades of Yuri from episode one.

Deep, bro.

Aww! The parents in this show are the best cheerleaders. If only there was time during the season to meet all of them. I'd def like to see Phichit's parents.

So, JJ's dad is reminiscing on some of his son's past coaches. Celestino, then played by Peg Bundy, was one of them.

Also…. I'm really curious as to what JJ needed to say yes to.

Damn you, Mickey Lannister Crispino! Hands off!

Seung Gil! What an awesome cameo.

I don't know much about scoring in figure skating but this seems a mite high for a program that was mostly jumps.

Yay! No other comment needed.

Phichit's ice-show dreams are as adorable as he is. Christophe with a hamster cap is utterly, utterly charming. I would fork over cold, hard blood plasma donation cash to see this in person.

It shouldn't be like this between them; especially not when Yuri plans to end his competitive career, here.

And really, why is Yuri so upset with Victor? I suspect Yuri's selfishness runs deeper than either of them realize. IMO, he's afraid Victor might come to resent him if he retires from skating to coach him, then regrets it.

But honestly, Yuri should know Victor better than that by now.

Despite everything, Victor is still trying to be the coach Yuri needs.

But… Yuri doesn't want Victor to play coach right now.

So tickle his fancy, Victor.

Um…

Victor has an interesting sense of humor.

Also, he did win the one against the teenagers at the local comp. Though I have no idea if a qualifier is considered part of the Senior circuit.

Yeah, katsudon's not the only way to celebrate, Yuri. Victor wants to really give you something worth winning for.

This is just an R&B song waiting to happen.

Hmm… whatever could you mean, Yuri?

I really love how they've cut Yuri's long program with clips of Victor from Yuri's memory. It's a visual culmination of a journey.

Ahh, that's what he meant about making up his mind about his goal. And that's why he wanted Victor to stop playing at being coach. Because he wasn't going to listen to him, anyway. You know, the usual.

Yuri's internal dialogue during his routine reveals his desire to stay in figure skating with Victor forever and his fear of killing Victor's career if he remains Yuri's coach. Victor… have you not shared with the man how competition was already slowly killing you? Might wanna do that sometime in the very, very near future.

Yuri… just loves Victor. He can't always articulate how much, but he can show it. His program is one big tribute to Victor and Yuri's desire to prove everyone how much Victor means to him as a coach and an inspiration.

And Victor gets the message loud and clear.

Mari+Minako are, yet again, Me.

Something I should've wondered by now is how half-blind Yuri can tell where Victor is standing.

The monkey-on-his-back that is Anxiety.

Seriously, you performed to the absolute best of your ability, Yuri. Relax. Relate. Release.

Wowsa, dude.

Sooooo, Victor has just congratulated Yuri on his record-breaking performance and implies that he might come back to competition in the same breath he confesses his pride in both his pupils. The possibility of Victor's return delights Yuri to no-end but gives me pause. A lot of pause.

Victor. My dude. Are you just trying not to ruin the mood? Because quite honestly, one of the very valuable lessons you should've learned on this journey is that a little selfishness can be a good thing. I know you want to make a grand gesture after Yuri's grand gesture but YOU CAN'T BOTH KEEP MAKING GRAND GESTURES. You'll hurt yourselves trying to show the world your love.

Moving on... Chris is on the ice, having serious thoughts about how Yuri, who was rumored to retire after the GPF, beat his personal best. He laments that it won't be as easy for him to win gold as he first thought.

Then he witnesses the happy couple doing their thing.

And gets distracted.

This is in regards to Victor. Chris is rethinking his initial calculation of GPF - Victor = gold for him.

Aww, Chris is Phichit's buddy. Why am I not surprised?

This scene is after Chris decides to change an earlier jump composition to the second half of his program. Can't say he's not a fighter.

Dawww, Minako.

Really? That's it?! By my estimation, that program was better than JJ's. What am I missing?

Boo, this is the last time I'll see my babe, Leo.

But I concur. Go, Otabek! I'm fond of his music choices, skating, and his costumes.

So, Victor finds Yakov to tell him he wants to return to competition. I mean, it couldn’t have waited until after Yurio’s skate, V?

Once upon a time, news of Victor's return may have pleased Yurio. Now, his first concern is Yuri.

And Victor is Not. Happy. About this. He’s about to cry here, tbqh.

Annnnd he requires immediate comfort. This is sad. More than sad, when I consider Victor is letting Yuri call the shots, here. Competing again should be Victor's own decision, as well.

Yeah, that's good advice to pass along, Victor.

I've been debating as to whether or not I should parse out the intricacies of Victor's isolation. Honestly, I think the writers did a well-enough job of it. I suppose I still wonder, as many others have, about his family.

I'll go out on a limb and assume he has or had people in his life that taught him to love like he does and to treat other people kindly. One doesn't learn those sorts of things in a vacuum. However, I headcanon Victor as having been scouted and, once recruited, moved closer to a training facility, a la these athletes.

So, isolated? Yes. Friend-less and family-less? I doubt it, or at least it wasn't always that way.

Meanwhile, Yuri's looking for his man. Perhaps to tell him that he's already changed his mind about retiring? In that case, please, look harder Yuri!

Just needed to slide in this cap of Mila getting sprung by Otabek's skating. Good taste, Mila.

I don't know who JJ has in his pocket on the judging panel, but Otabek just completed a perfect program AND he was ahead of JJ after the short program. Logic would dictate he'd be ahead of JJ now. But, do as you will, YOI.

This is in regards to Yuri. In flashbacks during Yurio's routine, we discover that he was actually impressed with Yuri's prior GPF free skate, despite the errors. It was only after he found Yuri crying in the bathroom stall that he lost respect for him. Must be Yurio's special brand of encouragement: "Stop crying, get better, or get out of the game!" Yeah. That must be it.

Anyway, now Yurio has changed his tune and doesn't want Yuri to retire, at all. Cute.

Lilia is so proud of her angry, pseudo- son.

Yurio completes his most difficult program ever with only one fall. During his skate, it's revealed that part of his motivation was to become a new goal for Yuri to surpass. That's nice and all, but not at the expense of your own health, Yurio.

I don't think Yuri would want that for him, either.

Yurio defeats Yuri by a sliver of a margin. I will admit to initially being surprised by the result before considering (and re-considering, after this re-watch) a few things:

Yurio won because it's entirely possible he may not win again for at least a little while.

His lack of stamina is well-documented, he's in the Senior circuit with grown men who can, and have, beat him already, and he's yet to hit a growth spurt. If the series continues into a second season, then I foresee the writers exploring these very realistic scenarios for Yurio.

This is partially why I don't predict Yurio achieving what Victor has, at least not right away. There's not enough drama in that narrative to fill up an entire season, IMO.

Or, at the very least, they'll use Yurio to address the conflict over becoming as isolated as Victor has during his struggle to maintain dominance in the sport.

Yurio won because the name of the show is 'Yuri on Ice’.

Also, if the writers decide to have Yuri eventually retire (because he is of that age), then they don't even have to change the show’s title. How convenient.

Last, and what I think is obviously implied in this episode: Yurio won so that Yuri would change his mind about retiring.

However… Yuri had already changed his mind. And his biggest motivator in that decision was still Victor, so… kinda wish they hadn't made Yurio go out and suffer like that for no good reason. Honestly, there's little chance of him repeating this performance.

Anyway….

Awww! Yay!

So, Victor's in a teasing mood after Yuri presents him with his well-earned silver medal. Victor insists that he only wants to kiss gold. So, what do you have that would be a suitable substitute, Yuri?

Eff that medal Yuri just unceremoniously dropped to the ground in preference to hopping in Victor's lap. Coach me for another year, Victor!

What a lovely step forward for our boy, Yuri. He didn't win gold but, all joking aside, Victor doesn't care. Yuri’s next gold medal will be a token to Victor, instead of unnecessary proof that he was worth Victor’s time, all along.

Besides, I think he’s already given Victor the only golden item he truly wants.

But, I mean, only if you WANT to, Victor. Are you afraid Yuri will change his mind if you change yours? I hope that's not the case.

Apparently, this is the only payment Victor will accept for coaching Yuri. Ok, so you're going to compete and hopefully earn some sponsorship money to pay your own bills all while coaching someone else for free? Do we need to have a 'Victor on Ice,' a show about Victor re-learning the value of doing one thing at a time?

Roll credits!

How sweet!

The serendipity that is cartoon-world. "I want to coach a skater from another country while also competing for my own country and you can't stop me because I'm animated!"

"I want to do a pair skate with my coach for my exhibition. Know why? Because the writers say I can!! Ha!"

Anyway, this is romantic AF.

Cut to this adorbs face...

Running towards this one, here.

And yeah. WE'D BETTER. Because their story isn’t over!

The End!

If you managed to get through my all streams of consciousness, full of bad screencaps and even worse grammar, then I humbly and sincerely thank you! I enjoyed doing it and hope you enjoyed reading it.

38 notes · View notes

squirenonny · 6 years

Text

Child of the Night Sky

Ships: Established Shallura and Klance, vaguely implied Hunay Rating: G Warnings: Implied/Referenced Character Death

After a mysterious signal leads the paladins to an uninhabited moon, an intruder appears in the Black Lion's hangar.

Oddly, Black doesn't seem to mind.

[Read it on AO3!]

Commission fic for @confused-bird as part of their next gen AU. Find out more about the AU and the characters here!

Shiro stood on a barren ridge overlooking a sprawling valley dotted here and there with scraggly brown plants. The landscape had the feel of an old western, painted in sepia tones, the thin air tinged yellow near the horizon. The castle-ship sat a little over a mile behind him, gleaming silver spires unnaturally crisp against the backdrop.

“Where exactly did this signal come from?” Shiro asked, reaching out to steady Lance as a section of loose gravel crumbled underfoot. The weak sunlight reflected off his visor, which was sealed against the moon’s oxygen-poor atmosphere.

The clatter of keys echoed in Shiro’s ear. “Ten feet, maybe?” Pidge said. “Seriously, you guys are right on top of it.”

“Yeah...” Lance exchanged looks with Shiro, then spread his arms to encompass the barren valley. Nothing larger than coral-like plants lived on this moon; even the air remained stagnant around them. “I think there might be something wrong with your scanners, Pidge. There’s nothing here.”

“I’ll run the scan again, but I’m telling you, you’re there.”

“Nothing personal, Pidge,” Shiro said, placing a hand on Lance’s shoulder to quiet him. “We just want to be sure.”

They grunted, then fell silent as they worked. It was pure chance Green’s scanners had picked up the signal in the first place. A single burst of Quintessence, too weak to reach beyond the edge of the solar system and so quick the castle’s main scanners had flagged it as unremarkable.

“Don’t let your guard down,” Keith said, his voice clipped. “This could still be a trap.” Shiro didn’t have a visual on the bridge, where Keith, Pidge, and Coran were gathered to help direct Shiro and Lance, but he imagined Keith was wearing a hole in the floor pacing behind Pidge’s station. He’d wanted to bring the lions on this expedition, but Lance had draped himself over Keith’s shoulder and whispered something that made Keith flush and grudgingly agree to hold off on the heavy firepower, though he’d promised to come get them in Red the second things got sketchy.

Pidge’s frantic typing slowed. “You know we don’t actually know Lotor’s involved, right?”

Keith snorted. “Better to assume the worst,” he said. “Hunk, Allura, you still there?”

“Hear you loud and clear, buddy,” Hunk said. “Allura’s schmoozing up to the locals, but we’re two minutes from Yellow if you need us.”

“Good.”

Shiro’s eyes went to the dusty red crescent that dominated the sky. Hunk and Allura had remained on Dovrura while the others took the castle-ship to the larger of the two moons to investigate the anomaly. Allura had been concerned for their safety, but she trusted her team. She trusted Shiro. So as much as he wanted to ask her how the talks were going, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

“We don’t know what this is,” he said evenly. “That's why we're here. And we are being careful, I promise.”

Lance grinned in the direction of the castle-ship, as though Keith could see him out the window. “You heard the man, samurai. We’ll be fine—unless Lotor’s found a way to weaponize pebbles.”

Keith was quiet for a long moment, then laughed softly. “Fine,” he said. “But you owe me a massage when you get back.”

Shiro forced a smile for Lance, who remained at the alert, his bayard tapping against his thigh. The fact they’d encountered nothing overtly hostile on the trek out here wasn’t as reassuring as it should have been, when the anomaly looked so much like the dimensional rift the team had encountered while Shiro was gone and the energy signature of Lotor’s ship.

“Okay,” Pidge said after a time. “I double-checked the scans, and I was right. You’re standing literally on top of the origin point.”

Lance met Shiro’s eyes, then glanced pointedly at the dusty rock underfoot. “Secret bunker?”

“The castle’s not detecting any sizeable cavities in the area,” Coran said, “But if it’s small enough we might not be able to pick it up at this range.”

“Right,” said Pidge. “Shiro?”

“Way ahead of you.” Shiro took out the portable scanner Pidge had given him and set it on the ground. Three small legs immediately extended from the base and dug into the ground to stabilize the device. But five minutes later when the device finished its scans, it showed nothing new.

Pidge sighed. “Well, I guess that’s it, then. Lotor didn’t build anything here.”

“I still don’t like this,” Keith said.

Shiro smiled. “Noted. We’ll keep an eye on the scanners just in case the anomaly crops up again, all right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Good.” Shiro clapped Lance on the shoulder as the younger man dismissed his bayard. “In that case, we’re gonna head back. See you soon.”

The rough terrain made for slow going, but Shiro and Lance made it back to the castle without incident. Keith and Pidge were waiting in the entrance hall when they arrived, Pidge seated on the staircase with their computer, Keith pacing nearby. He stopped when he caught sight of Lance and made a beeline for him, tension melting away.

“So. Back to Dovrura?” Lance asked, lacing his fingers with Keith's.

Shiro nodded. “I’ve left Allura at the mercy of politicians for long enough, I think.”

Pidge snorted, not looking up from their work. “Please. She’s got the entire planet rallying behind Voltron by now, just watch.”

“Yeah...” Shiro bit down on a smile, ignoring the look Keith and Lance shared. As though they had room to talk, when it had taken less than fifteen seconds for Lance to coax Keith into leaning back against him—Keith’s arms crossed over his chest, one of Lance’s draped over Keith’s shoulder. Shiro met them pointed look for pointed look, then connected to the bridge comms. “Whenever you’re ready, Coran.”

“Roger that! Just another tick and--”

An insistent chime interrupted Coran, and Shiro tensed. Not for the alarm itself, but for the rumble that started in his feet, raced up his spine, and settled in beside his heart. The others didn’t hear it—but they wouldn’t have, any more than he would have heard the call of the other lions.

“What was that?” Pidge asked.

Shiro was off running before Coran had a chance to check what had triggered the alarm. Keith straightened, Lance called Shiro's name, and Pidge yelped, fumbling their laptop as they surged to their feet. Shiro didn’t slow for any of it, just raced for the elevator.

“There’s an intruder!” Coran cried. “Down in the Black Lion’s--”

Shiro silenced his comms with a thought as the elevator door slid open. The lights were at half power, but they flickered on at his arrival, illuminating Black, who crouched in her usual spot at the center of the hangar, her voice vibrating in the air in a mix of confusion and wariness. Her chin rested on the ground, and a figure stood before her, hand on her nose.

Another light turned on, hitting the stranger like a spotlight. They gave a start, snatching their hand back from the Black Lion’s nose, and spun to face Shiro. They wore an opaque mask that reminded Shiro vaguely of the Blades’ suits: it was molded to the stranger’s head, with a luminous slit at the level of the eyes and a slight bulge over the mouth that might have been an oxygen mask or voice modulator of some sort. The rest of their attire was similarly matched black, white, and gray armor; slim-fitting and flexible like Allura’s battle suit.

The stranger’s hand dropped to their hip, and Shiro moved on instinct, hand coming alight. He charged toward the intruder, low to the ground, as he’d learned to do in the Arena. Assume the enemy is stronger than they appear. Make them fight for every hit. Most importantly, strike hard and fast. The longer a fight went on, the more chances you had to die.

The stranger froze, just for an instant, as Shiro approached. It was impossible to gauge emotion with that mask of theirs, but their hand lifted away from their hip and their spine went stiff, as though they hadn’t expected a fight.

The moment passed, and the intruder dodged back, footwork light and quick as they led Shiro around the hangar, slapping his arm aside with a palm to the inside of his elbow when his strikes got too close. They were obviously used to close-quarters, and they showed a wariness for his arm that suggested they’d seen it in action—or at least heard tales of what it could do.

Yet for all their skill, the intruder made no move to strike back at Shiro. They made a sound once, like they wanted to say something, but the word stalled in their throat, and they had to retreat as Shiro came in for another pass.

Black rumbled a warning, and Shiro shot a glance her way. The intruder had come here for her, a fact that would have been concerning in its own right even without the fact that Black had dropped her shields. She hadn’t opened up, but would that have lasted? Could this person have hacked the lion somehow, implanted a line of code that made Black think of them as a friend?

Shiro shifted, careful to keep himself between the intruder and the Black Lion as they danced across the hangar floor.

“Wait!” the intruder said, holding up their hands as a space opened between them. “Please—I don’t want to fight you.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” Shiro feinted to the left, then spun around, reaching out with his cybernetic hand for a nob near the jaw of the stranger’s mask. Shiro’s touch melted the electronics inside the control node, causing the mask to flicker and vanish. The intruder gasped, eyes going wide, and stumbled backward, reaching up with one hand to check the controls. They snatched their hand back at once, wincing as sparks snapped at their fingertips.

Shiro himself stood frozen, searching the stranger’s face. For the space of one heartbeat, he thought he recognized them—their short, dark hair with pale bangs; the piercing eyes; the stark red line across the bridge of their nose that curled up toward the outer corners of their eyes.

They were… human?

No.

Shiro stopped breathing.

With a roar, Allura was there, her staff flashing in the hangar lights as she swung. It cracked against the intruder’s head. Shiro cried out in horror, lifting one hand toward them, but he was too late, and the intruder dropped to the floor.

Allura barely spared them a second glance before she crossed to Shiro, grabbing his chin and forcing him to meet her eyes.

“Shiro,” she said. “Shiro. Are you all right?”

Shiro blinked, his gaze drifting back to the fallen form behind Allura. “Fine,” he said. “Are they okay?”

Allura frowned at him, then at the intruder. Hunk had knelt beside them—Shiro hadn’t even noticed the Yellow Lion’s arrival in the commotion.

“Holy--” Hunk clapped a hand to his mouth. “Guys.” He squeaked as the elevator door opened. Keith charged out ahead of the others, sword in hand.

“Shiro! Are you okay? What happened?”

“Guys,” Hunk repeated, breathless.

“Fine,” Shiro said. “What is it, Hunk?” Shiro paused long enough to kiss Allura’s cheek, meeting her eyes and willing her to see that he was okay, then hurried over to Hunk and the stranger. One look at the crumpled form, and at Hunk’s pale face, told him he been right.

Hunk reached out as though to touch the stranger’s red facial markings—not just under their eyes, but a small vertical band on their lower lip, as well—but hesitated at the last minute as Coran joined them, his usual calm disrupted at the sight of the stranger.

“Quiznak!”

Allura turned, grip on her staff tightening as she did so. “What?” she demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“Not… wrong, exactly,” Hunk said slowly, staring at Coran like he expected the man to shatter at any moment. “It’s just… They’re Altean.”

What followed was ten minutes of chaos. Everyone crowded around the intruder, exclaiming with varying degrees of shock, suspicion, and excitement as Coran numbly confirmed Hunk’s assessment. The stranger’s ears were a bit shorter than Allura’s or Coran’s, their facial markings not quite so brightly colored—but the scanner in the med bay confirmed their Altean heritage.

Allura had insisted on restraints, though she’d seemed to be fighting herself on the matter, and Coran had put the stranger into a cryopod to clear up a minor concussion. That left them twenty dobashes to figure out how to approach the situation—and to theorize about their presence on the castle.

“Well, obviously they’re the source of that weird reading earlier,” Pidge said, pulling up the data from the med scan on their laptop. They’d all relocated to the rec room, though so far only Pidge, Hunk, and Lance had taken advantage of the couch. The others stood or paced the room, tension thick in the air.

Hunk leaned over Pidge’s shoulder, frowning. “I’m not seeing anything like the anomaly here.”

Pidge pursed their lips. “I know. Maybe they have some kind of magic. You know, like Haggar’s?”

“Yeah, or they could be working for Lotor,” Keith said. “I don’t trust them.”

“The first surviving Altean we’ve seen?” Allura asked. She had one arm wrapped around her midsection, the other hand hovering near her mouth so she could worry a hangnail. Shiro edged closer to her, placing his hand in the small of her back. She smiled weakly at him. “I suppose it’s possible, but… Lotor’s father destroyed our entire people. Why would they work for him?”

“They may not have a choice,” Keith said.

“I suppose...”

Lance kicked his feet up onto Hunk’s lap, crossing his arms behind his head. “Maybe they’re from the Mirror Universe.”

“Mirror Universe?” Shiro arched an eyebrow. “The other reality?”

Allura shivered, her eyes fluttering closed. “I hope not.”

“I doubt anyone could have made it over here without Voltron, anyway,” Pidge said.

Hunk glanced toward Coran, who stood at a computer terminal along the wall, monitoring the intruder’s status remotely. He seemed not to notice the conversation going on around him.

“I don’t know you guys,” Hunk said, tearing his eyes away from Coran. “You’re all assuming they’re an enemy. But Black was cool with them, right? Maybe we should give them a chance.”

There was muttered dissent at that, but Lance looked thoughtful and Shiro couldn’t help but think about Black’s distress when the stranger had gone down. It had been her prodding more than anything that got the intruder to the med bay for a scan.

Coran’s computer beeped, and the others immediately turned toward him, the same silent question etched into every face.

“They’re coming out of it.” Coran switched off the computer and turned, pasting on a smile. “If it’s all right with you, Princess, I’d like to speak with them first. Alone.”

Keith looked like he was going to argue, but a glare from Lance stopped him. Allura nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Alright, but if they try anything, we’re handing them over to the Blade.”

Keith nodded once, satisfied, and Coran’s smile turned strained. But he acquiesced and left without another word. Allura put up a feed from the med bay on one wall, and Shiro rubbed her back as Coran appeared there, catching the intruder as they fell from the pod.

“Easy now,” he said, steadying them with a hand under their elbow. The stranger reached for their head, but the handcuffs pulled tight. They froze, eyes flying open.

Allura stiffened.

“I don’t think they’re dangerous,” Shiro told her in a low voice. “They weren’t trying to hurt me earlier when we fought.”

Allura pursed her lips, still staring at the video feed, where the intruder had finally lifted their head, staring at Coran in shock.

“I’m terribly sorry for all this,” Coran said, guiding the stranger toward a seat against the wall. He crouched down like they were a frightened child rather than a grown adult. “I’m afraid you gave us a bit of a fright back there. We’ve got a number of enemies who would have reason to infiltrate this ship.”

The intruder dropped their eyes to their wrists, tugging half-heartedly at the restraints. “Believe me, I know.” They smiled wryly as Coran’s brow pinched in confusion, then leaned back in their chair until they were practically lounging. “So what do I need to do to convince you I’m a friend?”

“You could start with a name,” Coran said.

The smile twitched wider, and the stranger’s eyes drifted skyward. “My name? Aeron í Allura Altea.”

Allura jerked away from the screen so violently Shiro had to take her by the arm before she tripped over the step behind her. She’d gone ashen, her eyes wide with shock that quickly turned to outrage. She turned on her heel, wrenched out of Shiro’s grasp, and stalked toward the door.

“Allura…?” Lance asked, sitting upright on the couch as she passed. He shot a look at Keith, who in turn looked at Shiro, who frowned and followed after Allura, the other paladins falling into step behind him. A hundred questions crowded his mind, and he didn’t dare ask a single one as Allura jabbed the button for the elevator.

You trust this person, Shiro thought in the direction of his lion. Don’t you?

The Black Lion didn’t answer.

Aeron í Allura Altea.

The name echoed in Allura’s ears with each step, a mockery of all logic, a slap in the face for someone who had lost her entire people. They finally discovered the existence of another Altean and this was how they presented themself? With taunts and brazen lies? Claiming a name they could not possibly hold?

The elevator ride down two floors to the med bay was interminable, not least of all for the anxious silence of her friends. Allura crossed her arms and leaned away from Shiro’s tentative touch, and when the door slid open, she stormed out of the elevator, down the corridor, and into the med bay. Coran still knelt before “Aeron,” one hand on their arm in a paternal gesture that stoked Allura’s ire.

Aeron looked up, eyes darting to Shiro before returning to Allura and locking there. They began to rise, mouth open to spew further lies, but Allura jabbed a finger in their direction.

“You,” she said sharply, “are not Aeron í Allura Altea.”

Aeron’s gaping mouth snapped shut, and something flashed behind their eyes. “I am, though.”

“Impossible.” Allura crossed her arms. “Where did you come from?”

“The Castle of Lions.”

Allura’s shoulders hitched toward her shoulders, a shout building in her throat. Coran smoothly inserted himself between Aeron and Allura, his eyes sharp with suspicion though he maintained the same warm demeanor he’d had since Aeron awoke. “Funny,” he said lightly. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Well, no. I haven’t been born yet.”

Shouts of surprise and incredulous questions burst out of the gathered paladins, but Allura hardly heard. She took a single step backward, head spinning. Time travel. Time travel? It made no sense—and yet that name. Aeron í Allura Altea.

Aeron, child of Allura of Altea.

Her child.

“Impossible.”

Her voice was barely a whisper, indistinguishable in the roar of voices, but Aeron looked at her and smiled as though they’d heard. A moment later, they huffed at the continuing furor and raised their hands. “One at a time. One at a time!” The room slowly quieted, and Aeron settled back in their seat. “Thank you. Now, who wants to start?”

Pidge leaned forward, eyes shining, but Keith was faster.

“Do you really expect us to trust you?” he demanded. The lights on the thigh of his armor were glowing, an unspoken warning that he was ready to summon his bayard—and from Aeron’s grim expression, they knew it.

“It’s the truth.”

Keith’s face darkened. “You really expect us to believe you’re—what? A time traveler? Seriously? Lotor probably sent you to steal the lions.”

“Which is why I’m here,” they said dryly. “Lionless.”

“I never said you were a good thief.”

Aeron rolled their eyes. “There’s no need to be rude, Uncle Keith.”

Keith choked on air, his eyes going wide as Aeron grinned—a brief moment of devious glee, quickly smothered. It reminded Allura all too much of herself. Of having to grow up too quickly, of snatching joy when it came, of constant awareness of the face she presented to the world.

“No.” Allura shoved aside the questions and formless desires creeping into her mind and forced herself to think rationally. “Time travel isn’t possible.” She hesitated in the face of Aeron’s fathomless stare and glanced to Pidge and Hunk. “Is it?”

Pidge spread their hands helplessly. “You tell me. Our scientists theorized that it's possible with wormholes—we just can't create a stable one. Or travel through without getting ripped apart.”

Hunk nodded thoughtfully, tapping his chin. “Yeah, but you’ve obviously got that figured out. We use wormholes like, every day. And space-time is pretty flexible, guys. If we can travel across the universe in two seconds, there’s no theoretical reason you couldn’t also travel back in time.”

“Except for the issue of temporal navigation,” Coran said. He paused, smoothing his mustache. “Or vortex monsters.”

Lance’s eyebrows shot up. “Vortex monsters?”

“Urban legends,” Aeron said. “Early Altean experiments with time travel were universal failures. Nothing ever got to the point in time it was supposed to reach, regardless of which direction it was traveling. Some people said there were creatures that hunted the timestream and ate anything that ventured outside the normal current.” They lifted one shoulder. “But I made it, so I’m betting it was more an issue of the proto-time-travelers missing their marks by a few light years. Or a few millennia.”

“Right.” Shiro held up one hand and shook his head. “Sorry. Even assuming time travel is theoretically possible, what proof is there that you traveled back—how long?”

Aeron scanned the room, their gaze resting on Shiro for only a fraction of an instant before it continued on to Pidge and Hunk. “Judging by how young you all look? I’d say about thirty years.”

“Uh-huh,” Keith said. “Sure.”

Lance planted his palm on the side of Keith’s face and pushed him out of the way so he could sidle up to Aeron, flashing a smile. “So what’s future me like? Dashing? Famous? How big’s my fan club?”

“And how did you end up here?” Pidge added. “Does someone really invent time travel in the next thirty years?”

Aeron averted their eyes and scratched the back of their neck. “I don’t actually know how I got here. But I have pictures from my time if you...” They trailed off, glancing down at the plain white medsuit they wore. “Correction: I have pictures in my armor… Where is my armor?”

Coran retrieved the armor from a storage compartment, ignoring Keith’s protests. Aeron took the breastplate and fished out what looked like a white echo cube. A flick of the finger brought up a digital menu, and a holographic image appeared in the air above Aeron’s hands. For a moment, Allura thought it was an image of her mother—tall, stately, a glimmer of a smile hinting at political savvy.

A chill raced down Allura’s back as she realized it wasn’t her mother. It was Allura, aged by several decades, with lines at the corners of her eyes and strain weighing down her shoulders.

“Ohmygosh!” Pidge lunged forward, stars in their eyes. “Is that derived from the holoprojector on the bridge?”

“Augmented with Olkari tech?” Aeron asked. “Yeah. Pretty neat, huh?”

“The colors are so crisp!” Pidge bounced on their toes as Aeron twirled the cube between their fingers. The image of Allura flickered, replaced by one of a young girl, dark-haired and gap-toothed. She was sprawled across the Red Lion’s paw, beaming at the camera. Then she was gone, and the older Allura was back, this time with a young Altean man—her son?

Allura closed her eyes, seeking calm. “You could have faked those,” she said. “You could have--”

She broke off as Lance gasped. Allura opened her eyes and found herself looking at a wedding photo. Oh, the details were off, but she could still see the Altean traditions at the heart of it: the colored motes of light that gave the scene a soft aura, the clusters of crystals dotting the rafters of the old atrium at the heart of the castle.

“Is that…?” Hunk glanced from the smiling couple, dressed in dark suits of an unfamiliar cut, fingers interlaced and matching smiles on their faces, to Keith and Lance.

Lance’s hands covered his mouth, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, and he reached out blindly for Keith, who looked shell-shocked, his eyes riveted to what very much looked like a picture of their wedding day.

Keith licked his lips, tearing his eyes away from the holo with obvious effort. “Allura’s right. These prove nothing.”

“Okay.” Aeron tapped the holocube, and the image vanished. They tilted their head to the side, eyes sliding almost—but not quite—to Shiro. “There’s one more thing I can show you.”

“And what’s that?”

“The black bayard.” Aeron held out their hand, and a bayard appeared. The paladins stiffened, Keith automatically summoning his own bayard. Shiro held out his hand, pressing it against Keith’s chest.

After a moment’s pause, Shiro stepped forward, held out his hand, and summoned his bayard. “Pidge, can you tell if that’s the genuine article?”

“Sure,” they said. “Just give me a few minutes.”

Aeron’s bayard was real.

Shiro had to hear it twice—from both Pidge and Coran—before he could wrap his head around it. The bayards were ancient, complex devices inexorably linked to the lions. The thought of there being two black bayards was incomprehensible, and that along with Black’s reaction to Aeron cinched it. Aeron was, impossibly, telling the truth.

Hunk was the last to cling to his skepticism, rambling on about how someone might create a forgery that could fool all their resident tech wizards. He mentioned Quintessence modulation and pocket dimensions, but Shiro hardly heard him. Nor, it seemed, did Keith, who stormed forward and snatched Aeron’s bayard out of Pidge’s hands. A familiar sword appeared in a flash of light, indistinguishable from his usual weapon. Keith’s scowl deepened.

“It’s real,” Aeron said, sounding bored. They looked vaguely irritated by the debates, but had been remarkably patient, all things considered. They glanced now at Keith, gauging his reaction. “I promise, I’m not lying to you.”

“You’re from the future,” Shiro said, numb.

Aeron glanced at him, then quickly away. “Yes.”

“And Allura is…?”

“My mother? Yep.”

Shiro’s eyes lingered on Aeron’s facial markings, and the scar across his own nose prickled. “And...” Shiro cleared his throat as every eye in the room turned his way. Every eye, that was, but Aeron’s. “What about your father?”

Aeron stiffened, a scowl darkening their face. “I’ve probably said enough already. Spoilers, right? Don’t want to screw up the timeline.”

The flat dismissal felt like a slap to the face, and Shiro was too stunned to do anything but nod and say, “Sure.”

Was he… not Aeron’s father? He and Allura hadn’t talked much about the future, but the thought that they might not be together—might not even be on good terms—hurt more than Shiro would have thought possible.

Shiro didn’t have long to consider the possibility. As Coran removed Aeron’s restraints, Allura turned and stalked from the room. Aeron watched her go.

“You know...” Hunk pushed his fingertips together as he edged forward with Pidge. “I know we said no spoilers and all, but tech is an exception, right?”

“Yeah,” said Pidge. “We have to figure out how you got here if we’re going to send you home.”

Aeron blinked several times, then chuckled, but Shiro didn’t stay to hear their reply. Instead, he followed after Allura, following the soft, quick beat of her footsteps, which led him to the elevator. He caught the door as it began to close.

“Are you okay?” he asked, joining Allura inside.

She smiled, but it was strained. “I’m fine, Shiro,” she said, leaning into him. “It’s just a lot to take in.”

“I know.” Shiro wrapped his arms around Allura, a lump rising in his throat. “I know. But, hey! Looks like your kid ends up becoming the black paladin. That’s something to be proud of, right?”

Allura pulled back, a solemn expression on her face. Her kid. Not theirs. At least Shiro wasn't the only one upset by that. “Shiro…”

“This doesn’t change anything,” he said, stealing a kiss. “I’m here to stay. I promise.”

“So… exactly how many pictures can you fit on that cube thingy of yours?”

Lance tried not to fidget as Aeron looked at him, one eyebrow arched in near perfect imitation of Shiro’s Dad Face. Lance hadn’t yet pinned down what the deal was between them—Aeron had made a conspicuous effort not to be left alone in a room with Shiro, but still watched him across the room when the whole team was gathered together. Maybe Shiro wasn’t their dad, maybe, but Lance was positive Aeron had known him growing up.

So what had happened?

“Are you asking me because you’ve suddenly developed an interest in tech,” Aeron asked, “or because you want to know more about the future?”

Lance’s eyes widened. “What? Me? Pssh. I don’t care about the future.”

“Uh-huh…” Aeron glanced around the room, which was empty except for the two of them. Coran, Pidge, and Hunk were all busy working out theories for how to get Aeron home, Shiro and Allura were on the bridge, and Keith had spent most of the last two days on the training deck—for no particular reason, of course. Definitely not because he was freaked out by the wedding photo.

Wedding photo! Lance couldn’t believe it. He and Keith were married! At least… he thought they were. He was pretty sure, and as giddy as that made him, he couldn’t tell what Keith was feeling. He’d been trying to figure out how to broach the subject with Keith, but when he came up blank, he’d decided to go fishing for more information.

“Sorry.” Lance rubbed the back of his head. “I shouldn’t have--”

“Okay,” Aeron said.

Lance blinked. “What?”

“Okay. Just—don’t tell my mother.”

Lance snapped his mouth shut and nodded hastily, leaning forward. “My lips are sealed! You-- What--?”

Before Lance could formulate a question, Aeron had pulled out their projection cube. A hologram appeared in the air between the two of them. Lance and Keith, now middle-aged, smiled at the camera. Each had an arm around the woman in braids between them, who flashed a charming smile at the camera as she fired off finger guns. Lance held a much younger child on his hip, though she seemed to be trying her hardest to wriggle away. Her dark hair was escaping her pigtails, and she was missing a tooth.

“That’s Rose,” Aeron said, pointing to the woman in the center. “She’s a few years older than me, tough as nails. My brother’s only a year older than her, and he took it on himself to try to reign her in.” A smile tugged at Aeron’s lips, and they bit down on it. “Can’t say I made his life any easier, to be honest. At least I knew better than to try to imitate daddy before I had any training.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah… I’m pretty sure she would have taken the Trials at age six if Uncle Keith let her. Anyway, she’s my red paladin. Sometimes I want to strangle her, but I don’t know what I’d do without her.” Aeron flipped their hand, then pointed to the girl hanging off Lance in the picture. “This little cutie is Claudia. Now, look. We've all played The Floor is Lava, but Claudia raised it to an art form. Not sure how much longer she can persuade people to let her climb all over them, though.”

Lance laughed, tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. He had a family. He had a husband and two beautiful daughters, and there they all were, smiling so bright their joy was infectious. “Hey, Aeron? Am I… Am I good dad?”

Aeron’s smile softened, and they flipped over to a different picture, one that showed Keith holding a tiny bundle. He seemed awestruck, handling the baby like she was made of glass, while Lance kissed the side of his head.

“You’re a great dad,” Aeron said. “Both of you. There’s been fights, sure. Lots of big personalities in your family, and Rose was the definition of a rebellious teen. But at the end of the day, Rose and Claudia both know you love them. Rose still calls home every day, you know. Don’t tell her I told you, but I think she’s a little homesick.”

Lance’s vision blurred, and he blinked furiously, trying to memorize the image of him and Keith with their daughter. “Thank you,” he whispered, smiling at Aeron. “Really.”

They switched off the projector, nodding. “It’s family,” they said, as though that explained everything. Lance frowned, but Aeron only shook their head and stared down at the cube in their palm, blinking back tears.

Things were awkward between Allura and Aeron for the first few days. Aeron spent most of their time with Coran—and often Hunk and Pidge—trying to work out the mechanics of time travel. Allura had hung around the fringes of these conversations enough to have heard all the theories: mineral deposits on Dovrura’s moon, Quintessence flows in the system, odd energy signals coming off the sun. The castle in Aeron’s time had been nowhere near Dovrura, so it was likely they’d been pulled to this system by the castle-ship itself.

The intervening days had done wonders for the awkwardness Allura had first felt around Aeron. It was still surreal, of course. Even when she was able to forget, for a moment, that they were a time traveler—and her child—they were still the first Altean she’d seen from this universe other than Coran and Haggar, and she found herself tearing up at the oddest moments.

Aeron was considerate, though, and they avoided talking about the future. They talked instead about Aeron, about Allura and Coran, about Altea of old. Aeron had grown up on stories of their people’s planet, and they were hungry for more, and Allura found it liberating to talk to someone who felt that same intangible connection to the past.

By the end of the first week, Aeron had settled into the castle routine. They theorized with Coran and Pidge and Hunk, they talked with Allura about the past, they snuck off with Lance—and both got cagey when asked what it was they did when they barricaded themselves in the rec room. Even Keith began to warm to the new arrival, though it was usually Lance who enticed him to be social. The mice found Aeron to be a particularly comfortable perch, and Allura was saddened, if not surprised, to realize Aeron had never met these mice—or if they had, they’d been too young to remember.

The only one Aeron hadn’t connected with was Shiro.

He poked his head into the bridge now, hesitating for a moment when he caught sight of Aeron. Pain flickered across his face, but he covered it up as Aeron turned toward him. Allura’s heart ached. Shiro didn’t want to push Aeron, and Allura understood that, but she’d seen the way Aeron looked at him when his back was turned. They’d all seen those looks. Even now, the quiet conversation between Hunk, Pidge, and Coran petered out as Aeron caught sight of Shiro and stiffened. They gaze dropped to the floor, and Shiro shied away.

“Sorry for interrupting,” he said, forcing levity. “I was looking for Allura.”

Aeron stood, rubbing the back of their neck. “That’s fine. I should probably go.”

“You don’t have to--” Shiro began, but Aeron waved him off.

“I’m meeting Lance soon anyway. It’s fine.”

Shiro watched them go, and Allura felt another pang. She stood, approaching Shiro and wrapping an arm around his waist. “You should talk to them.”

He frowned at her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Hunk piped up from the other side of the room. Pidge eeped and ducked their head when Shiro and Allura turned. They clearly didn’t want to seem like they’d been eavesdropping. Hunk was less bashful. “Have you seen the way they look at you, dude? I don’t know what’s going on there, but they want to talk to you.”

“Who wants to talk to who now?” Lance asked, strolling in with Keith.

“Aeron wants to talk to Shiro,” Hunk said.

“Oh.” Lance chuckled. “Well, yeah. Is there such a thing as dad-pining? Cause holy quiznak, it’s worse than when you were trying to work up the courage to ask Allura out. Ow.” Lance’s smile vanished as Keith smacked the back of his head.

Shiro crossed his arms. “You’re imagining things,” he said flatly. “And what are you doing here, anyway? Aeron just left to look for you.”

“Me?” Lance asked.

Keith frowned. “I’m pretty sure they were heading for the training deck, actually.”

Shiro pursed his lips.

“Go,” Allura said, giving him a gentle nudge.

Shiro opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I don’t know...”

“Go. Trust me. You both need this.”

Shiro stared at her for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll give it a try.”

Shiro found Aeron on the training deck, sparring with a gladiator. Watching them fight was mesmerizing. Their grace and power reminded him of Allura, though at the moment Aeron was fighting unarmed. Shiro hadn’t yet seen the form the bayard took for them; he didn’t think anyone had. Aeron preferred to train in private.

When they executed a flawless takedown, stealing the gladiator's sword and running it through—the exact move Shiro had taught himself in the Arena—Shiro understood the wish for privacy.

“Not bad,” he said, entering the room as the castle reclaimed the damaged gladiator. Aeron stiffened, spinning around with a guarded look on their face. Shiro held up his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

Aeron turned away, wiping sweat from their brow. “It’s fine,” they said. “Someone looking for me?”

“Just me.” Shiro hesitated just inside the door, searching for tact. But he’d been tactful for the last week, always giving Aeron an out, always deferring to whatever wall it was dividing them. Suddenly Shiro found he just wanted answers. “Am I your father, Aeron?”

Aeron lifted their head, eyes wide and wild. “Are you…?” They licked their lips. “I told you, I shouldn’t say too much about the future.”

A flare of anger tightened Shiro’s jaw, and he forced himself to breathe through it. “Please, Aeron. I’m just trying to figure out what I did to make you hate me.”

That, finally, got a reaction out of them. They stared at him, lips parted, and pain crept into their expression. “You didn’t do anything.”

Shiro closed his eyes. “Clearly I did. I… I don’t know what. If I—if I left you and your mother, if I let the team down, if...” If the things I did in the Arena finally caught up to me, Shiro thought. “I don’t want to believe I would do that to you—to anyone. So, please, if Allura married someone else, it’s fine. I just need to know.”

Aeron was still staring at him, their lips pressed together so the stripe of red across their bottom lip stood out. “No,” they said. “She—you are my dad.”

Relief loosed the vice around Shiro’s heart, but cold dread flooded in soon after. “Then...”

“I’m sorry.” Aeron breathed out a ragged breath and made a break for the door, head ducked so Shiro couldn’t read their expression. “I can’t.”

“Wait!” Shiro lunged after them as they fled, catching their arm. “I don't understand, Aeron! If I'm supposed to be your father, why are you avoiding me?”

They whirled, and Shiro was stunned into silence by the tears tracing paths down their cheeks. “Because you died!”

“What?”

Aeron pulled out of Shiro’s grip, wrapping their arms around their midsection. “You died,” they repeated, softer now. Their breath hitched, and they swiped at their eyes. “The last time I saw you, you were dying in my arms, and there was nothing I could do to save you.”

Shiro’s mouth ran dry. He stumbled forward, off-kilter, and reached for Aeron before he had time to think that they might not want his comfort. The instant his hand came down on their shoulder, though, they fell into his arms and clung to him like—well, like he was all they had left of their father.

“I’m sorry, Aeron,” Shiro whispered, pulling them closer. He felt their knees give out and lowered them both to the floor, never giving up his hold on them. On his child. The child he’d left fatherless.

The knowledge left a sour taste on his tongue, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask for more details. A morbid part of him wanted to know everything—when it had happened, how, whether his death had meant anything. There was a thought of changing things, but it faded quickly into the rush of emotion. Who was to say the future could be changed?

So he said nothing, just held his child as they cried and told them everything was going to be okay.

Aeron breathed in the crisp, recycled air of the Black Lion’s cockpit. Her steady presence settled into a familiar place in their mind, and for a moment they could almost forget she wasn’t quite the Black they knew. Thirty years wasn’t much to a Voltron Lion, but the death of a pilot—the death of Aeron’s father, who had been so closely bonded to Black that his death had left deep scars—was not something that could be ignored.

Eight years had not dulled the ache of loss.

That day was burned into their memory. A diplomatic mission, one of the first Aeron had been allowed to participate in… Even now, they didn’t know what had gone wrong, whether deception on the part of the locals or a Galra plot. They just remembered the explosion. Coran had been caught up in the blast, and Aeron’s father had gone in to save him. Aeron followed, and only narrowly avoided being caught in the building’s collapse.

Funny, how being back here with Shiro could make them feel like a child again.

But he’d been there, as earnest as ever, every line of his body speaking to concern for their happiness, every word dripping with a desire to make things right. Aeron’s father had poured everything he had into his family.

They'd almost forgotten how much they'd missed him.

They felt lighter now that they'd told him, though slightly embarrassed by their breakdown.

Black rumbled reassurance, and Aeron smiled. It had been Shiro’s idea to take Black out for a spin, and Aeron had been afraid Black would refuse, as she’d refused to open for Aeron when they first arrived in this time. But she’d welcomed them, and the flight had loosened knots Aeron hadn’t even realized they’d been carrying. Their father was dead, and they dared not hope that would change, but if nothing else, they had at least found closure.

An alarm startled Aeron out of their thoughts. They spun the Black Lion around, scanning the stars, and spotted spotted it at the edge of the system: a Galra fleet. Heart pounding, they hailed the castle.

“Paladins, to your lions! Galra fleet incoming!”

It wasn’t until Keith jumped on the comms with a curse that Aeron remembered they weren’t in their own time. For a moment, they panicked. They’d never been into battle without Rose at their side, without their brother back on the castle-ship to provide support. They couldn’t—they couldn’t do this.

“Shiro.” Aeron faltered, bit their lip. “Dad. I’m going to hold them off until the others are out here, then I’ll trade places with you and you can--”

“No.”

Aeron hesitated. “What?”

“No,” Shiro repeated. “You’re already out there, and you’re just as much the black paladin as I am. You can do this, Aeron. I trust you.”

Mingled pride and grief stirred in Aeron’s chest, but they nodded, pulling out Black’s wing-blades as the Galra fleet formed up and headed toward Dovrura. Ships burned around them, and Black roared in Aeron’s head as they held the line. In moments, the Red Lion was there, arriving in a swirl of flame. The castle’s lasers joined the fray with pinpoint accuracy, knocking down ship after ship as the other paladins fell into formation.

Rose and Myhrin weren’t here. The rest of Aeron’s team wasn’t here. But their parents were, and these people were--or would be--Aeron's family. When they needed someone to take a shot, Lance was there; when they asked for scans of the battle cruiser, Pidge had them ready before the words were fully out of Aeron’s mouth. They flew in tandem with Keith, and Hunk caught a shot from their blind spot.

They cleared out the fleet quickly, Allura called out a warning as the battle cruiser began to charge its cannon, the barrel aimed directly at Dovrura.

“We can’t let them get that shot off,” Aeron called. “Everyone together now—form Voltron!”

They didn’t expect it to work. There were always hiccups when you added someone new to the formation. It took time, and it took a willingness to be open with each other—something Aeron just couldn’t bring themself to do, not when they knew so much about these people’s future.

But in a way, there was nothing new about this. Aeron knew Keith and Hunk and Lance and Pidge. They knew a version of them, anyway. And the other paladins knew Aeron’s parents. There were thirty years between them—but what was thirty years to Voltron?

The bond took root, and Aeron directed them toward the battle cruiser.

“Keith! Form sword!”

Power surged as the sword materialized. Hunk and Lance pivoted, and Keith sliced through the barrel of the ion cannon. Pidge latched onto the cruiser as Voltron drifted past, and they pivoted again, Keith reversing and bringing the sword up from below.

It sliced cleanly through the cruiser, leaving two halves drifting, the shredded shields flickering once, twice, before the power failed entirely.

Stillness returned to the system, and Aeron breathed a sigh of relief.

“That was some fine flying, everyone,” Shiro said warmly. “Good work. And Aeron—thank you. You’re team’s lucky to have you.”

By the following morning, they had the solution they'd been hunting for. However Aeron had ended up in the past, it had left an impression. A path they ought to be able to follow home. All they had to do was reopen the portal. To that end, Coran and Hunk had adapted the teludav technology, and Pidge had programmed it based on the energy spike from Aeron’s arrival.

“It’s going to take a lot of Quintessence to power this thing,” Pidge warned. The team had gathered at the point where Aeron had appeared, helmets sealed against the thin atmosphere. Aeron glanced at Allura.

“Well, what do you say, Mom? Together?”

Allura nodded and they stepped up to the device Hunk and Coran had built. It didn’t look like much; just a small silver cube with a single pedestal rising from the top. Allura laid one hand atop the pedestal, Aeron placed their hand over hers, and they both channeled their Quintessence into the device.

A ripple appeared in the air, then split into a milky blue portal tall enough to walk through.

“I guess this is it, then,” Aeron said, turning back to the paladins. Hunk sniffled, then surged forward, lifting Aeron off their feet. They wheezed, smiling despite themself. “Oh, come on, Uncle Hunk. I’m gonna be born in about seven years. That’s not so long.”

Hunk laughed, and as he pulled back, Pidge took his place. Keith and Lance were next, and Aeron pressed a small disk into Lance’s hand as they broke apart. Lance frowned, looking down at the device, and Aeron winked.

“A little memento,” they whispered, too quiet for even Keith to hear. “For when you’re homesick for something that hasn’t happened yet.”

Lance’s lip trembled, and he squeezed Aeron tight enough to force the air from their lungs. “Thank you.”

Aeron smiled, squeezing Lance back. By the time they parted, Coran was there, his smile sorrowful. Aeron’s breath quickened, and now the tears came. They remembered Coran as a pillar of their childhood, as good as a grandfather to all the paladins’ kids—right up until the day he died.

This version was virtually unchanged from the man Aeron had known. Not so many wrinkles, perhaps, and not yet any gray in his hair, but the same kind smile. The same ready hugs and gentle prodding that made Aeron spill everything.

He alone of anyone in this time had heard the full story of his death, and Shiro’s. Aeron hadn’t meant to say anything, and even now they told themself it wouldn’t change anything. But maybe…

Maybe.

Aeron clung to Coran, burying their face in the curve of his neck. “I’m going to miss you,” they whispered.

Coran sighed. “As will I. But we’ll see each other again, Aeron.”

“I hope so.”

Then all that remained was saying goodbye to their parents. Allura and Shiro stood together, radiant with pride and affection, and Aeron felt their tears spill over. Aeron focused on breathing and surged forward to hug them. Blinking against the tears, Aeron folded Shiro’s fingers over another projection disk, this one containing a picture of Aeron with their parents and brother.

“Don’t forget to have me, okay? And Myhrin, too.”

Allura laughed, then held out a necklace. Aeron recognized it as belonging to their grandmother; their mother wore it nearly every day. Their eyes widened. “I can’t--”

“Take it,” Allura said. “I want you to have a piece of me, whatever else happens.”

Aeron said nothing, just nodded, clutching the necklace to their chest, and stepped backward toward the portal. They got one last look at the team, happy and whole and hopeful, before they stepped out of time.

The castle was just the same as Aeron remembered it, albeit quieter. Med kits in every room—added after Rose’s... eventful childhood. Old finger paintings permanently emblazoned on the walls. The familiar sigh of the ventilation system, and the hum of Quintessence running through the conduits.

Aeron stepped out of the portal into the Black Lion’s hangar, unchanged down to the jacket Aeron had left draped over a chair. They went looking for their team, a corner of their mind irrationally convinced they’d come back ten thousand years too late, and everyone they’d know was long dead.

Voices in the distance led them to the rec room, where they found a crowd. Not just the other paladins, but many of their parents as well. Keith and Lance had claimed a corner of the couch; Hunk and Shay and the Holts were huddled by the wall, talking in low tones.

But it was Rose, pacing by the door and chewing on a fingernail, who noticed Aeron first. She stopped, mouth dropping open.

Then she shrieked, loud enough to shatter glass, and sprinted toward Aeron. “You big, stupid jerk!” she cried, slamming into them and spinning around. “Do you have any idea how worried we were?” Rose pulled back, punching Aeron in the shoulder. “You’re not allowed to do that again.”

Aeron chuckled, rubbing their arm. “Sorry,” they said, beaming as everyone else streamed forward to join in on the group hug. “I’m home now, though.”

A hand settled between Aeron’s shoulder blades, warm and heavy, and they began to turn, only to freeze when a familiar voice said, “You’re right.”

Aeron forgot how to breathe. It was only then that they spotted Coran across the room, smiling into his hand. There was gray in his hair, more than Aeron remembered, but his eyes sparkled mischievously as he came forward and put an arm around Allura’s shoulders.

Aeron turned.

“Dad?”

Their voice came out small, tears streaming down their face, but their father only smiled, pulling them against him. “Welcome home, kiddo.”

#voltron #vld #shallura #klance #next gen au #time travel au

49 notes · View notes

avanneman · 5 years

Text

Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon A Time In Hollywood: not entirely the all-out misogynistic gore-fest I had been expecting!

youtube

When Quentin Tarantino was a young man, he had dreams, as young men do. These are among the things that Quentin Tarantino dreamed:

That he would kick Bruce Lee’s ass;

That he would save Sharon Tate’s ass;

That he would have a pitbull that would bite people on the ass (also the nuts);

That he would share a “moment”—an extended one, actually—with an insanely precocious eight-year-old girl, like that Eloise of the Plaza girl or maybe that Esmé girl in that Salinger story;1

That he would have maybe murdered someone (like his wife, just for example);

That he would beat the crap out of some dames; and

That he would be a bottom.

Tarantino reveals his dreams in a meticulously tricked out mélange of fake reality, real reality, fake dreams and reals ones, all basking in the warm California sun that shines over the capital of dreams, fake and real, Hollywood, California, the place that makes Oz seem normal. Tarantino subjects us to an elaborate collage of fake and real film clips, fake ads for fake tv shows, fake promos for fake tv shows, fake versions of real tv shows, fake movies, real movies, even fantasy versions of real films, in the service of four separate story lines, all set, naturally, to a carefully honed and seriously swinging sixties soundtrack, much of it heard on car radios, complete with “period’ DJs, jingles, and ads.2 But despite all the artifice, once the narrative gets going, the whole story is very simple, despite all the detours, which generally come off as self-indulgent and sentimental, since Tarantino is self-indulgent and sentimental—except when it comes to dames.

I’m sure that the idea for Once Upon A Time must have been kicking around in Tarantino’s head for years, if not decades, but the film’s basic vibe still seems heavily influenced by James Franco’s recent semi-classic The Disaster Artist, the now-legendary tale of Tommy Wiseau and Greg Sestero,3 two star-struck shaggy-dog scooby-doo dudes adrift and a-dreamin’ in the LA LA Land shark tank who escape eating only because they aren’t worth the consumption. Tarantino’s leads, Leonardo DiCaprio as “Rick Dalton” and Brad Pitt as “Cliff Booth”, are a little bit further up the food chain. Once upon a time, Rick was a star, with a big house and the whole schmear, the star of the TV western Bounty Law that finished its run in 1963. Six years later, he’s still got the big house, but the career is flagging. In fact, he’s so down on his luck his posse consists exclusively of his main man/stunt man Cliff, who chauffeurs Rick around (because, of course, Rick lost his license), listens to his frequent tales of woe, and tries, ever so gently, to keep him on the straight and narrow, while always assuring him that he’s still the Man, and always will be.

We first pick up on Rick and Cliff, the first two strands of our story, via what strikes me as an, well, insanely unnecessary device—a black and white TV “featurette” on Bounty Law when the show was still running, featuring both men, in which Rick explains to the folks at home just what a stunt man is and why they’re so necessary—as if audiences in 2019 need to know this. The Bounty Law stuff is intercut with the third thread—a Pan Am jet arriving in LAX bearing a pair of obvious big shots, a short dude and a tall blonde who stride through the place surrounded by a crowd of paparazzi before transferring to a cute little vintage MG TF, whose 1250 cc engine bellows like a Ferrari 12 cylinder sans muffler4 when they hit the freeway.

After the black and white clip ends we catch up with Rick and Cliff in real life as Cliff drives Rick to a lunch meeting with agent Marvin Schwarz (Al Pacino, actin’ all Jewish on our ass and clearly having a ball), both Rick and Cliff enjoying lushly photographed mixed drinks in the grand tradition of Hollywood eye-openers while they wait for Marvin to show. When Marvin does, Rick introduces him to Cliff, “explaining” that his car is in the shop, so Cliff is filling in as his wheel man. “A good friend!” exclaims Marvin. “I try,” says Cliff.

Marvin and Rick have a sitdown and Marvin does a lot of talking, his spiel giving us more backstory on Rick, and it ain’t pretty. After Bounty Law died, Rick made a few movies (Tarantino naturally shows us some clips, including one of Rick incinerating some Nazis with a flamethrower) that died at the box office, and we even see a “kinescope” of Rick singing a fifties oldie, “The Green Door”, on Hullabaloo.5 Now he’s reduced to appearing as a “guest star” on other TV westerns, the villain du jour whose job is to be plugged by the real leading man. “Face it, Rick,” Schwarz tells him. “You’re in the rear-view mirror in this town, fading to black. Italy’s the place, and spaghetti westerns are the future! Give me the word and I’ll make it happen! But give me your decision soon, ‘cause I ain’t getting’ any younger, and, more to the point, neither are you!”5

Rick staggers out into a California sun that ain’t so much warm as scalding, throwing himself bodily into Cliff’s arms. I’m fucked, motherfucker! Fucked! I’m a fucked-up fucking former cowboy star who ain’t worth a damn! Italy, for Christ’s sake! Italy! Fuckin’ Italy! That’s all I’m goddamn good for any more! Goddamn fucking Italy!

Gently, Cliff talks him down, as he clearly does once or twice a week. Take it easy, big guy. You’re still the man. You’re still the man! And so they head out in Rick’s Caddy, Cliff at the wheel, a classic case of LA co-dependency, a West Coast version of Joe Buck and Ratso Rizzo, two guys chasin’ that dream, that dream that don’t seem to be getting all that closer, but, well, when you’re headin’ down La Cienega6 in a sweet Caddy, rockin’ those sweet sixties tunes, it still seems like it could come true.

As they pass down La Cienega, or wherever they are, they pass a bunch of dumpster-divin’ hippie chicks, setting up what will be the fourth strand of the story. After that, well, it seems that time passes, because all of a sudden it’s gettin’ dark, and Cliff takes the Caddy up a winding private drive, dropping Rick off at his big house, giving Rick a chance to fill us in on some more exposition. You know the secret of LA? Real estate, my man, real estate! Own, don’t rent! Then you belong here. Right on cue, the MG we saw earlier rumbles up the drive. It’s Rick’s neighbor, who, unlike Rick, has a gated entrance. See what I mean! You know who that is? Roman fucking Polanski, that’s all! Hottest director in Hollywood! What did I just say? What did I just say? In this town, you’re just one pool party away from the big time!. Cliff nods, as if he hasn’t heard all this a dozen times before, and then lectures Rick on the need for punctuality, for like tomorrow— “7:15! 7:15 out the door! 7:15 in the car”—before taking off in his sweet ride, a Karmann Ghia, which, by the sound, also seems to have had a Ferrari implant, replacing its stock four-cylinder VW mill with a V-12.7

Cliff blasts down the mountain-side in total LA bad boy mode, top down, hair ripplin’ in the wind, and heavy tunes blastin’ on the radio. Fuckin’ LA, man, fuckin’ LA! This is how we roll!

Well, this is how Cliff rolls until he gets out of the car, because LA is all about the wheels. Cliff doesn’t live in the canyon. He lives in the serious low-rent district (that is to say, Van Nuys), in a trailer, with both a pumping oil well and a drive-in movie theater to create a little noise pollution, which he combats, once he’s inside, with a black and white tv featuring Bob Goulet belting out “MacArthur Park”! The horror, man, the goddamn horror!

But he does have some company, in the form of “Brandy”, perhaps the world’s best-trained pitbull.8 To let us know that we’re watching a Quentin Tarantino movie—we were starting to wonder—Quentin ups the grossisity level considerably by having Cliff feed Brandy “Wolf Tooth” dog food (“raccoon” and “rat flavor”, no less), which looks exactly like shit, letting the slop drop plop in the bowl from about waist level. Two cans of the slop, plus a pound or two of kibble, make quite a mess, but real men ain’t neat. Cliff makes himself a saucepan of mac and cheese, pops open a beer, and plops in front of the tv. Life is good!

Life is good because Cliff is really happy that Rick is a loser. If Rick were a star, a real star, he wouldn’t need Rick. He’d use him, because that’s what stars do, but he wouldn’t need him. And Cliff needs to be needed.

Rick, meanwhile, is slurpin’ whiskey sours and learning his lines for the morrow’s shoot, the pilot for a new show called Lancer, while floating in his elegant, kidney-shaped pool, which, remarkably enough, has a killer view,9 as Tarantino’s elegant camera work will elegantly reveal.

Next door, things are a bit more lively. Roman and Sharon (she isn’t named, but of course we figure it out) slip on their glad rags and head for just the hippest place in town, the Playboy Mansion! Which didn’t actually exist yet in 1969, but whatever. One could wish—a little—that poor old Hugh Hefner were still alive (alive and, well, sentient) to see his old haunt pictured as the place where all the cool kids hung out back in the day.10 For whatever reason, Tarantino actually labels some of the big shots present so we’ll know who’s who, including Steve McQueen and Michelle Phillips and “Mama Cass” Elliot,11 the female singers of the sixties group The Mamas and the Papas.12

The shindig at the Mansion turns out to be the most carefully choreographed shindig I’ve ever seen. Everyone can dance—even the folks in the pool—and everyone’s in perfect time! It’s also the most chaste Playboy Mansion shindig I’ve ever seen—not a nipple in sight. But, even more strangely, we get a sour disquisition from wallflower Steve McQueen, no less, staring at Sharon’s sweet, swingin bod and moaning strangely about her strange taste in men, that leaves him shit out of luck. Hey, lighten up, Steve, and join the party! Why Tarantino thought we needed to know all this is beyond me. (Whether Steve really did have the hots for Sharon is also beyond me.)

The next morning, Roman is up, bright and early—at around 7:15, as a matter of fact—enjoying an outdoor French press while Sharon still slumbers—slumbers and snores, actually, because when you get up close, all chicks are just a little gross.13

Rick actually is up at 7:15 as well and heads off to the shoot with Cliff, though he clearly feels, if he does not exactly look, like shit, bent over double with one coughing fit after another and hacking up so much phlegm we figure he doesn’t have to worry about lung cancer because he won’t live long enough to get it. He tells Cliff that, no, he won’t be needed on the set—and he knows damn well why—so he might as well go back to Rick’s place and fix Rick’s tv antenna, because it needs fixin’. Cliff nods and takes off.

Rick stumbles through the set of Lancer looking for wardrobe. When he finds it he soaks his face in ice water—gotta tighten the damn pores, after all. Any star knows that. Plus it might help him remember his name, or even his lines. While Rick is still no more than half conscious, director Sam Wanamaker (Nicholas Hammond) bursts in, maybe not gay, but seriously exquisite. “Rick Dalton! Have I got plans for you! This is going to be amazing!”

Sam rattles and prattles on in a fit of aesthetic ecstasy, while Rick stares in semi-conscious horror. He doesn’t need this much enthusiasm. He’s here for a paycheck and this dude is talkin’ about “zeitgeists”, whatever the fuck they are. Seriously! Zeitgeists! And it’s waaayyyy too early for fuckin’ zeitgeists!

While Rick suffers, Cliff heads back to the canyon, running into the hippie chicks once more before reaching Rick’s place. It what seems like a parody of gay porno, he straps on a tool belt, and then leaps to the top of first one wall and then another until he’s up on the roof, much like a cat and not at all like the 40-year-old man he’s supposed to be. Then he pulls off his shirt, lights a cigarette and dons a pair of work gloves. Ready for action? Hell, yeah!

But before he starts to work Cliff has time for an extended reverie on just why he isn’t welcome on the Lancer set. Earlier, he had a job as Rick’s stunt man in an (imaginary) tv series starring Bruce Lee. Bruce, played by Mike Moh, comes off as a pretentious asshole, prompting Cliff to give him some serious sass. In real life, one suspects, sassing a star would get you not merely booted off the set but out of Hollywood forever, but instead Bruce and Rick agree to a genteel face-off, no punches to the head, just knock the other fellow down, best two out of three. Cliff goes down the first time, but then throws Bruce bodily against the side of a Lincoln Continental, causing a dent that looks like it was made by a 500-pound wrecking ball rather than a 130-pound Asian. That’s what you get for stealing our jobs, hot shot!14

But that isn’t the only reason why Cliff isn’t welcome on the set: there’s this crazy rumor that he killed his wife, which Tarantino encourages us to believe is true by showing us a flashback—whether Cliff “remembering” or Tarantino showing us “the truth” isn’t clear—of Cliff in skin diver gear on a boat listening to his bikini-clad wife bitching her head off about what a loser he is and Cliff maybe pointing his spear gun at her. Uh, so what is the point of all this? It has no payoff in the rest of the movie, leaving us to feel that Tarantino sort of wishes that people, especially women, would be afraid of him. You know that guy, Quentin Tarantino? Oh, yeah, he looks harmless, but I hear he killed his wife! Seriously!

Once Cliff finishes his reverie, he has a glimpse of the future instead of the past: a weird, hippie-lookin’ dude at the Polanski place asking about the previous tenant. We aren’t clued in, but if you know your back story you know this is Charles Manson.

While all this is going on in and out of Cliff’s head, Rick is having multiple adventures on the Lancer set. The whole Lancer episode is a curious mish-mash of fact and fancy. The “real” Sam Wanamaker did direct the pilot of Lancer. Whether Sam was as exquisite as portrayed seems a pretty open question. The actual Lancer series was a short-lived rip-off of Bonanza, which Tarantino sort of follows and sort of not, and sometimes it seems that Rick’s character “Caleb” is the good guy and the Lancers are the bad guys, and sometimes the other way around. We see several large chunks of the show, presented to us as the audience would see them—no crew or equipment visible—and in fact what we see is not at all what a sixties tv series would look like but rather a sort of ideal spaghetti western that Tarantino probably dreamed of making back in the day.

Before we even get there, however, Rick, dressed in character as “Caleb” has several “pregnant” conversations, the first with the stunningly precocious (and precociously PC) “actor” “Trudi Fraser” (Julia Butters), already in character as “Maribella”. Rick can’t eat lunch because of his makeup and “Maribella” likes to stay lean and hungry before a shoot. “We aim for 100% efficiency. We never achieve it, of course. But it’s the pursuit that counts.”

Rick, conveniently hocking up another loogie, looks like there’s nothing he’d like to pursue other than a whiskey sour or two and maybe a nap, but he takes a seat next to her to read his paperback western—a little surprising since I never saw him as having much appetite for print. Maribella, after correcting Rick’s pronunciation of his character’s last name (it’s not “Dakota”) and generally playing the eight-year-old dominatrix to a tee (though, as an “actor”, she would object to the feminine suffix), asks him what his book is about, and Rick launches into an extended précis: see, there’s this guy, he used to be just the coolest, toughest bronco buster around, but now, well, he’s getting’ old, his back ain’t so good no more, and every day he gets up knowin’ that, every day, he’s less of a man.

Rick tears up/chokes up as he’s delivering this thumbnail—because it’s his fucking story, get it? Maribella, as conveniently obtuse now as she was prescient before, misses the subtext. “It sounds like a really good story!” she exclaims, thinking he’s moved purely by the power of art. “In 15 years you’ll be livin’ it!” Rick gasps, and fortunately she doesn’t get this one either. And so she comforts him, not knowing just how very much he needs her solace. It’s sort of ironic when you think about it. But, you know, touching!

Somewhere about this time we cut to Sharon, who’s finally in motion in a spiffy new Porsche, heading to, where else, a book store! To get a first edition of Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles as a gift for Roman!15 Which may be true, or may be the biggest whopper in the movie. Anyway, who would figure Tarantino for a “reader”? Not me!

Once Sharon gets her book, she spots a movie theater showing The Wrecking Crew, one of the “Matt Helms” sixties flicks ripping off James Bond, starring the very tongue in cheek, and semi-over-the-hill Dean Martin, but co-starring, yes, Sharon Tate!16 When she’s inside we see clips of the real film featuring Sharon, first a meet cute with Matt/Dean that features clumsy Sharon falling on her ass and showing us her panties, and later a fight scene between good Sharon and evil Nancy Kwan, with Nancy falling on her ass and showing us her panties! Take that, Asian bitch!

Well, it’s always good to see chicks’ panties, but Sharon’s repeated piano key smiles as the audience conveniently laughs and cheers her on get a little self-congratulatory for my ass. Sharon is clearly depicted as the “new Marilyn,” speaking in the same breathy, little girl voice, utterly stunning and cool, yet innocent and sweet, a combination not often found in the real world.

Rick, meanwhile, is having his second serious sitdown, this time with the budding star of Lancer, Timothy Olyphant as “James Stacy” as gunfighter “Johnny Madrid”, Since James Stacy is supposed to be the new kid on the way up, he might be expected to look younger than Rick, and thus intimidating. In fact, Olyphant is six years older than Leo and pretty much looks it, and Stacy treats Rick with surprising respect. (Surprising to me, at least. Aren’t young actors supposed to be assholes?) But the real point of this is for Jim to ask Rick if it’s true that he was once up for Steve McQueen’s role in The Great Escape, the film that made Steve a star?17

Rick modestly denies the story, or at least strongly soft-pedals it. Me in Steve’s big part? No, not really. Brief possibility, that’s all. Very brief. But then we see, more or less, “Rick’s dream”—clips from the real Great Escape with Leo/Rick visually dubbed in to replace Steve. It could have been him. He could have had Steve’s career. Bullitt? The Thomas Crown Affair? It could have been him. It could have been him. He coulda had class. He coulda been a contendah.18

The thing is, Rick has never been presented to us this way. He’s been the big, strong, good-looking boy with the big, strong shoulders, who could get on and off a horse without falling on his ass, and that’s it. Rick is the kind of pretty boy who cruises through life as long as everything comes easy and then crashes in middle age, like Erik Estrada, not the relentless egomaniacal striver who never takes no for an answer no matter how many times he gets it, like William Shatner.

In the meantime, finally, Cliff makes actual contact with one of the hippie chicks, the cute ‘n wanton Pussycat (Margaret Qualley), swinging her tight little butt around like she owns the world. The thing is, she probably does.19 He agrees to give her a lift, but won’t let her give him a blowjob, “explaining” that he doesn’t want to go to jail, although we can tell that the real reason is that he’s a gentlemen. Cliff has the definite vibe of the old-fashioned B-movie cowboy hero that I grew up watching on tv, utterly chaste and emotionally devoted only to his horse (Cliff has Brandy, of course), too complete in himself to even consider sharing his essence with anything as, well, as common, as a woman.

Cliff gets a jolt when he learns that Pussycat is living at the “Spahn movie ranch”, where Cliff and Rick used to film Bounty Law. He explains to her that he used to be a stunt man there, allowing her to explain to us that stunt men are the real heroes, because what they do is real, they aren’t phonies like actors. Just in case we couldn’t figure that part out for ourselves.

Well, back to Rick now, I think, and get to see an actual chunk of Lancer, filmed far more extravagantly, and elegantly, than any tv western would have been, yet with a pretty much standard script, though with some pretty spectacular behind the back shooting from Johnny Madrid, putting an uppity “businessman” in his place. Better stick to your ledgers, pencilneck!

The bit rumbles on, with plenty of moody, “intense” attitude from Rick, a seen it all, done it all, existential cowpoke who might remind some us of another Rick, the one who ran Rick's Café Américain down Casablanca way. But midway through the scene he starts blowing his lines and ends up stalking back to his trailer (but would he really have one?) to explode at himself in a predicable yet enjoyable scene. You goddamned asshole! You’re going to quit drinking, you hear me, you goddamned alcoholic! God damn it!

Well, back to Cliff, I think, in what is easily the most impressive section of the film, the visit to the Spahn ranch to see Charlie’s angels. The girls are beautifully creepy, staring at the intruder like so many marmosets, Dakota Fanning particularly memorable as ruthless boss lady Squeaky Fromme, who in real life was not involved directly in any of the murders but became notorious as the “spokeswoman” for the Manson family during his trial, and more notorious several years later when she tried to assassinate President Ford.

Squeaky sends a girl to fetch “Tex”, Charles Watson, played by Austin Butler, who played the lead role in the Sharon Tate murders, to check out the new guy. Tex arrives on horseback, suitably enough, and, in some serious dick measuring, Cliff reminisces about his visit to Houston, where he spent two weeks on a chain gang. “That was the last time I broke a policeman’s jaw, I can tell you that!” Although I expect that if you broke a policeman’s jaw in Houston, Texas back in the fifties you probably wouldn’t live to talk about it.

Pussycat really digs guys who break cops’ jaws, and it must sound good to Tex as well, so he rides off, getting back to his job as guide for dudes who want to visit the mountains. But once he’s gone, Cliff starts to get a little pushy. Is old George Spahn still around? Sure would like to visit old George and see how he’s doing. The girls all tell him no, clearly infuriated by his decision to penetrate beneath the surface of their groupthink. Word gets back to Squeaky, holed up in what Cliff knows is George’s old house, so she sends all the girls away and tries to face down Cliff, but he faces her down instead and finally has a thoroughly creepy conversation with old George (Bruce Dern), blind and helpless and utterly dependent on the girls.

Cliff, utterly frustrated by George’s utter dependence—he can’t be “saved” because he doesn’t want to be—strides out to meet the glaring, feral eyes of the assembled family. As he passes, Pussycat leaps onto the hood of a car and screams “George isn’t blind! You’re the one who’s blind!”

Cliff keeps on walking, only to find out that Rick’s Caddy has a flat, thanks to a giggly, half-naked Jesus clone with hillbilly teeth. Definitely time to kick some goddamn hippie ass! Something Tarantino clearly digs almost as much as smelling chick’s feet.

Cliff grabs the punk by the hair and pummels him half to death. That’ll teach you! Now fix the goddamn flat! “Gypsy” (Lena Dunham) sends one of the girls off on a horse to get Tex—something she might have thought of earlier—and Tex comes riding up in an excellent display of horsemanship, that is as gratuitous as the beatdown Cliff gives the Jesus dude,20 because by the time he gets back Cliff is gone.

Finally (I guess), we cut back to Rick, headed back on the set for one last shot at redemption. Spaghetti western “bullfighter/showdown” music blares operatically on the soundtrack, as Rick walks through the soundstage for the final showdown, the one between Rick Dalton and ... Rick Dalton! Can he cut it, or is he history?

In Rick’s big scene, he’s kidnapped Maribella, holding her on his lap with his six-shooter pointed at her head while he holds forth in a swaggering conversation with “Scott Lancer” (Luke Perry in his last role, as the actor Wayne Maunder). Since Rick/Caleb clearly has the upper hand, fancy-pants Scott (he apparently went to Harvard) can do nothing other than listen to Caleb’s trash talk, which Caleb concludes by throwing Maribella violently to the floor in a display of his ruthlessness. Cut! Cut! Rick made it all the way through the scene! In flying colors!

“I didn’t hurt you, did I, darlin’?” Rick asks.

“I’m fine,” Maribella reassures him, popping up to show him her arm. “See, I have padding!”

Sam Wanamaker (Sam the director) rushes up.

“Rick, you were fabulous! Exactly what I wanted! Evil, sexy Hamlet!”

Rick sits there, a little stunned by the outpouring of passion he’s achieved.

“Rick, Rick, your adlibs were amazing! ‘Beaner bronco-buster’?21 Why, that’s triple alliteration! And throwing the little girl on the floor! Beautiful!”

Yeah, but, uh, if the toss was an adlib, why was Maribella wearing padding?22 Anyway, tossing an eight-year-old around like a ping-pong ball as an adlib sounds a little dubious to me. Good thing her parents weren’t around!

But Tarantino isn’t done gilding the lily. Trudi/Maribella, whose dedication to her craft makes Stanislavski look like a slacker, tells him “that’s the best acting I’ve ever seen!”

Which is all a little silly, because no one, but no one has ever suggested that he had any real talent as an actor, and he’s never expressed any interest in his “craft”, other than not looking like an asshole and not losing his paycheck. But Tarantino somehow can’t resist violating Rick’s real character in order to make him look heroic, a goddamn Laurence Olivier in chaps!

After all this, we have a grotesquely awkward “transition”, narrated by Kurt Russell, about Rick and Cliff’s excellent Italian adventure, which one can very easily believe was originally intended to take up a good chunk of the film, probably extending its running time to something close to three and half hours, but, for whatever reason, that doesn’t happen. Instead, we get a few cutesy movie posters, and a few little anti-PC snickers directed at American Indians, who seem to rub Quentin the wrong way for whatever reason, and also Rick gets married to this Italian broad, who snores a lot, just like Sharon. As for “acting”—evil, sexy Hamlet and all that—well, Quentin seems to have forgotten all about it, and Rick is back in character as the self-indulgent bad boy who loafs through life, traveling first class thanks to his broad shoulders and pretty face, while devoted Cliff sits in coach and chugs Bloody Marys, because, it seems, Rick’s cutting him loose. Can’t afford a wife and a bottom at the same time!

Once Rick and “Francesca” (Lorenza Izzo) are installed in Rick’s old place, Russell continues his tiresome narration, setting up that fateful night when all four story lines will coincide. Rick and Cliff head out for one last celebratory drunk and then head back, Russell constantly stressing to us, for some reason, that Rick and Cliff are like totally blind, stinking drunk, even though they don’t really act that way. Francesca’s already in bed (she stayed home, naturally), Rick’s mixing margheritas, and Cliff’s taking Brandy for a walk. S/He’s there, for some reason (really, of course, for plot reasons). Cliff decides he’ll smoke this LSD-soaked cigarette that Pussycat sold him, even though, the web informs me, “smoking” LSD destroys its hallucinogenic power (because the heat causes it to break down chemically).

While Cliff’s gone, Tex and three of the Manson girls—Susan Atkins (Mikey Madison), Patricia Krenwinkle (Madisen Beaty), and Linda Kasabian (Maya Hawke)—arrive to do the Polanski household in, pulling up in a noisy, busted muffler car. Rick stumbles out with his carafe full of margheritas to tell those goddamn hippies to get off his goddamn private drive and smoke their goddamn pot someplace else. Tex, apparently not wanting to have to kill this guy, backs the car down the drive, while Rick takes his margheritas out to one of his favorite retreats, the chair floating in his kidney-shaped pool.

The hippies reconnoiter. “You know who that was? Rick Dalton!” “Rick Dalton? Rick fucking Dalton?” “Rick Fucking Dalton!” “Fuck! You know what? Guys like that, they taught us to murder. I say, let’s murder the murderers!”

As it turns out, Kasabian bails, driving away in the car,23 but Tex, with a six-shooter shoved in his pants, and Patricia and Susan, armed with knives, head up the drive.

Cliff, by this time, is back inside the house, fixing Brandy dinner when the kids show up. After some cutesy, high on LSD antics, the action finally starts, Tex pointing his six-shooter at Cliff’s head. Brandy, flying through the air, disarms him and then fixes her teeth in his balls while Cliff brains Atkins with a can of Wolf’s Tooth. Krenwinkle stabs Cliff in the thigh, causing him to grab her by the hair and smash her face into a variety of unyielding surfaces, which starts to look a little sadistic on Tarantino’s part after the third or fourth smash. Somewhere along the line Brandy switches from Tex to Atkins, dragging her around the room like the shark in the beginning of Jaws. Tex stumbles to his feet and tries to stab Cliff, but gets stabbed instead, then gets knocked down and then (I think) Cliff breaks his neck. But then Atkins gets hold of Tex’s gun and shoots Cliff, causing him to fall over as though he were dead. The girl staggers to her feet, her face covered in blood and screaming like a maniac, and stumbles out to the pool, waving Tex’s gun and firing off a round or two, finally catching Rick’s attention. Guess what, headphones!

Atkins crashes into the pool, still firing the gun. Rick sobers up quickly and, finding his trusty flamethrower—you didn’t see that coming? Amateur!—roasts the bitch.

The police arrive to figure things out. Guess what? Cliff ain’t dead! Sounding awfully coherent for a guy who’s drunk, high on LSD, stabbed in the thigh, and shot, he tells Rick not to come to the hospital with him but tend to his lady. Because greater love hath no bottom than to give up his life, not for his top, but for his top’s lady!

“You’re a good friend, Cliff,” Rick tells him.

“I try,” says Cliff.

Hey! Didn’t we hear that line before?

But the good news isn’t over yet! Jay Sebring (Emile Hirsch), one of Sharon’s houseguests, hears the commotion and asks Rick what’s happening. Rick fills him in and, one way or another, Sharon hears their conversation and calls down on the intercom to invite Rick up for a drink. And so the gates to the magic kingdom—the magic kingdom of A-listers and Playboy Mansion attenders—open for Rick. Let the pool parties begin!

Afterwords I Movie Violence

When I first heard that Tarantino was making a movie about “old” Hollywood starring Leo and Brad I was intrigued. When I learned that Leo would be living next door to Sharon Tate, not so much. I hated Tarantino’s chef d'œuvre Pulp Fiction, and I detested Kill Bill Volume I, and one thing I did not want to see was Tarantino’s take on the Tate/Manson murders. When I learned that Quentin was rewriting history—in tune, really, with my own squeamish predilections—I thought I would take a chance. In any event, there are lots of violent films that I do like, including Bonnie & Clyde and Terminator 2. What’s the difference between “good violence” and “bad violence” other than the eye of the beholder?

Well, not much, obviously. The “sword blade through the milk carton and the mouth and out the back of the head” shot from Terminator 2 is “classic”,24 but you wouldn’t like it if someone did that to you, would you?

Much of the violence in Once Upon A Time is gratuitous in that it’s clearly wish fulfillment on Tarantino’s part, but there’s little that I found outright sadistic, which is what I really object to. It’s notably less sadistic than the coming features that I saw advertised with the film—It Chapter 2, Hide and Seek, and Joker. Obviously, audiences like sadistic.

Afterwords II Helter Skelter Despite the “massive” sixties soundtrack, in one sense the silence is deafening, because there is, unsurprisingly, nothing from the “White Album”. Like several million other people, Charles Manson thought the Beatles recorded this famous double album just for him, and that every song had a particular meaning. “Helter Skelter” (in Great Britain, an amusement park ride) was for Manson the signal for the start of a race war in America, which would some how allow him to seize power, in some manner. The Tate murders were intended, more or less, to provoke that war because the police were intended to believe that black revolutionaries had committed them. Vincent Bugliosi, the district attorney who prosecuted Manson and the others, wrote a book, with Curt Gentry, Helter Skelter, about the case, which was later turned into a television mini-series.

Esmé was thirteen. Making “Trudi Fraser” eight seems really a stretch to me. ↩︎

Did Tarantino invent “fake” sixties tunes as well? Not impossible, but it seems unlikely. ↩︎

Word can spell “Sestero” but not “Wiseau”? Tommy won’t like that! Greg’s book, The Disaster Artist, which he co-wrote with Tom Bissell, revealed to the world the bizarre backstory behind Wiseau’s cult classic di tutti cult classics, The Room, and is definitely superior to Franco’s film, which derives half its considerable charm by simply recreating classic scenes from Wiseau’s ineffable creation. ↩︎

Dunno if Tarantino just wanted the car to sound cool or if he was parodying this frequent device as used by other directors. Anyone who knows anything about cars knows that tiny, underpowered English sports cars do not sound like this. As dubious car enthusiast Mort Sahl put it, “MGs are great if you don’t mind being blown off by housewives in Plymouth station wagons.” Jews are into cars? ↩︎

Marvin says “kinescope” rather than “tape” because consumer videotape machines didn’t exist in 1969. The networks used tape, but Marvin would have needed a film version, a “kinescope”, which is what the networks used before the development of videotape, to view using a projector. *Once Upon A Time” is filled with anachronisms, but film buff Tarantino gets this one right. However, the “Hullabaloo” clip is filmed in wide-screen, which of course is totally inaccurate. Leo’s performance looks as though it were based on the persona of fifties super-square Pat Boone. ↩︎ ↩︎

I have no grasp of LA geography, so I have no idea of where Rick and Cliff are. ↩︎

The Karmann Ghia was simply an Italian-bodied Volkswagen bug. If Cliff had the “big” engine (presumably, he did), he could hit 90. If not, 75 was probably the top. ↩︎

Brad addresses Brandy as “man” in this scene even though the actual dog, "Sayuri", is a female and is referred to as such in the final scenes. ↩︎

A place like Rick’s would of course require constant upkeep to avoid turning into a mess, but, as is so often the case in film, the place somehow cleans itself. ↩︎

Jay Leno described his one Mansion visit as “a lot of middle-aged men hitting on a lot of young women.” ↩︎

Cass Elliot grew up in Alexandria, Virginia, which is next to Falls Church, where I grew up. On the M&Ps’ cover of the Martha and the Vandellas hit “Dancin’ in the Street”, the M&Ps fade out the song with the list of the cities where they’re, you know, dancing in the street—“Baltimore and DC now”—with the following barely audible dialogue: “Alexandria?” “In Virginia, Virginia.” “Falls Church?” “Never heard of it.” Both are suburbs of Washington, DC. Falls Church is supposedly the setting for at least two tv shows, JAG and The Americans. ↩︎

Three of their songs are heard on the soundtrack, though they only sing one of them—“Twelve Thirty”. Both “Twelve Thirty” and “Straight Shooter” are explicitly about heroin addiction, while the third and most famous, “California Dreamin’”, strongly hints at it. The sheet music for “Straight Shooter” was found on a piano at the scene of the actual Manson/Tate murders. ↩︎

“Stella shits!” exclaimed Jonathan Swift regarding Esther Johnson, his life-long obsessive love, whom he first met when she was eight. Quentin seems to hate women yet want to smell their feet. ↩︎

In an interview, Tarantino has “explained” that in “real life” Cliff would kick Bruce Lee’s ass because war hero Cliff was a Green Beret. Since Cliff, like Rick, is supposed to be pushing 40, he would have to have been a “war hero” in Korea. Combat operations in Korea ended with the 1954 armistice. Special forces troops never wore the green beret until 1955, and it was almost immediately discontinued until revived in 1961. They received enormous publicity in the sixties. I don’t know why they’ve been supplanted by the Seals as the ultimate bad asses. ↩︎

Anyone who likes books likes first editions, but I very much dislike the use of first editions as a way to make books expensive status symbols. Go Kindle! (And, in any event, if I had a copy of a 90-year-old first edition, I wouldn’t carry it unprotected in my sweaty little hand, as Sharon does.) ↩︎

I rented one of Matt’s/Dean’s films for some purpose—I can’t remember why—and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t The Wrecking Crew, but it was so slow-paced and boring that I couldn’t watch it, il Dino wandering around like he’d had more whiskey sours than Rick Dalton. ↩︎

McQueen started out in tv as the star of Wanted Dead or Alive, the very obvious “inspiration” for Bounty Law. McQueen, a very big star in 1969, thanks to Bullit and Crown Affair, which were in fact his only two films to be remembered, was supposedly “targeted” by Manson as part of his plan to cause the U.S. to erupt in a race war. Which may be why he’s such a presence in this film. Or not. ↩︎

“Instead of a bum, which is what I am”—Marlon Brando’s lines from On the Waterfront, once among the most quoted in American film, bitterly complaining to his brother, played by Rod Steiger, that his career as a boxer was ruined when he was forced, by his brother, to throw a fight. ↩︎

Qualley, who has had extensive ballet training, is probably the best dancer in the whole film. ↩︎

It would also likely leave the horse exhausted for the rest of the day. Horse races only last a mile or so because horses can’t gallop for much longer than that. ↩︎

Not exactly that, probably, anyway, three “b’s”. ↩︎

Also, the camera backs up to keep Maribella in the shot, which it wouldn’t have done if Cliff’s action had been an adlib. ↩︎

In “real life”, Kasabian did not drive away but remained behind as a lookout. Kasabian was involved—always as a bystander, she claimed—in many of the murders committed by Manson and his followers, but was able to avoid prison time by serving as the key witness against the others. ↩︎

“God damn it! How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t drink out of the carton?” It’s “nice” that the T-1000 stays in character as the past her limit housewife as “she” pulls her blade/hand from the dumb shit’s head. ↩︎

#quentin tarantino #Once Upon a Time in Hollywood #Leo DiCaprio #Brad Pitt #movies

0 notes