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nothereforyou · 3 years

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Long Story Short, I Survived

Did someone order some angsty Steve x reader that turns into Bucky x reader?

The first morning without Steve beside you, after five years of having him next to you, is like being doused with cold water. One moment you’d been blissfully asleep, warm under the duvet that still smelled of him, and the next--well, reality could be colder than any river of ice. He’d chosen her, chosen to go back to where he was really from. Maybe he was never yours to begin with, maybe you were living on borrowed time, safe in his arms.

Life restarts slowly without him. At first, it’s not much more than eating, sleeping, and doing what you need to survive. Surviving is...you don’t have words for what surviving is after. Steve is still around, hovering outside the apartment you’d once inhabited together. He drinks coffee in the café across from the building, lets himself in once or twice a week to make sure you’re alive and the place hasn’t completely gone to seed. You scream at him the first time, scream we were happy!, insist he should’ve stayed. The bastard ignores you.

Steve keeps cleaning, you keep surviving.

Before long, you can get out of bed. You clean your own damn apartment, but Steve still comes. He sits on the couch you picked out together, looking irritatingly good and unfazed. He looks like an old man but you still ache for him. Your Steve, your handsome Steve who had fucked you on every surface in this apartment, looked like a grandpa you should be taking for a walk in the park. He’s still your Steve, deep down. He’s still the only man who’s ever made you cum and who made you laugh over brunch and who slipped a ring onto your finger and promised---

Was he ever yours to began with?

You can’t leave the apartment, the entrance of the building is so packed with reporters there’s barely room to get through the doors. You hadn’t realized the love of your life leaving you would include reporters, vying for the story of why Captain America left his wife. You wish they’d get the story and let you know why.

You’d been married less than six months when it all went down. A quickie wedding in a chapel that was somehow still open. You kept the photos on the coffee table and didn’t think too hard about what that meant.

Sam comes, takes you to get coffee. He talks about everything and anything, just not Steve, not the one thing you desperately want to talk about. It’s good to see Sam, to see someone who really knew Steve. He tells you about spending time with his sister, Sarah and her sons. You make it through the afternoon without crying, which is an improvement. As he leaves, he gives you a look that can only be described as pitiful. It makes you want to scream and rip apart one of the throw pillows, to scream from the roof tops that you’re okay and it’s not even that big of a deal that he just left, you’re fine, and for the love of fucking G-d, stop talking about it.

They don’t stop talking about it. You keep surviving.

Bucky coming to visit is a shock. You’d met him once or twice before he was dusted and you’d heard about him during the five years he was missing, but you weren’t friends. He stands in the doorway and stares at you, looking like he wants to turn and run. You stare right back at him, waiting for him to make the first move. You both stand there, staring at each other. After what feels like forever, Bucky wordlessly takes a seat at your kitchen table and stays.

It’s nice to have another person in that lonely apartment. Bucky sleeps on the floor in the living room, comes and goes as he pleases. But he’s there and it’s a stability you didn’t know you were missing. After a few weeks, you start going for walks through the neighborhood. The reporters have left, something else has caught their attention for long enough that they’ve left you alone. (Nobody seemed to be bothering Steve, then again, they probably didn’t know what he looked like. According to the general public, he’s on the moon.) It’s nice to get some fresh air and it’s nice to come home to someone besides the plants. You don’t talk, more often than not, you come home and Bucky’s sitting at the table, eating cold beans. But he’s there and it’s nice.

Steve stops coming and you both mourn. Bucky mourns for an almost what could have been and you mourn for the husband you spent all of six months with. It’s during this mourning when you two really find each other. It starts small, you bring Bucky a cup of coffee in the morning and he grunts his thanks. Bucky cooks breakfast before you leave for work at the bookstore down the street. It’s nice, reminiscent of when Steve was there.

Then Sam gives away the shield.

You’re having a movie night when the news about John Walker comes out. In the six months that he’d lived with you, you’d never seen him so angry. Bucky is seething with anger. He gets up and paces, muttering unflattering comments about Sam.

“Bucky? Is...this...did he…?” Your voice stops him. You sound so small and fragile. You’d seemed so solid and okay that he forgets you’re not. He forgot that your husband left you and your world crumpled right in front of you. And suddenly, he’s angry again, but not at Sam--that’s for another day--he’s angry at Steve in a way he hasn’t been before. How could he leave you? Beautiful you, who’s good, and makes coffee in the mornings, and smells like roses, and would probably look so pretty spread out underneath him. (That last thought is also for another day, when he can afford to think about what it means that he wants you spread out under him.)

And shit, you’re crying.

Bucky stands there in a panic when you start crying. It’s fucking stupid you’re crying, it doesn’t matter who has the shield, it’s not going to bring Steve back into your life, not in the way that matters. But it had felt like things were going to be okay when you knew that it was Sam who was going to get the shield and the title. Sam, who’s good and kind and who won’t let it corrupt him. This John Walker motherfucker is an unknown. He’s not Steve and he’s not Sam and he looks like the world has never told him no. What’s he going to do with all the power?

Bucky pulls you into his chest, lets your angry tears soak into his shirt. He awkwardly pats your back and pets your hair. Once the tears have dried, it makes you giggle how uncomfortable he is with comforting someone. Bucky smiles down at you, a heart breaking smile that’s too much like Steve’s but also not enough like Steve’s and makes your stomach flip a little, which makes you start crying all over again. After 20 minutes of crying and awkward patting, Bucky scoops you up and carries you to your bed. He lays with you all night, letting you cry and then holding you while you sleep.

It’s his first night in a bed (his first night with a woman, his brain helpfully adds) in...he doesn’t know how long. The thought makes him flee like the coward he is.

You wake up and Bucky’s gone. There’s a note on the table, says he went to ask Sam what this is all about. A knock interrupts your breakfast preparations. “Buck, you don’t have to--” It’s not Bucky, it’s three men in suits, and one John Walker, bearing flowers. You almost punch him, scream that he’s not Captain America and never will be. John thrusts the flowers at you and marches into the apartment as if he owns it. Before you can toss him out on his ass, one of the suits is explaining they have a plan for you and, unless you want them to recall certain activities you’d been apart of. Activities that would make you a war criminal. Activities that would send you to prison for decades.

So you, Captain America’s (ex?)wife, publicly become John Walker’s strongest supporter and girlfriend. The official story is that you’d met during the interviews (if there were interviews for the new Captain America, they hadn’t included you in them), and fallen in love at first sight. You were taking it slow, out of respect for your husband who was still out there somewhere (the moon, maybe?), but you were very much madly in love. Bucky and Sam come home from...wherever they’d been and find you cuddled up to their enemy. Every time John smiles and calls you kitten, every time you have to kiss him, you want to punch him in that stupid face of his.

The police station is a fucking mess. Bucky’s been arrested, the police are being racist and fucking with Sam, and to top it all off, John’s the one who frees Bucky. You’ve known Bucky long enough to know how much this pisses him off and then he spots you and his jaw clenches even harder. You have to hold yourself back from running over to him and explaining what happened. You desperately want to tell him that it’s not what it looks like, that you’re not wearing a stupid, flimsy sundress that brings out John’s eyes because you want to, someone dressed you and this is so you don’t go to prison. A quiet voice reminds you that maybe going to prison for a long time would be worth it if you never had to see that look on his face again. Words are exchanged, Bucky and Sam walk off, John warns them to “stay the hell out of his way”, which doesn’t sound as cool as he thinks it does.

You go home, home to the apartment where Bucky is. He’s at the kitchen table, eating cold beans again. There’s a bag by his feet (when had he collected enough things to have a bag?) and you realize he’s leaving. He’s so mad about Walker that he’s leaving, like Steve did.

“Don’t leave.” Your voice is small in the quiet, dim apartment. “Just...stay. Even if you don’t talk to me, just don’t leave.” “I’m going to talk to Zemo. You stay here with Walker.” Before you can think, before you really consider what it means if you do this, you surge forward and kiss him.

You stand in the kitchen, kissing for a few moments before Bucky pulls away. He stares down at you, looking wild and scared, before turning and walking out the door.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky and his beans are my otp #lemme know if you want me to turn this into something!!#this is the longest fic I've ever written #marvel x reader #fatws x reader #bucky x reader

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translations-by-aiimee · 3 years

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Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 12

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 12 - Roommate

Death is the loneliest thing. A deadly but lonely ghost, after hundreds of years of silence, waiting for someone to finally sense its presence.

How tragic yet oddly optimistic.

"It's ridiculous to accompany a ghost into death. Is there anyway to make him leave willingly?"

A-Yan laughed suddenly. He didn't know why that the indescribable smile was so strange that is made people's hair stand on end. He whispered, "What if I told you 'no'?"

Lin Yan was stunned. If he wouldn't leave, what would his life be like? He was being watched at all times, when he was sleeping, eating, going to class, driving, going to the bathroom, and even masturbating under a pair of watchful eyes. He checked the calendar every day, counting down the days until his death. He was scared he was going to go crazy in a few days. Lin Yan put the carved cat back on the table and silently sifted through his thoughts. If he had to, he might still go to that small temple.

How was he supposed to satisfy this ghost's wishes?

"I don't think ghosts are much different from people, but survival is human instinct. Everyone wants to live, right?" Lin Yan said helplessly.

"I understand." A-Yan replied softly.

"This wish is keeping the ghost from being reborn. Ghosts with unresolved wishes are unable to enter the cycle of reincarnation. Over time, the spirits become ghosts and nothing can be done about their wish. In fact, this ghost was just a poor man before his death. If they fulfill their wish during their lifetime, nothing will happen. If you can fulfill his wish, his hostility will naturally dissipate and he will reincarnate."

"The ghost's wish?"

A-Yan smiled weakly: "Yes. Some want revenge, some want retribution, some can't let go of their wives and children, everyone has a reason not to leave the world. I have seen so many ghosts, but this one following you has the deepest obsession I've ever seen."

As he spoke, a chilly breath came up, snaking up Lin Yan's ankle. His whole body felt like he had been submerged in icy water. Lin Yan shuddered. He didn't expect the ghost to appear during the day, although there wasn't much difference between day and night in this basement. Sitting opposite of him, A-Yan's face changed. He stared at something behind Lin Yan and drank in the monster standing there. He wanted to reach the peach wood sword on the cabinet. However, he was unfortunately a step too slower. The coldness turned into invisible brute force in an instant. It grabbed Lin Yan's wrist and dragged him up from the sofa. He staggered forward then he was dragged so hard by the ghost he almost didn't touch the ground. He was pulled through the living room and dragged harshly to the right into a back room. With a bang, the door slammed behind him, and the metal sound of the door locking rang through the darkness. Yin Zhou and A-Yan rushed after them and banged against the door desperately outside. Lin Yan reached for the lock with trembling hands, but there were no windows in the basement, and the room was completely dark when the door was closed. For a while, he couldn't find the door handle.

Unhappy with Lin Yan's resistance, the strange force grabbed his ankle and yanked him back. Lin Yan couldn't stay upright, and fell flat on his chin. He was dragged into the middle of the room by the hand firmly holding the ankle. His face was rubbed against the rough concrete floor, hot and painful.

"You're fucking crazy! This is someone else's house!" Lin Yan kicked his legs hard to get rid of the force entangled around his ankle. In a flash, a cold body was pressed up against his, and his long hair bushed against Lin Yan's neck. His lips fell across his face, his tongue licked back and forth on the wound on his chin, and finally he kissed his lips. It wasn't not so much a kiss as it was a bite, full of irritable emotions and strong desire to claim his territory. He ravaged his mouth; it was totally different from the obedient being that was in his car last night. His cry for help was blocked. Lin Yan could only shake his head and moan, his sensitive jaw stimulated by his touch. He wanted to curl up into a ball, but the ghost had him restrained from his thigh to his upper arm. Lin Yan turned his head in the direction of the door in despair. In the dark, he felt that he was no stronger than a leaf, forced to lie in a fire, crackling and roasting away, not being able to do anything.

Bang bang bang!

"Open the door! Lin Yan, are you okay!"

"Hah. . ." He didn't even have the strength to call out for help. His face was pulled back and the ghost continued to kiss him deeply and even intensified. It sucked on a small bit of his tongue and bit down. Lin Yan whimpered in pain, the smell of rust filling his mouth. The ghost sucked deeper as if he had been encouraged by something. It forced him to respond violently, like he was being hunted and chased all at once. All that echoed in his ears was the magnified ambiguous sound of water in the dark.

Bang bang! Bang bang!

"Say something!"

"Brother Lin Yan!"

During the stalemate, Lin Yan had cold sweat dripping off his forehead. He used his to knee to push against the ghost but it remained unmoved. After kissing Lin Yan all over, he turned his target to kiss against his earlobe. The wet sound and touch made Lin Yan tremble like he'd been shocked and he couldn't help getting goose bumps. Regardless of the time or place, the ghost's intrusions and being forced into submission made Lin Yan feel like he was on fire. He thought he was a patient man, but this thing was like a fucking wolf cub, always searching for warmth and touch. He couldn't help but kick out his legs and scolded fiercely: "Get away!"

"People and ghosts have different paths. It doesn't matter what you want, I can't accompany you in death as a living person!"

The ghost's movements stopped. Lin Yan could feel him shaking slightly, and the weight on his body slowly moved away. There was a long sigh in the darkness. The face of the ghost appeared in front of him, looking desperate to protect him and keep him close. Lin Yan couldn't bear it. He lowered his voice and said to the darkness in front of him: "Listen to me, it's time to go."

"I won't bother you, you don't bother me, we don't owe each other anything, what do you say?"

After no response, Lin Yan stretched out his hand and didn't touch anything.

Was it really gone? Lin Yan rolled over and sat up. He rubbed his back, sore from lying on the ground. The bloody smell lingered in his mouth. He stretched out the tip of his tongue and touched it with his fingers, sending a small shock of pain. At the same time, there was a strange knocking sound from the other side of the room, almost like knuckles knocking against an object like a water tank. There was a repeated muffled sound resounding with a buzzing echo: "Dang-dang, dang-dang. . ."

There was almost no light in the room. Lin Yan opened his eyes wide and still couldn't see anything.

"Is that you?"

"Clang clang clang. . ." The noise sounded anxiously. It seemed impatient and a little anxious.

". . . What are you trying to tell me?"

There was only another quiet knock in response. Lin Yan let out a sigh. He stood up and patted the dirt off his pants. He went to the door and pulled on the handle. The knocking sound stopped abruptly when the door opened, and the lights poured in. A-Yan and Yin Zhou stood there with a peach-wood sword and a yellow talisman coated with cinnabar, their faces drained of colour.

"Damn, I was scared to death. I thought you would be a pile of bones when we got the door open!" Yin Zhou grabbed the yellow talisman and waved it in front of him. A-Yan muttered something, and rushed a few steps into the room. Lin Yan followed him, glancing back.

"A-Yan, forget it." Lin Yan said softly, "He was no big deal. I'll think of another way."

A ghost who had been dead for hundreds of years still holds so much obsession and resentment for the world. Even after reciting the Buddhist scriptures 300,000 times or spending 7749 days in a Daoist temple could disperse it. What kind of goal can make people not find peace? Lin Yan slowly turned his car into congested traffic. At 5 o'clock in the afternoon, the whole street was filled with warm yellow light. The car smelled of fresh air from the air conditioner, the air freshener had been used up, the light green paste dried at the bottom of the bottle. He remembered that when this bottle was first bought, Weiwei was sitting in the passenger seat. She had straightened her legs, unscrewed the lid and plugged the fragrance bottle under Lin Yan’s nose. She smiled and said that he seemed like the type of person to like the smell of mint.

"What the hell are you doing?" Lin Yan glanced at the empty passenger seat and couldn't help sighing.

He hasn't thought of Weiwei in such a long time.

More than half a year ago, there was a clean girl sitting in the same position, with short hair scattered, her voice sounding like beans hitting against a plate as each word rang out. She still kept her slippers and coral velvet nightgown at home, and the bodhi beads and ring that Lin Yan bought for her were carefully packed in a box, but she didn't take them with her. Lin Yan remembered returning that night. When she walked in, Weiwei stood quietly in the living room, lightly kissed Lin Yan's forehead, and went out after saying goodbye. Lin Yan chased her downstairs and stopped in front of her to ask her what went wrong. Weiwei put her hand in her jeans pocket and smiled freely. She said that he did nothing wrong, he just never truly loved her.

She thought it was insulting to look at her only as a suitable option for a marriage partner. She took off the ring and returned it to Lin Yan. In the night, her face resembled a gardenia blossom that had just bloomed. Her tone was very soft. Lin Yan, you are a good boy. One day you will find someone that you can't resist no matter what the conditions are. Then you'll understand.

The night wind ruffled her coat like a sail, and Lin Yan stood by the flower bed and watched her walk away, and finally did not chase her. In fact, he always knew that Weiwei had just been a safe choice for him. He lacked companionship, and that Weiwei was just right, nothing more.

He had his own secret pain, which he buried carefully for many years.

It was dinner by the time he made it home, the sky turned dark. He didn't know which family was cooking sweet and sour pork ribs, but the delicious sauce aroma was enough to make him drool. Lin Yan parked the car in the garage of the complex and took out a shopping bag from his back seat that was stuffed to the brim. A stack of talisman paper painted with bright red text on the dashboard was particularly eye-catching. Lin Yan stared at it for a while and folded it into his pocket. He shook his head and closed the car door.

He has tried his best to avoid mentioning the ghost's sexual obsession and desires, but he felt that A-Yan was still aware of it. When he left, the little Daoist have him the pile of yellow paper, He stuttered that burning it to ashes and flushing them away with water could prevent evil from getting close, and stick one to the door to keep the house safe. Each one could last about a day. Lin Yan took out a box of instant mushroom chicken rice from the shopping bag, made a few holes in the plastic film and threw it into the microwave. When the rice was cooked, he took out the charms and looked through them. The cinnabar was scribbled into some incomprehensible text. The blood stains dried into small brown spots from when A-Yan bit his tongue and sprayed on them.

Flick. The flame of the lighter rose.

The eerie chill in the room visibly moved, as if reluctantly took a couple steps back.

Lin Yan suddenly hesitated when the corner of the charm was about to reach the flames and send away a ghost who was beyond loneliness. He raised his head and looked at the direction of the cold spot. After a moment, he asked softly, "Are you there?"

The thing got closer, and the cold feeling grew again. Lin Yan knew that this was a sign of his anger. At this point, if he showed even a little resistance, the ghost would pounce on his body ruthlessly, as if it were mad.

"You have nowhere else to go except to follow me. If I don't use this, then you won't touch me, will you?"

Lin Yan put the lighter aside and spread his hands in the direction where the cold spot was.

There was a crisp ding from the microwave. The chicken and mushroom rice was cooked, and the tempting aroma of the food made Lin Yan feel like he was worlds away. It felt like he hadn't had a good meal for a long time. He turned on the kitchen faucet and soaked each of the talismans in the sink. Lin Yan picked them up and crumpled them into a trash can. The cinnabar was wet and it ran off of each of them like blood stains.

The thin cold air had shifted closer. Lin Yan was a little nervous, and subconsciously gulped. He didn't know if there was any use in negotiating with ghosts, and he was even more worried that showing weakness would give the other more opportunities to attack. The icy hands caught Lin Yan's wrists, and his soft lips pressed on his forehead. Lin Yan froze for a moment, and when he was about to retreat, the coldness retreated first, floating away but staying nearby.

For dinner, Lin Yan took two cups from the cabinet and poured some juice. He also put two pairs of chopsticks in the rice bowl. There was a hollow ceramic antique lamp hanging above the dining table. The warm light was projected from the carved flowers on the porcelain wall. The whole room was shrouded in a quiet atmosphere. Lin Yan picked up the cup and raised it to the empty chair opposite of him. He reluctantly smiled, and said softly: "You'll let me live for three more months, right?"

"Cheers then, for being roommates for three months."

Lin Yan felt that it was almost worse to laugh than cry in this situation. For so many years, there has been something more terrifying to him than the threat of ghosts. It was hidden for too long and too deep, and when he had almost forgotten it, it was dug out again. Lin Yan didn't want to admit it. He was also ashamed to admit that he was shuddering to an erection because a man sucked and kissed on his earlobe. It felt like a worm had crawled in his heart, and every twitch made it itchy and unbearable. He finally broke down halfway through the meal, put down his chopsticks and rushed into the bathroom without closing the door. He knew that closing the door would not even leave him a shred of dignity. For the first time in the ambiguous darkness, he indulged himself between his hips. The stiffness of his legs made him crazy. Lin Yan leaned on the wall and groaned, his face flushed, and the tip of his nose was wet with fine sweat. He panted and stroked his front end to comfort him.

For once, the shadow in the mirror did not approach. He just stood not far away and watched Lin Yan go from hesitation to struggle and finally abandoning himself. When he climaxed, he slid along the wall and sat on the ground, looking at the person in the mirror helplessly. He let out a loud whimper.

Why do you have to force me to do this?

You let me go.

Who hasn't done a dirty act behind closed doors and walked out pretending everything was normal? Leave the ugliest side of you to me, give me your darkest desires, hold me tightly at your most miserable moments, even if you die, let your soul belong to me, and neither time nor fate can separate us from now on.

Lin Yan took out more things from the shopping bag; rice paper, inkstones, stone ball, ink ingots, writing brush. He spread a piece of soft felt onto the table, cut the rice paper into two pieces and flattened it with the ball. The hot water melted the soft glue of the wolf hair pen tip, and the wetted tip brushed against the inkstone. There was only a table lamp in the room, and everything seemed otherworldly in the dim light, as if everything had changed through a milky white veil. The carved frame, the sandalwood case, the lake gauze tent embroidered with butterflies and flowers, and the white-clothed man listened to the wind by the window, grasping a lake pen, with a copy of "Taiping Guang Ji" in hand. The yellowed pages of the book turned and rustled when the wind blew, the story mostly false with a little truth; gods and monsters are obsessed, but they can't write about the love of the world like humans can.

"Do you remember your name from when you were alive?"

The brush actually stood up in the air under the dark shadow of the lamp. It seemed to think for a while. A drop of ink fell on the paper and turned into an irregular round spot, and a faint water mark was drawn from the edge.

It was nice and clear calligraphy.

Xiao Yu.

"Your unresolved wish. . . What is it?"

The tip of the pen hung on the paper but there was no more writing that came.

For the first time since the strange incidents began, Lin Yan had a good night's sleep and had no dreams all night.

#dig a grave to dig out a ghost #dig a grave to dig out a ghost translation #chinese novel #chinese bl #english translation #yaoi novel

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zeldasayer · 4 years

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Loving Din X - Thunder Only Happens When It’s Raining

Pairing: Mandalorian/Din Djarin x Reader

Summary: Finally reunited with your love Din and your sweet green bean Baby, life on the island isn’t what you were expecting.

*Whilemina & Stark are your parents

Warnings: ANGST, lengthy depictions of depression/hopelessness

“Listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness

Like a heartbeat drives you mad

In the stillness of remembering what you had

And what you lost”

The wind tries to push the door open with more force than you expected and you catch it before it slams into the wall, heart racing as the sound would have probably made you fall a part. You pull the door closed behind you and press your back against it. The wind whipping your hair behind you as tears fill your closed eyes and your mind tries to drown in the sound of the crashing waves, the whirling wind. Anything. You want to drown in anything.

The wind is warm and it hugs you in your loneliness and you wish you could make yourself move. To run as far away as your feet will take you. Until they are raw and red with blood, and you’ve forgotten your name. But you’re gripping the door to the bungalow as if it is the only thing keeping you from falling off the edge of the universe.

You were once overjoyed with the thought of being reunited with Din & Baby. To live together again, in the warmth and sunshine. You wanted to revel in the fact the Din’s hair has gone curly from the humidity. That Baby has to be fashioned tiny shorts to keep up with the heat. You wanted to stare longingly from the beach as Din rushes to the shore after Baby, scooping him up before his tiny toes touch the water, and hearing Din pant, “How do you get down here so fast? Where do you think you’re going to swim to?”

Instead you are plagued with insomnia. Laying silently next to Din as the weight of the room suffocates you every night. The sound of waves crashing, that you thought to be so soothing, sounds like an airspeeder crash that you cant stop from happening over and over again. The sound of Din’s breathing, that once kept you grounded does nothing to help your panic. Not even Baby’s soft snoring keeps you in your body, as Baby can no longer fall asleep alone in his own bedroom. Everything has changed. Din can’t leave for his new job teaching sign language in town without you being up before him to look into his eyes. Not in a loving way, but in a way to memorize how the irises meet the pupils, the lines in the skin around them, and the eyebrows above when you were previously satisfied with just a kiss on the head with no disturbance to your slumber. You can’t explain the reasons, but you feel if you don’t memorize one part of his face every day before he leaves, you’ll lose it forever. It’s all you can focus on, the possibility of forgetting. The possibility of losing. You feel isolated in your focus, channeling all the terror, the rage, the exhaustion into feeling absolutely nothing at all. You often wonder if you’re some knd of masochist for it depresses you immensely, yet there is a great deal of comfort in the emptiness. It’s safe in the emptiness. In the emptiness you don’t have to tell Din you can’t sleep because the thought of waking up and he’s gone again is enough to kill you from the inside, out. In the emptiness you don’t have to think about how devistating it is you can’t even take a bath anymore without Baby thinking he has to live without you again. It was sweet at first - the first night you were reunited, Baby whined until you let him sleep with you and Din. You loved it, together again with your sweet boys. But it didn’t stop there, Baby shrieked in tones you had never heard before every time Din walked away from you as he held him. Climbing up over his shoulder, arms reaching out for you, the look of fear in his eyes, for even mundane things like walking out to the beach before you as you made lunch. Baby didn’t trust Din anymore and it was evident almost instantly. Only weeks into being back together you had your green bean up on the counter, watching you attempt to get your bearings back within your art. Which really meant standing in front of the canvas all day as you had a one sided conversation with your boy. The back doors were open, for the breeze throughout the the morning and when Din came home in the afternoon the front door swung open with such force, it hit the wall. This was the first time this happened, and it was all you needed to shift into a state of feral protection. Heart racing, you scooped Baby up and in a moment of uncertainty, turned your back to the door, shaking with ragged breath, you crouch to the ground.

“My moon...” Din says softly.

You inhale sharply and turn to put Baby back on the counter. Your eyes are wide and you don’t know what you’re feeling. It’s like when you were a child and every emotion would happen at once, you’re older now but you still choose rage over them all. It’s the easiest.

“What the fuck Din? Would you watch the goddamn door, Jesus Christ!” You bark at him but you don’t stop. You rip into about how inconsiderate it is to let the doors slam, reminding him you have a child and if he wants another he’ll have to learn how to be more respectful with the noise. You don’t know who’s speaking for you, it just keeps spilling from your mouth with the intention to hurt. Speaking loudly as to not hear the terror and confusion rattling around in your mind or your heart that’s still racing through your chest. The rage within fires on as Din does nothing to stop you. He stands there, lips pursed and eyes hollow, just taking it. Your words that have absolutely no justification because you wont tell him what’s going on inside, but he knows you. He knows you’re floating between planets in this moment and you don’t trust your own emotions. He’s seen it before, and you need to make a conscious effort to come back down.

“Hey!“ Din yells, yanking your wrists up and pressing your hands to his chest. “It’s me. It’s Din. Come back down to the planet, I’m here. Tell me what is wrong, what can I do?”

You dig your fingers nails into the flesh through his shirt and he tightens his grip around your wrists.

“Everything hurts-“ you whisper but are cut off by what you can only assume was Baby believing that Din was hurting you and acting to protect you.

Din is pulled away from your embrace, slipping through his hands as he grunts in confusion. And with a force much greater than you could ever push him, he slams into a door frame on the opposite wall, falling to the ground.

Both your hands clasp over your mouth with a gasp as the panic sets in all over again. Pushing through it, you rush to him, scolding your boy as you kneel between Din’s legs. “Baby, no!”

You lift Din’s big beautiful face with your hands, as Baby turns his back to you and sits on the counter, head down. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, sitting up.

You push the hair out of his face, then bite your lip and look up to the ceiling. Wondering, how did we get here? As your eyes fill with tears.

Din wraps his arms around you and rests his head on your chest, “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry... I’m sorry...”

Din is always sorry now.

He’s sorry you can’t sleep, he’s sorry your appetite and your inspirations have died, he’s sorry Baby doesn’t stop crying, he’s sorry you curl into a ball every time he tries to arouse you, and he’s sorry he’s the reason for all of it.

Because even though there is comfort in the emptiness, it is still the same place where Din’s finger tips now feel like hot iron. It’s the same place where even if you get a wink of sleep, you have that same dream of Din leaving with Baby in the armour. The emptiness is where you feel yourself slipping into the likes of your father and you watch yourself do nothing about it. Din is always sorry yet he never tries to help you the way Wilhemina did Stark. Are you and Din no better than two people who were never even truly in love?

In the emptiness you’re too scared to tell him how it truly feels. That you’re drowning every single day and how you don’t know how you fit into the galaxy anymore. You’re scared to tell him you feel like you did as a child and you don’t know what is looking back at you in the mirror again. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, this wasn’t supposed to be your life and at one time you didn’t know who you’d be if you weren’t Baby’s mom or the love of Din’s life but now you don’t know where you fit with them either.

It is so fucking lonely in the emptiness for every day it feels like you’re screaming out to Din and Baby, but they can’t hear you. That you’re running your finger down the bridge of Din’s nose, or the space between Baby’s eyes, but they don’t feel a thing. That you’re standing in the middle of the room bleeding out the universe in your heart that they’ve lived in for so long, but they don’t even see you.

A bolt of lightening lights up the ocean and it snaps you out of your trance. You wish you could live in the flashing light, and how it turns the water into clear blue crystal before you. Your feet finally move for you as you sink into the cold sand one step at a time, but you don’t know where they’ll take you. You want to become the ocean, the stars, the sand beneath you because they are useful. They are needed, they are beautiful. Maybe you could love Din more completely if you were the ocean he adored swimming in, or care for Baby properly if you were the sand he liked to let fall through his three small fingers. You are nothing to them if you are but your mind and your body operating as two separate entities.

Today you wept in the kitchen sink until your collarbones hurt, because Baby tried to heal you the way he does with cooking burns and small cuts. You didn’t even realize you had crawled up into your mind as you cut fruit for Baby to eat, trying to count every hair on your body that stood up from the breeze through the window. Trying to think if there were more ways you’d be useful as the breeze that flows through the bungalow and rustles the palm trees above than what you were now. Kissing Din would be easier as the breeze, you would be delicate again, like the life you once lived and that is almost enough. It’s not until you feel Baby’s hand on your forearm that you’re brought back into the room. You look down to find him with the look of concentration across his small face and you know what he’s trying to do.

“Oh no, Baby.” You coo, pulling his hand away from you. “You can’t heal this, my love.”

You mean for your words to come out as a joke at your own expense, but you could barely choke through them.

Another bolt of lightening cuts through the sky and it stops you with a gasp. The gravity of your life now weighing on you as you realize you’re ready to become the ocean instead of telling Din you don’t feel like a human being anymore, only because you don’t want him to blame himself. For you understand he did what he had to do, and you’d rather feel like this than live without him and Baby at all, so why is it so fucking hard? You’ve forgiven him, you’ve decided to move on together so why does it feel like you don’t know him at all? You are so full of rage because you know you are holding yourself back and you are so full of rage because you’re just like your goddamn father.

Aren’t you?

“Y/N!” You hear from behind and when you look back, you see Din pulling on a shirt as he steps off the deck and into the sand.

“What are you doing?” He calls again as he gets closer, and you suddenly feel like Baby. Where would you swim to?

You don’t answer, just watching his curly hair flowing back in the wind. All you want is to run your fingers through it, to feel it like you used to. You want everything to feel like it used to, but it’s too much to even look Din in his eyes and you turn out to the water.

He tries to take your hands, but you pull away and he rubs his jaw.

“You gotta let me in.” He sighs.

You look back at him with wide eyes. You’ve had this conversation before. Years ago, when you found Din’s modified blaster, before you knew he was a Mandalorian. That seemed simpler than this but nothing would have changed if Din hadn’t talked to you that night.

“Something is wrong.” You say, pulling your hair behind your ears in a way to tame it in the wind. “Something is wrong with me.”

Din looks up as it starts to rain, but neither of you move.

“I don’t feel the same, Din. Nothing feels the same. I don’t know where I fit anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, stepping toward you as you tense up, crossing your arms.

“I know you’re sorry,” you say through closed eyes and a tense jaw. “But what you’re sorry for doesn’t even matter anymore. Din, something is wrong.”

“Then tell me what it is!”

The words are caught in your chest and it physically pains you. “I want to become the ocean.”

Din looks confused, “What are you talking about?”

“When I was growing up, the only thing that kept me going was the belief that one day I’d be better. But now I’m older and maybe this is just it. Maybe I’ve felt all that there is to feel, and this is it for me.”

“Don’t say that,” Din shakes his head. “I need you.”

“What about what I need?”

“What does that mean?” Din demands, rain dripping down his nose.

“I don’t know!” You cry.

“What do you know?”

“That I love you.” You yell over the rain, “That I love you so much, but my head is too messed up. I’m tired of feeling this and it won’t stop, Din. It won’t stop and I’m so scared.”

Din takes your face in his hands, “Let me help you, my moon. Please.”

As hot tears mix with the cold rain, you bite your lip and shake your head, “What if I’m not enough anymore for you, or Baby?”

“You are all we need. This is just a moment, it will pass. Like your father’s.”

You clutch Din’s wrists, “I thought I was like my father, but I’m worse. He was brave. I am nothing.”

“Don’t say that.” Din exclaims, wiping the tears and rain from your cheeks. “The sun rises and sets for you. You and only you.”

It’s the first time Din has said that to you since before he disappeared and you feel like you’re going to collapse. “I don’t know if I have it in me anymore. I’m not strong like you Din. I want to be strong and beautiful like you, but I don’t know how.”

“You are the strongest, most beautiful person I have ever known. We’re going to get you help my moon, I promise.”

“Why are you like this? I’ve done nothing but hurt you. Pick fights and push you away.”

“I don’t care.” Din shrugs.

“Din, I haven’t touched you in weeks.”

“I don’t care, Y/N. Everything you’ve ever given me has felt like the first time. I waited 35 years for you, I’ll wait 1000 more.”

You search Din’s face trying to find one line, one section of skin, a reflection in his eye that looks familiar but you come up empty.

“Din, what if I never want to touch you again?”

Tags: @otherthingsinhead @aeryntheofficial @maryan028 @readsalot73 @osric-the-l3m0n-l0v3-demon @capsironunderoos @antclottz @intense-sneezing @igotmadskills @applesislife @marrvelle-fics @killtherandomness @holyground1996 @taoiichii @kyoko-yuuki @bookwormmarvel @xplrreylo @the-resident-demon @sad-anxious-girl @jaegers-and-kaijus @drinkfantasy @forbidden-darkness @hyveee @fangirlfreakingout @petalduck @fahhhhq @thatonebishsstuff @midnightsinger @jenniferdaniels12 @hiscyarika @tryn25 @raveviolet @watsonwise @aproperthottie @lettonystarkbehappydamnit @hyunjins-wife

A/N: I love you. Love, Zelda

#loving din #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian x reader #pedro pascal #baby yoda #the mandalorian angst #star wars fanfiction #star wars #pedro pascal x reader #mandalorian #mando #mando x you #mandalorian x reader #din djaren #din djarin #din djarin x reader

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thefirelordandtheambassador · 4 years

Text

close your eyes and i’ll close mine

Zutara Week 2020 Submission (“reunion”)

Rating: T for Teens

Length: 3,186 words @zutaraweek Cross-posted on AO3 under one work titled “all that i hoped would change within me stayed (god only knows which of them i'll become)” “Get off my shit, rabbit-squirrel-brains!” Toph hollers, and Katara whips around, away from the rapidly approaching horizon, away from the lure of the sea. She watches, non-plussed, as Toph dive-bombs a young soldier, who has tried to move some luggage to a more convenient spot on the boat. Ember Island, well, it doesn’t loom, but it approaches like a nervous servant--Katara will never get used to the servants that seem to appear like mist or ghosts, at the Earth Kingdom Palace, at General Iroh’s apartments in Ba Sing Se, at Toph’s parents’ house when she visited last year with her-- “for moral support and elbow-holding.”

“I’m sorry, miss! I just have to move things!” Katara bites at her lips, trying desperately to hide a snicker. Toph is wrestling him to the deck, clearly attempting to keep him away from her bag.

“I see you, mocking that poor boy,” jibes a soft, smoky voice to her side. She looks up--it’s Zuko.

“Not going play referee?” asks Sokka, following up behind him.

“Mmm, not today,” Katara muses, tossing her hair into the breeze. It is nice to be back on the ocean. She’s spent the last six months in a border town of the Si Wong Desert, negotiating with the sand-benders. Before that, she was in Ba Sing Se on official ambassadorial duties for the Southern Water Tribe for about a year, and then before that, she’d been providing aid for some of the rural interior Earth Kingdom towns for something like eighteen months. Most eighteen-year-olds she knows are either in school, or married with a kid on the way, but she’s single and doing the heavy diplomatic and charitable work of a woman twice her age.

“Oh, look, she’s going easy on him,” Zuko notes drily, as Toph shoves the poor kid into a door. “He’ll get off with just a concussion, instead of a broken arm like the last guy.”

The past few years have been good to Zuko--it’s been almost three years since she’s had a chance to visit. He’ll be twenty tomorrow, and he’s grown. Really grown. He’s easily over six feet tall, and his hair is so long now that what isn’t caught up in his topknot rolls over his shoulder. He has one of those formal shoulder pieces on that Katara desperately hopes will go out of style soon, but it doesn’t do much to the chest that has already grown broader and more muscular. And he was no lanky twig like Sokka during the war, either, she muses.

“Well, someone’s gotta get those boys in shape--she’s taken to teaching a little too well, in her old age,” Katara snarks back, smiling. Zuko smiles back, golden eyes softening. His face has thinned out too, cheekbones standing out elegantly, even under the scar. He looks real good.

“Well, at least you got out of being such a turbulent sixteen-year-old; can’t say I wasn’t beating people up at her age. So, uh, how are you and Aang, ah, doing these days?” There’s the awkward turtle-duck, out and about for a toddle around the pond.

Sokka barks a laugh, walks away, throws an arm around Toph.

She smiles ruefully, “You know, we’re taking a break. I think we both need it; we’re apart so often, you know? He’s flying here from the Western Air Temple and will meet us at the summer house. It’ll be good to see him again. It’s good to see all of you again, really. Ambassadorial life is pretty lonely.”

“Meanwhile, I feel like I can never get a moment alone these days. Always papers to sign, emissaries to greet, Fire Sages up my ass about everything. I’m glad you all could come to celebrate. I thought a little reunion would be nice. I’m just missing Uncle,” he says with a sigh. They turn, and lean against the railing.

“He misses you too--I stayed at his apartments in Ba Sing Se over the New Year. It was good to see a familiar face,” she says. The breeze whips around them, and Katara’s nose is overwhelmed with the smell of amber musk, something roast-y, and rich sandalwood. “Are...are you wearing cologne?!”

Zuko pinks.

“The Earth Kingdom ambassador got it for me for a birthday gift! She said it was indispensable for any young nobleman! Is it too much?” She softens. It is good to be back with friends--with him.

“No, no,” she says, and sticks her nose onto his sleeve, “I like it. It smells nice on you.” Underneath the cologne, she gets that warm man-smell. She misses that smell, from time to time, if she’s being honest with herself.

“Oh good. He said to go easy on it. Um, Katara?”

“Oh, sorry!” She’s lingered too long. But looking up into his eyes, they are still molten and soft. It’s her turn to pink, and she looks back to the sea. They are close to the docks. “I guess I’m just a little tired. I am so ready for this mini-vacation.”

“You deserve it. Uncle says you do the work of a woman twice your age.”

The beach house is just as she remembers it, but somehow, fuller, livelier. Zuko’s stocked it with paintings of the whole team, plants with bright summer blooms heavy with scent, curios from his travels. There’s only two servants, blessedly, a cook and a maid who greet them at the door.

“It looks nice in here! So bright and happy!” cheers Suki. “It was kinda sad when we stayed here last time.”

“Thanks. Uncle’s sent me enough tea and teapots to fill a whole bookshelf,” Zuko shrugs, “but I wanted it to be fun again, so Kiyi and Mom can come and enjoy themselves, you know? Get rid of the sad nostalgia, make room for new memories. Maybe we could have regular reunions here.”

“Heck yeah!” chimes Toph, hefting her bag. “I am so ready for some vacation time!” Things are dropped in rooms, and Katara is convinced to join the group at the beach, even though the things that sound the best right now are to sink into the fluffy white covers of the bed she’s been given and have a deep, sun-soaked nap, dreaming away the afternoon for the first time in years.

She pads out, yawning, in her swimsuit, and looks around, trying to remember where the towels were stored last time. She turns too quickly, and runs into something soft, clean, cottony-- a stack of towels?

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, Rina...” Katara stammers, but it’s not the maid. It’s Zuko, who is shirtless and ready for the beach. Her heart thumps a few times and her blood seems to rush a little faster in her veins, because his trunks sling low on his sharp hipbones, and thank Tui and La that she managed to that chest scar to fade to something more dashing. A trail of hair follows his bellybutton down into those trunks...and she’s just gonna stop that thought-canoe and turn it right back upriver.

“Oh, Rina’s packing us some rice balls for snacks, do you have any requests? I know you like pickled ocean kumquats...” He trails off too, sticking a hand behind his head sheepishly. His mane of hair is knotted messily on the back of his head.

“Any flavor is fine!” she squeaks. “Let’s go! I can’t wait for dip! It’s so lovely out today!”

“It is,” he agrees, and scoops up the towels, flinging them over his shoulder. His hand brushes hers lightly as they take the path down to the black sand beach.

Aang arrives just in time for dinner. Rina brings out a sumptuous feast of all their favorites: hippo-cow braised in soy sauce and ginger, rooster-pig spare ribs deep fried and dusted with lime zest and chilis ground to a fine powder, crispy garlic arctic whale-shrimp, a sweet and sour sprouted bean curd, and a miraculous leg of caribou that is roasted and covered in a pearly sauce that is delicately scented and made Sokka cry when it was set down in front of him.

“I tried to make sure we all got something we liked,” Zuko admits, seated comfortably at the head of the table. He’s placed Katara on his right, Toph on his left, and Katara doesn’t mind this. The maid has served what seems like a hundred side dishes, which keeps her plenty occupied, instead of having to make awkward eye contact with Aang. Katara picks up spicy fermented cucumber-melon, braised potatoes and peppers, sautéed pea shoots, and takes a little bit of all the main dishes. “And, my father left one gift: that quite amazing selection of wines and spirits.”

Katara and Suki have been enjoying the plum wine, and Sokka and Toph have turned drinking shots of soju into some kind of game, and are easily drinking Aang under the table already. She hasn’t enjoyed herself, been so relaxed and at ease, in a long time.

“Here, Katara, have you ever had these? They’re a specialty of Ember Island,” Zuko says softly. She turns to him, his chopsticks clutching some noodles like glass threads, mixed with tomato-carrots and green onions. She shakes her head no, and he offers her a bite, guiding the chopsticks to her mouth. They slip in, yummy, and she slurps the last few over her lips.

“Sorry, country manners,” she says, covering her face and blushing.

“No, no, it’s...it’s cute,” he says. “I don’t mind!” He thinks that’s cute? She decides to take it, and tries to shift the subject, to side-step Zuko turning into the awkward turtle-duck.

“What’s your favorite side dish? We’ve never gotten to eat such a nice meal together so close to each other!” In fact, the last time Katara was at a dinner with Zuko, it was a very formal affair, she was seated halfway down the table from him, between two lords and across from Aang, and it was a plated meal, with a different servant bringing her soup, her salad, her braised pork that was truthfully far too spicy, and she nearly cried when yet another servant brought her some pineapple-lime shaved ice to finish with.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, and his mouth bunches and pouts to one side, “This one.” He proffers long ribbons of carrot in sticky red sauce, sprinkled with sesame seeds. She slurps those off his chopsticks too.

“Ahh! So spicy! But good, really good!” She gulps some more plum wine, feeling warm all over. “Pick another you like.” She wants to know all his favorites tonight. Before dinner, he’d ditched his formal clothes, and has relaxed in a red silk shirt that leaves much of his chest open for her eyes to roam. Nice abs, she notes, for someone who claims to do paperwork all day long.

The wine is getting to her.

“Rina, don’t worry about us, please, head to bed. We’ll probably drink some more, talk, and definitely sleep in in the morning. Plenty of time for you and Lien to do dishes in the morning,” Zuko says to the maid, who is clearly yawning. She bows, murmurs a thank you, and heads off up the stairs. Katara loves how nice Zuko and Iroh are to their employees; the Earth King has several ministers who treat the servants like dirt. She’s brought it up to Kuei, but he only frowns and polishes his glasses.

“Alright! Now we can break out the good stuff!” Toph shouts, and punches the air. She is gone and back again in a flash.

“Good stuff? There’s so much good stuff here already!” Aang’s words come out a little soupy--he’s lost the soju drinking game. He takes a hearty spoonful of fruit tart. “This is so good, Zuko. I love fruit tarts!”

“I didn’t want to sailors to get ahold of this stuff; I confiscated it from one of my students. Ha!” Toph says, dropping back down on her cushion. She holds a long pipe in hand and pouch.

“So that’s why you were beating that poor guy up on the boat?” asks Sokka. Suki has migrated to mostly-in-Sokka’s-lap, but who is Katara to judge, because she is leaning full-body on Zuko--it’s certainly not the wine, she thinks, it’s the biceps for sure.

“Well, hell yeah, this stuff is wild!” crows Toph, dumping some clumps of dried green leaves on the table. She crumbles and stuffs, crumbles and stuff, and passes the pipe to Zuko. “Gimme a light, Master Sparky-pants? First puff is yours, host with the most!”

“What is it?” he asks, flicking two fingers and summoning a small flame. He lights the little leaves in the pipe bowl.

“Green dragon-weed!” Toph crows. “It’ll blow your mind!” Zuko tentatively puffs, coughs, and passes the pipe.

“That’s foul, Toph. Why?” Katara also passes, but Aang tries and Sokka tries, and Toph is clearly an expert, because she blows out perfect smoke rings.

Soon, they are a group of giggling kids again, lying on the floor, cackling at Sokka’s bad jokes as Suki regales stories of their stories, as she and Sokka work as prisoner escorts mostly these days. Aang and Toph keep passing that pipe back and forth, but Katara’s cup of plum wine never seems to empty, mostly because Zuko keeps giving her sips out of his--first a fiery ginger whiskey, next a herby, clear soju with lots of something citrusy squeezed in it, then a sweet melon liquor. He will nudge to offer, and every time, they make electric eye contact, and all the blood in her vein rushes down to the center of her hips.

“These are all really good,” she mumbles, feeling so relaxed and happy, warm against Zuko’s arm, full of food and drink, surrounded by friends.

“Good, I’m glad you’re having a good time,” he says lightly, nuzzling his nose to her ear. More of that, please, she thinks, his breath hot on her cheek, and she steals a look at the others. Sokka and Suki are halfway out the door to their room, Toph is half-asleep, and Aang lays on the floor, blowing smoke into creatures for Momo to chase after, mostly out of sight.

She turns, and steels herself. “Can I...?”

His eyebrow knits. “Whatever you like?” What a good host.

She cranes her neck a little, and sneaks a peck on his lips, firm and spicy. There’s a little jolt, like electricity, and he presses back, firm, maybe even a little desperate. He shifts angles, captures her more surely. She melts a little, but pulls back. Toph and Aang are still sprawled on the floor, blissfully unaware.

“Aang, I am just beat, aren’t you? Toph? I think we should all drink a glass of water and go to bed,” she says gently.

“Huh? Mmm, yeah, I am pooped!” Aang slurs, and tries to get up, loses his balance, slips. “Monkeyfeathers!”

Toph snores on. Zuko, who still has his bearings, swiftly helps Aang to his feet, and scoops Toph up in a cradle hold. Katara settles the completely toasted Avatar into bed, takes off his shoes and shirt, and forces a glass of water in him. She leaves another on the table, but he’s asleep before she slides the door shut.

“She is out cold!” Zuko says, sliding the door shut. The house is quiet, so quiet that Katara can hear her heart racing. He pads back over. The tie of his shirt has come undone over the course of the evening, and she decides to take yet another chance. She closes the gap between them in the hall, pressing her hand to his chest and reaching up for another kiss.

It’s almost like he knows, and his hands tangle in her hair before their lips meet again. She clutches at the sides of his shirt, thrilled to touch and feel and smell him. One of his hands drops from her hair, and his thumb traces deliciously down her neck, to cup her waist and pull her closer. She sighs as she relaxes into the touch of his lips, the tip of his tongue pushing experimentally. He breaks for a moment.

“C’mon, let’s...get more comfortable,” he rasps, and pulls her down the hall, sliding open the red paper door at the end of the hall. He flicks his hand, lighting many lamps softly, and the room glows a rich red. He pulls her to the bed, and she flops down. The bed cradles her, and she suddenly loses all desire to move.

“I want you to know that I want this, but I’m so tired, Zuko. Rain check?” she murmurs.

“I understand. Can I...can I help you get ready for bed?” he asks, almost shy. Her heart skips. She cranes her neck up, and presses her lips to his heatedly.

“Sure.”

He slips off the bed and shucks his silk shirt to a stool. Next, the gold sash and black trousers. She chuckles lightly, because the style of underwear Fire Nation men wear is so weird-looking, so tight-fitting and trim, but his is black and she’s not surprised by that.

He kneels, and pushes up the skirts of her summer dress. It’s light blue silk with a white surcoat so gossamer it might be made of cobwebs, a gift from the Earth King for her last birthday, and in this heat, she’s glad it’s sleeveless. His hot hands press into her thighs, and he leans in, takes a breath, trails kisses down her inner thighs, over her knees.

He tenderly unwraps the ties from her slippers--they lace up her legs with ribbons--and presses a kiss on her calf. Fingers trail down the back of her calves, over her heels as he tugs the slippers off, stashing them on the floor.

Shoes off, he unties the waistband of the surcoat, lays it on the stool. He takes issue with the buttons on the side of the dress, but gets them undone, and he tugs it over her head until it floats back to join the surcoat. He flips her over, gripping her hips, and pulls the tie of the petticoat, tugs that down too. Hot kisses feather up her spine, and she can’t help but let a noise that is half moan, half sigh.

“Feels so good, Zuko, but I am so ready for some sleep,” she drawls, eyes drooping.

Gently, he presses a heated kiss to her neck, and wow, Katara didn’t know she could sparkle internally. His hands trail to her waist and back up.

“Can I offer you a place to rest here?” he asks, a joke in his voice.

“Seems like just the right place to be,” she yawns. He pulls back the sheets, cool and crisp, and she settles in. He snuggles close to her, and she drifts off, hoping that every reunion can be like this.

#mine #zutara week 2020 #i love writing about food #sorry not sorry #i feel like every good couple 'takes a break' when necessary #so maybe canon-compliant?#reunion

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fiinalgiirls · 4 years

Text

GENERAL INFORMATION.

FULL NAME - genevieve sloane channing NICKNAMES - neve GENDER / PRONOUNS - she/her DATE OF BIRTH - february 12, 1988 PLACE OF BIRTH - portland, oregon CITIZENSHIP / ETHNICITY - united states american; irish, scottish, welsh RELIGION - atheist / agnostic SOCIOECONOMIC STATUS / POLITICAL AFFILIATION - grew up very low socioeconomic status in ne portland, before the gentrification, but is now considered middle class due to her nurse’s salary. she’s liberal. MARITAL STATUS - single ( previously engaged ). SEXUAL & ROMANTIC ORIENTATION - bisexual, leaning more towards an attraction to men. EDUCATION / OCCUPATION - bachelor’s of science in nursing; emergency nurse LANGUAGES - english, spanish, and a few small phrases pertaining to medical emergencies in vietnamese and russian.

FAMILY INFORMATION.

PARENTS - doug and paula channing, both deceased. SIBLINGS - none OFFSPRING - none PETS / OTHER - robocop ( a black and white siberian husky ). i’d also like her to get a cat at some point ! give me this plot point !! NOTABLE EXTENDED FAMILY - none

PHYSICAL INFORMATION.

FACECLAIM - adelaide kane HAIR COLOR / EYE COLOR - brown / brown HEIGHT / BUILD - 5′3″ / slight, athletic TATTOOS / PIERCINGS - nostril piercing, small tattoo on anterior right forearm. DISTINGUISHABLE FEATURES - a scar above her left ear that goes into her hairline approximately three inches, bold, full brows. freckles. usually has bruised knees.

MEDICAL INFORMATION.

MEDICAL HISTORY - laceration to left temporoparietal area, sprained ankle, fractured collar bone, well-controlled asthma. KNOWN ALLERGIES - penicillin, watermelon VISUAL IMPAIRMENT / HEARING IMPAIRMENT - nearsighted, but usually uses contacts; tinnitus. NICOTINE USE / DRUG USE / ALCOHOL USE - occasional alcohol use, former smoker ( has had an errant cigarette on occasion ), drug use as a teenager.

PERSONALITY.

TRAITS - compassionate, resilient, tenacious ; self-righteous, cynical, aloof TROPES - nerves of steel, canine companion, good is not soft, deadpan snarker. TEMPERAMENT - melancholic ALIGNMENT - chaotic good CELTIC TREE ZODIAC - rowan, the thinker MBTI - infj HOGWARTS HOUSE - ravenclaw VICE / VIRTUE - pride ; liberality LIKES / DISLIKES: animals, reading, running and weight lifting, not having to share her popcorn, take-out, breakfast for dinner, leather / denim jackets, white sneakers, fresh cut flowers, solitude, people who think about others, / medical dramas, arrogance, science deniers, bok choy, people who talk to her at the gym or when she has headphones on, movie remakes, passive aggression. QUOTE: ❝take a body, dump it, drive. take a body, maybe your own, and dump it gently. all your dead, unfinished selves and dump them gently. take only what you need. ❞

FAVORITES.

FOOD - curry. DRINK - coffee. PIZZA TOPPING - pineapple ( yes, she’s that bitch ), but with olives, mushrooms, tomatoes, and tabasco. COLOR - earth tones, grey, black and white. MUSIC - synth, hip hop, indie. BOOKS - horror, true crime, historical philosophy of science and medicine. MOVIES - the thing, nightbreed, notorious CURSE WORD - fuck, goddamn it. SCENTS - lavender, vanilla, chocolate.

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger/content warnings: murder, death, graphic violence, mental health, postpartum depression, suicide, cancer, drug mention, parent death, medical, euthanasia mention, stalking, guns

THE FOG CREEPS IN ; GIRLHOOD IS A GRAVEYARD

genevieve channing is born on a cold, grey february sometime around midnight to douglas and paula channing while the heavy oregon fog kisses the modest concrete jungle of portland oregon like a phantom. paula gives her a big name, telling the nurses with heady confidence that she’ll be famous one day, and it’s the biggest gift she ever gives her. baby genevieve is in her arms so often, she hardly touches a cradle, but it’s not long until douglas feels an uneasiness creeping in.

paula is bohemian silk skirts and crushed velvet. she grows restless being trapped in the plain, modest home in northeast. she is a woman that is easy to fall in love with—not meant to sit at home idly with a collicy baby, where she finds herself in tears more than ever. douglas returns from work to find baby genevieve screaming unattended in her crib while paula cries in the backyard with an ashtray full of cigarettes. she tells him she’s worried she’ll crash the car one day on the way to the grocery store with them both inside. douglas digs his teeth into his bottom lip and tries not to cry. he squeezes her hand and tells her she needs to go to therapy. what he really wants to tell her is that their baby needs her. he leaves paula outside and spends the afternoon tidying the house with genevieve swaddled against his chest. it’s a warm feeling.

it’s not long after that paula starts disappearing for periods of time and douglas learns she can’t be trusted to watch after the baby on her own. when she calls from downtown in tears, hyperverbal and desperate, he picks her up in his old chevy truck and brings her home. she agrees to see a doctor and for awhile, they figure out how to live again. some days are even as sweet as the rhubarb pies she starts to make again.

there are only two ways neve later remembers her mother, and the first is lovely–paula is picnics and shakespeare in the parks. she’s dried roses in the window and salmon tacos with mango salsa. she is whirlwind adventures and laughter. she teaches neve to make wishes on stray eyelashes, blowing them into the wind like dandelion seeds. on the good days, paula’s eyes are filled with stars. on the bad days, they are left black as the night sky while she cries the constellations down her cheeks. occasionally, she is cruel. mostly, she is absent.

by the third grade, neve expects this. douglas has never been much of a cook–save hamburger patties with canned green beans and a baked potato. she cooks their dinners from recipes she learns from her grandmas and helps around the house. most nights she’s home alone until the grumbling sound of the chevy breaks through the dark and signals her father’s return. eventually, she stops missing her mother from the everyday–it’s only when the other kids talk about their moms that she feels the pang of loss and wonders where she is. some nights neve finds herself sitting in her bedroom window pulling out eyelashes just to have something left to wish on. some of paula’s friends overdose on heroin or get murdered in the nights when neve is sleeping; she stays up late and hopes that her vigil will keep a distant mother safe.

there aren’t many trees on their street–unlike some of the other neighborhoods. the big weeping birch in their backyard that drives her father crazy as he rakes leaves every fall is neve’s pride and joy. there is comfort in the shade its branches cast every summer. at night it makes her lonely as it blocks the silhouette of the waxing moon. on lazy summer days when her father leaves for work, neve sits with her back curved against its rough trunk and reads the day away.

on a cool april afternoon, just after preparing a plate of cherry poptarts with a thin layer of butter on top of the frosting ( much to her father’s chagrin ), neve ventures out to the modest yard to sit under her tree. the familiar crushed blue velvet of her mother’s favorite dress catches her off guard and she drops her breakfast onto the unkempt lawn as her mind makes sense of the unnatural height of its hem as paula swings–marking the time of neve’s pounding heartbeat. the butter solidifies as it cools in the dirt, the heel of neve’s hand-me-down airwalk sneakers mashing her breakfast. the cherry filling sticks to the sole like bubblegum; she’ll never eat them again, but she can’t help but recall that her mom always preferred the maple and brown sugar.

THE ODDS ARE STACKED AGAINST HER ; A GIRL LEARNS TO COUNT CARDS

portland in the eighties and nineties is less portlandia and more drugstore cowboy. a lot of kids from other neighborhoods don’t go downtown. the ones that do have an air of palpable grit. neve takes the max, rides her skateboard in the dark. douglas has cautioned her a hundred thousand times, but paula’s death has instilled such a great fear of losing his daughter that he lets her get away with more than he knows he probably should. he fears paula’s ghost will someday possess her and she’ll wander off into the ether. most days he insists that the only parts of paula he sees in his cherished daughter are the good ones–neve holds onto the corporeal world with claws. it’s only on the worst nights–paula’s specter cooling the sheets of his bed in the dark–that he wakes up with the fear his daughter is gone.

douglas’s new wife, rosie, does her best to pit them against one another, but sometimes–she’s not so bad, neve thinks. it’s nice to have a mother figure in the house again even if she falls short most days. sometimes she thinks that maybe they could learn to love each other. if nothing else, she’s sure she owes a bit of gratitude to the woman; the nights of her father’s haunting sobs have become fewer and farther between. it isn’t until douglas begins receiving late notices on utilities that he begins to grow suspicious. rosie is quick to throw neve under the bus–a young girl like that? she’s probably stealing their money to spend on drugs and CDs at sam goody. douglas has never bet on anyone like he bets on his daughter; rosie’s gambling debts are news to them both.

the fallout of the relationship leaves douglas and neve in dire financial straits. the father is heartbroken–another love lost, he blames himself for always choosing the wrong lady luck. despite their financial ruin, left in rosie’s wake, douglas has a hard time getting out of bed most days and blows through what little sick time he has available to him. school takes a back burner and neve barely attends it at all–favoring her time on finding work ( legitimate and illegitimate ) to help keep their small family afloat. she attends class when it’s profitable and waits tables or washes dishes when she can. it’s still not enough.

a few kids turn neve onto small crimes to turn a profit. they ride the max to the suburbs and crash parties–stealing pills out of medicine cabinets and turning them over for profit. calculus wasn’t worth a good goddamn, but distribution teaches skills. it’s hard not to get caught up in petty thefts and the occasional break-ins. neve and her friends find it easy to justify in the spirit of class war. a pin on her denim jacket reads ‘eat the rich’ and it doesn’t sound so bad. portland is a cannibal and it eats its children.

neve is a cat with nine lives and despite her friends being caught by the long arm of the law or the stronger arm of revenge, she evades detection. even such cats live with a fear of death, and as consequence catches up to members of the small circle she runs with, neve knows she is living on borrowed time. sooner or later, she knows, her luck will run bone dry.

SPRING RETURNS TO PORTLAND ; THE FROST CLINGS TO FRAGILE BONES

neve dropping out of high school is a wake up call for douglas. he sees farther than she does and knows that she deserves a better life than the one he’s scrounged together for her. most days, he blames himself for a life that could have been; some kids like her wore neatly pressed dresses and folded over lace socks on picture day. some kids had piano lessons and summer camps. there’s a lot of insight in hindsight, but neve staunchly opposes his masochistic remorse and becomes determined to prove him wrong. it takes her a couple years of working to figure out what she wants to do–a girl baptised in her mother’s blood is born with the kind of heart that takes on too much. she is meant for saving lives and carrying the world on her shoulders like atlas himself.

it takes time, but as douglas gets their house in order and starts working again. neve is able to start up at portland community college. she takes up a work study job and works a steady flow of odd jobs on the side to support herself. lady luck shines her fortune on the pair for the first time in forever to make up for the steady losses they’ve sustained over the years. life isn’t lavender and gardenias, but somehow waking up becomes little and less painful each day. some days neve wakes up and forgets that she can’t breathe. most days she spends her gratitude in the heap of debt the world owes her–waiting for the other shoe to drop.

the rebirth of their family is a hearty soil; both channings flourish as if made anew. the dew drops that cling to garden spider webs in their window signal the looming anniversary of a mother’s misty breath and neve learns not to fall apart. douglas works hard to do right by her and make up for the years of never knowing what to do and waffling between what is best and what is desirable. he is a man that longs for dreams–feet barely brushing the earth like her mother’s did on that day–but he is learning to make dreams work too. his dreams take root around his daughter once more; he builds them around her and builds her up with them.

the highschool dropout graduates her community college adn bridge program and she can hardly believe it when she’s accepted to ohsu for her bsn. there are no college diplomas with the channing name hanging on walls with peeling wallpaper or tucked away in trunks with paula’s things. douglas has saved his money for months to get her the right graduation gift and neve laughs, downplaying that it’s not a real graduation, but still walks in the ceremony at his insistence.

she returns home to the small party of friends she’ll start to grow apart from when she gets tired of the jeers about how she thinks she’s ‘too good for them’ now. neighborhoods like hers don’t always love to watch you grow if it means you’ll leave them. they’ll still blow up her phone for medical advice, but the invitations dry up like the drought of portland natives in southeast. for now, it’s a pleasant barbecue. the highlight of the evening comes in the small bundle of inky fur that douglas proudly produces after neve’s second burger. peering out from his strong arms are the brown eyes of a young siberian husky. douglas begs her to name the pup murphy over robocop, but loses easily–a hearty chuckle on his lips. they are bonded instantly–girl and dog–robocop becomes neve’s second most stalwart companion next to her father.

nursing school is hard, but it’s not impossible and it is full of new kinds of joys. she makes new friends and they eat lunch from the thai foodcart—nestled within the pod of south waterfront—and lay on the quad drinking smoothies and complaining about the next pharmacology exam. nose in a book and a drink in her hand at happy hour down at cha cha cha !, neve attracts the attention of pa student shane stone. he knows a nursing school classmate of hers from high school and is quickly incorporated to their study groups with a couple of his friends. he is tall with dark hair and kind eyes and just the sort of person a girl dreams of falling in love with. he spends little time worrying about things like rent and bus passes. it’s not even the end of the semester before study dates evolve into movie dates. there’s an entire world between them, but somehow the pair build a bridge.

DEATH RATTLES AND DYING BREATH ; THE GIRL’S OTHER SHOE DROPS

as neve focuses on school, douglas seems to be making steps to keep himself around longer. they go for long walks with robocop around the neighborhood. southeast portland is becoming a different neighborhood and the cost of living is high. restaurants crop up with around the block waits and family friends are forced to move to grayer pastures. it seems, to the channings, that it’s the end of an era. with neve spending most of her time at shane’s apartment on south waterfront, douglas’ weight loss is hardly noticed–everyone assumes it is merely the byproduct of increased activity. it isn’t until his stature becomes gaunt that neve starts to worry.

shane holds neve close when she finally breaks down–sneaking into the single bathroom of the clinic to let her fall apart the way he knows she can’t do in the open. like a wild animal, the girl he loves hides herself away when she feels death’s acrid breath on her neck. he doesn’t know what loss is and he certainly can’t relate to what she’s been through. douglas’ diagnosis is like watching the noose tighten around her mother’s neck all over again. her throat is dry like she’s choking on the fibers of that same rope; the world has a foggy edge—hollow like street lights illuminating an empty suburban neighborhood on a clear, dark night. everything is wooden; everything feels like a dollhouse.

it’s hard to keep up on her studies, but somehow neve muscles through. shane gives up his idyllic apartment and moves into their modest southeast home to help out. he makes a lighthearted joke about finally being a real portlander and moving so near the trendy, revitalized mississippi neighborhood and neve drops and breaks her coffee mug on the unfinished wood floor of the kitchen. it’s just another reminder that he doesn’t belong in her world any more than she does in his. it doesn’t sting as bad as the ink on his mother’s checks that she cashes to keep her father comfortable on his deathbed while she learns to be a better caretaker. life ebbs and flows, but douglas’ drains away until she hardly recognizes the sinewy, pale hands that hold hers so strongly for a man that can’t sit up by himself any longer. she curses her mother once more for leaving and twice for never having been there in the first place.

death isn’t slow or peaceful like the woman from her father’s church will lie about at the funeral. his death rattle lasts for hours and the bellows of his chest quake with weary breath. part of her wishes that the hospice nurse had started an iv on him and a sick, hidden part of her wishes it because a sweet dose of morphine would’ve ended it all sooner for him. she wonders silently if that would do more to ease his pain or hers? he hasn’t been conscious in two days. shane sits with her at the side of his bed with rapt attention and as his breathing slows, neve crawls into the hospice bed next to him. the next several months are a blur and a father misses his only daughter’s graduation. neve is barely present there herself.

shane insists that she’s not an orphan–his parents fly in from denver and treat her like one of their own. it guilts her that she can’t help but resent them for the simple virtue of living while her own father is reduced to a cold dust. she wears his ashes around her neck in a pendant from the funeral home and spreads the rest in every beautiful place she can find. some of them spill into her purse during a hike with robo and shane and she breaks down in tears. there are so many small things that make her sick or numb. a multitude of tiny memories that weigh as much as planets; isn’t dust what helped create the milky way? even around the stone family she feels alone. maybe especially around the stones.

HACKLES RAISED, A GIRL LEARNS THE DANGERS OF BEING FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

the emergency department attracts all kinds of people in myriad dire straits. people come in at the end of their ropes–infections ignored too long, stabbings and shootings, a broken bone from slipping off the slide, and sometimes when they feel like they can’t live any longer. evan does not fit into any of these categories when he comes in. among the myriad failings of the medical system, lack of access and use of primary care is one of the larger contributions to higher emergency department volumes and evan is another data point in a sea of statistics. he comes back to neve’s room with a sly grin plastered on his face and states that he’s new to the area and can’t get into a new primary care for a few months. his daily asthma inhaler is out and he needs to renew the prescription and get a referral to a clinic.

there’s nothing on the surface that identifies this man as a threat. he’s almost charming and he’s nontoxic appearing–a nice easy patient in a sea of sick people is sometimes a great relief. they make some small talk and it’s the usual stuff she chats about with patients: ‘where’re you from?’ ‘where did you go to school?’ he expresses an interest in nursing and she recommends the program she attended at the hospital she now works. there’s almost a tension there, and when he makes a casual comment about the tan line on her finger she tells him that she doesn’t wear her engagement ring at work because it can tear the gloves. that’s only half right. maybe he can sense the rest of the truth; she’ll wonder that later when she pieces together every scrap of something she can use to blame it on herself.

he sends her a message on facebook, which makes her lips curl downwards in uncertainty. even that isn’t entirely alarming. it opens up reminding her that he’s knew to the area, and that he’s interested in the nursing program she went to. it’s a surprise, but he makes mention of a girlfriend’s wifi and he even asks how shane is doing. he loves her dog and mentions wanting one himself. sure, it’s a little weird–unconventional–but neve has always been interested in helping others find nursing and agrees to meet him for coffee to discuss the program. when they meet, she sees the mistake inherit in it before she even opens the cafe door. he’s disheveled and hyperverbal when he speaks to her and she can barely get a word in edge wise. between the gift he’s brought her and the intensity of his stare, she wonders how she could have read him so wrong. it’s then that he drops the bomb that makes her stomach sink into the trench it detonates in–will they take him in the nursing program with a record? she doesn’t ask, but he provides the details anyway. death threats to some girl he barely knew that wouldn’t leave him alone, he paints the canvas well, but she can read between the lines. evan stevens is dangerous and his lethal eye is trained on her.

she makes an excuse to leave–the first of many excuses, the illusion of being unavailable, unattainable. it’s the advice she’s given to women before, but never had to follow. those words offered to women in distress seem so trite now, so hollow. there is so much fear in cutting ties slowly–the strategic approach to keep an impulsive person like that from escalating. she wishes she could take those clinical offerings of textbook wisdom back from those women and hold their hands. she wonders how many of them still live. he starts blowing up her phone constantly. he comments on all her social media. all day and all night. if she doesn’t respond, he threatens suicide. some days he asks if she’s working and says he brought her lunch. if she says she’s sick, he asks for her address to bring her tom yum takeout from the restaurant she’s posted about on instagram. everything makes her sick now.

A FINAL GIRL IS FORGED ALONE ; THERE IS NO SUBVERTING FATE

god, it’s hard to speak about. she can’t even let the words reach her tongue, lips and teeth to birth them. they shrivel and die in her throat, festering there until she swallows them and they rest in her stomach like great stones. she wonders if evan will cut her stomach open like a wolf and find the rocks there. that’s not how the story goes; she tells herself so many versions as she lies awake in the dark afraid to sleep.

when she finally tells her friends–a smattering of girls and guys from nursing school, the er, and her neighborhood–the response is like the knife she dreams about in her gut. she shows some of the girls at her work his picture, worried that he’ll come in asking about her. she’s chided by these friends, “he’s actually pretty cute, florence nightingale” they joke. “it must be flattering to have the attention.” even shane suspected that there’s some indulgence on her part. that maybe she likes trying to fix people who are broken so much that she gets some sick reward from the experience. he doesn’t speak the words, but neve is fluent in shane stone. he says it in his eyes, the downcurve of his lips, the tense way he sighs when her phone dings over and over again during date nights.

on a cold night in december, neve works on meal prepping alone in the kitchen. evan has been out of town helping his mother remodel her kitchen and neve feels like she can finally breathe in the space he’s left behind. turning on the wireless speaker, she tries to pair her phone to play music as loud as the thin walls of her father’s modest northeast portland home will allow and instead hears, in the cold, robotic voice ‘pairing with neve’s iphone and evan’s iphone.’ robocop doesn’t even lift his head in suspicion the whole night. she calls 911, but they find neither hide nor hair of him. in the morning, neve nails the windows shut and buys a gun–a smith & wesson .357 snub nose revolver. the weight of it is heavy in her hands and she buys a membership to a gun range, calling into work and practicing until shane returns. she doesn’t tell him about the gun and she stops telling him how bad things have gotten with evan. the click of his tongue and disapproval in his eyes is more dooming than a death sentence and she can’t bear to bring further disappointment. neve channing is a strong woman–a smart woman. things like this don’t happen to women like her.

somehow, evan is everywhere and he knows all her secret places as if he exists as an extension of her. maybe he even believes he is–sending her voice messages about how they’re connected. they are the same; they are foils of one another. he send her a picture of his ouroboros tattoo from a new number after she finally blocks him. ‘we are the same.’ he is an all-consuming, devouring force, but she is not a serpent’s tail. he is moloch–besmeared with blood, the great, horrid king–but she is not a child and she will not be sacrificed for sins she has not committed. he has not right and there’s only one way she can see this ending as the days grow longer. like life itself begins, this too will end in blood.

LOVE IS A HARD KNIFE ; A GIRL CAN’T STOMACH AMBROSIA

there is a consequence to every action and every inaction. every little thing she chooses not to tell shane fester and boils. the late nights at work and the new passcode on her phone seem more to shane like cheating than a worsening of some creep’s obsession. she hasn’t even mentioned evan to him since the trees started blooming again. when he elects to cheer her up and bring her lunch during a shift she traded so she could practice at the gun range, his suspicions deepen and while she sleeps that morning, he rifles through her work bag and finds alongside her locked cell phone the cold steel of a secret that he cannot abide by.

it’s not his fault either and she means that from the bottom of her heart. every kindness from the stones feels like another debt and neve can’t help but let the resentment fester in the tasteful diamond on her finger. when she looks upon his face now all she can see is death and it’s the world’s cruelest joke, because she’s the one with cemetery dirt underneath her fingernails. she can’t tell which of the two of them she resents more and they both deserve lives where ghosts stay buried and the dead don’t whisper malcontent in her ears while she struggles to fall asleep. nightmares are her own warm milk; she’s sick of the cold metal of a gun as she moves it from her night stand to her purse each morning. she’s tired of being made to feel like she had a stake in any of this.

it’s not the kindest way to leave a man, but she’s not sure she’s ready to face him again after all that’s happened. she leaves her house keys with her cousin paloma and packs up shane’s stuff. paloma has just started nursing school and can use neve’s father’s old house to sublet. the rent’s free and she’s always been gentle hearted. neve can’t think of anyone better to care for her father’s old house. with dear john letters to both shane and the hospital, neve takes robocop and enough of her things to fit into her subaru forester. it’s not goodbye. it’s never goodbye, she thinks as she hugs paloma on the modest porch. it still feels so permanent, but neve tells herself that big decisions always do. she yearns to discover who she is outside of grief and fear and love. a daughter cannot bloom in her parents’ shadows and she is suffocating underneath the gentle love of the mourning glory.

on the road without a real plan–because if she doesn’t know where she’s going, then neither does evan–neve signs on for a travel nursing company. the first assignment she considers is salem hospital an hour south and it’s a great department, but it’s too close to home. he’ll find her there easily. st. charles in bend isn’t far enough away either. it doesn’t feel like enough of a difference and none of them do until she’s cruising down the interstate through blythe, california and she sees a listing for a level one trauma center in tuscon, arizona. it feels like it could be the right place to burn and be born again.

A GIRL AND HER DOG; SOMETIMES PEACE IS ITS OWN KIND OF PRISON

the cool steel of the snub nose .357 revolver lies buried beneath her registration and owner’s manual in the glove compartment. she wonders briefly as she pulls out her sunglasses and slips a salty french fry into her mouth. the car stereo fades in and out along the southbound highway, switching between some smooth-talking radio host and the tinny crooning of buddy holly. it makes her think of her father, and she blinks back tears–plugging in her iphone to switch to a tune that doesn’t bring back such painful memories. robocop whines in the backseat and neve discovers that her maps aren’t loading any longer, the gps unable to locate their vehicle.

there’s no sense in pulling over and pulling out the map of arizona she purchased from a disinterested teen in the first gas station she’d come across in the state. there’s only two days before the job starts and, according to her recruiter, they’d already moved the orientation up a day, cutting her time to adjust to her new ( temporary ) place before work in half. taking a long drink of coffee–now as cold as her french fries–she blinks hard to keep awake and just when she thinks she’ll have to pull over and sleep in her car huddled close to robocop’s warm, furry body.

neve passes a hospital on the outskirts of town–lit up all pretty against the dark desert sky. it looks nice enough and the longer she drives, the more she considers that her recruiter might’ve told her they were full up in tuscon. maybe that was why they moved the date up for orientation afterall. in the dark august night, most of the businesses are closed and the lights in the mobile home park neve passes are off. the first place she sees open is bj’s food mart and she stops to get a fresh cup of coffee and stretch her legs. she learns inside that amen county is always hiring and leaves with a smile on her lips.

neve has spent nine peaceful months in boot hill. the gun no longer lives shoved into the bottom of her work bag or nestled into the glove compartment of her subaru. now it spends its days in solitude in the coffin-like drawer of her bedside table. evan will never find this place, she is almost sure of it. he might be looking for her, but he’s not looking for boot hill. some evenings on her long strolls to work, she smiles and closes her eyes–listening to the soothing sounds of the town.

soon enough, neve is sure there really was no travel assignment to reach. or, if there had been, she can’t remember where it’s at. instead, she takes some time to enjoy the small town and the anonymity she feels there. she’s not even living out of the silk bonnet hotel anymore. she hadn’t seen boot hill on any map during her road trip and, if that’s universal, her past can’t find her without a destination to set its sights on. there is more than great comfort in that. by the end of her first month, she can’t imagine living anywhere else.

the emergency department is not the bustling trauma center she was used to, but there is an appeal to the autonomy rural medicine offers an experienced nurse. hell, in some places the doctors only come in if you call them. neve can’t exactly remember the application and interview process anymore. it seems like there are so many things that have become mysteries and she can’t find herself caring enough to investigate them long enough to follow an actual lead. it seems like she’s always worked there–an instantaneous sensation of home. she couldn’t even leave if she wanted to.

#neve.#⚕ ━━━ VISAGE ჻ neve channing.#⚕ ━━━ CHARACTER STUDY ჻ neve channing.#⚕ ━━━ AESTHETIC ჻ neve channing.#⚕ ━━━ SOUNDTRACK ჻ neve channing.#⚕ ━━━ THREADS ჻ neve channing.#⚕ ━━━ CONNECTIONS ჻ neve channing.#⚕ ━━━ WANTED ჻ neve channing.#⚕ ━━━ RESOURCES ჻ neve channing.#⚕ ━━━ WARDROBE ჻ neve channing.

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nohcrm · 4 years

Text

( ADELAIDE KANE / 32 / SHE/HER ) – ( neve channing ) has been spotted in the castle. they said to originally be from ( portland, oregon ) and is often seen to be ( self-possessed ) but seemingly ( resilient ). After being in Wolfenstein for ( time in compound ), they’ve come to ( quietly rebel against ) the council in their own way. They work as ( a nurse ) and are known around these parts as ( the healer ). better watch your back with that one around.

A LIST OF (AT LEAST) 6 AESTHETICS FOR THIS CHARACTER: the soft inky fur of a canine companion, a maroon stethoscope hanging around a neck–partially obscured by a curtain of dark hair, a father’s watch with a black leather band that is faithfully worn and cared for, a worn leather jacket that fits like a second skin, a small pile of books read and re-read–the ones with traditional medical treatments dogeared and the margins written in, restless nights after years of working the nightshift. THE SONG YOU SEE AS THIS CHARACTERS THEME: troublemaker by beach house (AT LEAST) THREE HEADCANON: neve had accepted a job as a nurse on a private european tour group as a way to see europe without having to pay for it herself after having been stalked and wanting to sort of disappear. prior to that she was an er nurse in portland oregon. she’s always been a successful and competent nurse, but her confidence in her skills has undergone some change since the supplies and medications have had to be adapted. neve sees the pragmatic need for making harsh choices; she’s made several of her own before and since the outbreak. still, she’s not always a stringent rule follower and she’ll do things for the good of others even if that doesn’t always gel with the interests of the council. she keeps to herself socially as much as she can, but she’s generally very tender and compassionate with those she treats and likely has a positive reputation despite being a bit reserved.

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger/content warnings: murder, death, graphic violence, mental health, postpartum depression, suicide, cancer, drug mention, parent death, medical, euthanasia mention, stalking, guns.

THE FOG CREEPS IN ; GIRLHOOD IS A GRAVEYARD

THE ODDS ARE STACKED AGAINST HER ; A GIRL LEARNS TO COUNT CARDS

SPRING RETURNS TO PORTLAND ; THE FROST CLINGS TO FRAGILE BONES

DEATH RATTLES AND DYING BREATH ; THE GIRL’S OTHER SHOE DROPS

HACKLES RAISED, A GIRL LEARNS THE DANGERS OF BEING FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

A FINAL GIRL IS FORGED ALONE ; THERE IS NO SUBVERTING FATE

LOVE IS A HARD KNIFE ; A GIRL CAN’T STOMACH AMBROSIA

she’s seen the ad on her instagram stories for weeks. some nurse she follows has a few spots open for a trip across europe–international travel nursing. it seems too good to be true; it seems like it could be a nightmare. six weeks with a tour group–neve guesses made up of people living way beyond her means–with room and board paid for. it’s an opportunity to see europe and get away from the grief and fears that wait for her around every corner at home. it doesn’t take much for her to convince herself and when she finds out that she can bring robocop along as a therapy dog? there’s no reason not to go.

DEATH RIDES A PALE HORSE ; THE AXIOM OF AN APOCALYPSE

the first inklings of the outbreak pique neve’s interest–an amateur virulogist and a woman on the front lines, she turns her watchful eye on the reports. they are an obscurity, an oddity. they are a fun hobby that neve debates with her new coworkers and the more interesting patrons of the european tour so that she does not lament the northwest so viscerally. the passing jokes do not end when the mandatory screenings are brought up among the two other nurses on the trip. ‘it’s just like ebola all over again’ her colleagues joke. no one takes threats seriously when they’re far away; sometimes the only protection against the weight of the world is levity. the old nurse adage rings true–if you don’t laugh, you might cry.

the work is easy, but tedious. she misses being an er nurse instead of what feels like a concierge to webmd abroad. most of the people aren’t so bad, but she doesn’t really connect with them either. since evan, she had a hard time connecting with anybody. it’s not just the work she misses from back home. she misses her friends and the distant family she left behind. she misses working at night, so she can feel safe sleeping during the day. an entire ocean separates her from her greatest fear and yet it seems she’s never free. that fear consumes her so entirely, that as the outbreak worsens, she isn’t as vigilant as she might have been.

A GIRL AND HER DOG ; AUSTRIA BECOMES A WASTELAND

their group isn’t built on loyalty. it doesn’t take long for fear to drive a wedge between them and several of them split off–either to reunite themselves with their families or to take shelter with other rich eccentrics. neve is invited by some vaguely cultist woman to what she refers to as her compound, but declines. there is nothing good out there for any of them, but she’s afraid that going as someone’s charity case will rob her of her agency. there’s no way she can offer up her only semblance of control to a woman who thinks essential oils cure cancer.

instead, a small band of the travelers survives together for almost a year. it’s difficult and they lose and gain people among them with fair frequency. neve does her best to care for the others, but even with her background and the supplies she’d brought on the trip, it’s hard to treat traumatic injuries and infections in a foreign country with no infrastructure or reliable power. she loses more patients in that year than she can stand, but there are little victories too. she tries not to weight hem against one another–a feather of successes against a pile of lead losses.

WOLF AND WOMAN PERSIST ; IN THE FACE OF CLUB AND FANG

wolfenstein exists as a curious dream–an atlantis built as salvation. she and her surviving companions can hardly believe it’s real when they hear the transmission on the radio. it’s painful to hope, and part of her worries that it’s part of some nefarious scheme; they’ve run into some untoward survivors before, but at the risk of sounding cliched–no risk, no reward. sure enough, there is a big reward: civilization, no matter how rudimentary. after nearly a year scrounging and fighting to survive, there truly is hope. she worries they won’t accept her with a dog she won’t let go of, but an emergency nurse in the apocalypse has more leverage than a dozen physician specialties. he is well trained. he can help with some work. they’re a packaged deal.

the rules are simple, reasonable. she’s trained for mass casualty incidents where resources have to be given to those who will likely be able to survive outside of the hospital when all is said an done. that kind of choice is difficult for those attracted to careers built on compassion, but neve has always accepted the responsibility of it. still, it’s hard for her to justify turning people away who might not always be able to contribute meaningfully. there’s no longer hipaa or ethics committees; there is only the council, of which she too is a member. still, she keeps records of everyone and holds their health information close to her heart. if she can keep some chronic illnesses a secret, she will. no one wants to feed someone who might not be able to work further down the line.

some people must wonder if her interests are aligned with the greater good or the individual, but she keeps that answer close to her chest: it depends.

#biography #wolfen.intro #it's long and i've tried to put trigger warnings at the top of the bio because they are plentiful

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thephantomofthe-internet · 6 years

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Fide (Eros p.t 13)

Billy Hargrove x Reader, Jonathan Byers x Reader (Unrequited)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16

Word Count: 3090

Warnings: Swearing, Fighting, Abuse mention

Author’s note: So am I 100% happy with the way this turned out? No. Am I still gonna post it? Yes. Why? Because I think that this is the best the wording is gonna get, I always forget how hard it is to write romantic love when you’ve never been in it.

Forever Tag: @hotstuffhargrove @steveharringtonofficial @denimjacketkisses @flamehairedwritings @hargroovin @nistaposebno @giftofdreams @feverxxdream

Series Tag: @hargrovesgoldilocks @xicarcalii @wtf-richarddd @sighsophiia @baebee35 @ijustwantahugfromtennant @rhyxn @wearemightyghosts @random-stupid-stuffs @so-not-hotmess @warsintothestars @lilmissperfectlyimperfect @angellastor @aaliyonte @baileythepenguin @sleepyspacegal @kingbouji3 @abbyed @80steenmovie @ohtaylorrose @little-red-wolf-hood @peanutlicker5000 @demoncrypt1066 @jinx-is-fire

Feedback Appreciated!!

Billy had been determined to figure out what happened at Vicki’s party and when you didn’t show up to school on Monday morning, his quest went outwards to his peers.

Unfortunately for him, nobody knew what happened. As it turns out, the only people to talk to him that night were Tina and Macy, who were too far blitz to remember what happened, Jonathan and Nancy, who insists that they didn’t do anything to her, and him. Five people. That was it. And three of them couldn’t remember what had happened.

He didn’t believe Nancy and Jonathan at first, he gone after them for days trying to muscle out the information, but they stuck to their story and, though it took him awhile, he realized that you weren’t upset with them. You continued to talk to them as if nothing had happened. That was the upsetting part-the obvious answer seemed wrong. That worried him more than anything else.

So he left them alone. There was nothing he could do if the answer wasn’t there, he had to find another solution. That solution became to watch out for you. Not obviously, of course, that would make him look foolish, but close enough to make sure you weren’t in harm’s way. Not that you usually were, but after the events of Vicki’s party, people seemed to be talking about you a bit more.

That was Billy’s fault, not that he realized it at the time. All his intense questioning caused a stir and people were more than inclined to look into her and exactly what happened that night. Billy hadn’t heard, but according to Hilary Caldwell, you did return to the party, crying your eyes out. You got back in your car and drove away, nearly hitting her and her friends as they crossed the road. This made the whole story a lot juicer, but Billy never heard it. You and Hilary weren’t friends and he wouldn’t intentionally seek her out unless he knew she knew something.

But everyone else heard some form of that story and spread it like wildfire. You became a woman scorn in some eyes, a helpless victim in others, and, in Tommy and Carol’s eyes, an annoying waif prone to crying fits. Tommy made that known to anyone who would listen and, because the boy has never learned his lesson, that person became Billy on Wednesday afternoon.

Since he dumped Valerie and you weren’t talking to him, Billy had returned to eating lunch with Carol and Tommy, only out of necessity seeing as it was December and it was too cold to eat outside. He mostly focused on picking at his meatloaf and cold green beans, trying to block out the sounds of Carol and Tommy’s annoying voices. But that day, Tommy had decided to be even more annoying than usual.

He turned to Billy, his mouth full of cheap ground beef and premade gravy, and said “You know man; it’s good to have you back. That psycho bitch Y/N turned you bitch.”

Billy rolled his eyes, noting how he stole one of his lines, but keeping his focus on his tray instead. He didn’t agree with what Tommy was saying but he didn’t feel like arguing with him about this-if Tommy needed to inflate his own ego by putting himself above you, then he’d let him purely because Billy knew it wasn’t true.

“She’s so pathetic,” Carol added “Effing switching from guy to guy, blubbering like a baby when Byers dumps like he’s actually worth crying over.”

“Fucking nut job, she’s insane dude. No matter how good that pussy was, she was not worth it.” Tommy laughed.

That’s when Billy snapped. He was on his feet before he’d realized that he was moving and his fist connected with Tommy’s jaw before he realized that hitting him could be the wrong choice.

“What did I say about talking about Y/N, dumbass?” he sneered. Tommy’s hand came to his jaw and, for a brief moment, it looked as though he wasn’t going to fight back. But then he was on his feet and a weak punch came directly for Billy face. It didn’t hurt, per say, nor did it surprise him. He chuckled darkly “Oh, now you’re dead, Hanson.”

Fortunately for Tommy, before Billy could pounce on him, Vice Principal Warner pulled Billy back. “My office, now Hargrove!” he snapped, tugging the boy out by his arm.

Of course, he got suspended. Fighting was punishable by suspension and he’d worn out all his chances, so he was gone for three days. And since he wasn’t going to school the next day anyway, skipping his afternoon classes wasn’t going to mean much. He left in a cloud of smoke and screeching tires.

Of course, you heard about it. The story was spread like wildfire throughout the student body. Any fight was interesting, but the added addition of it being over someone made it especially juicy. Rumours flew of the fight being over Valerie, who basked in the glow of attention, Vicki, who mostly kept her mouth latched around Steve’s, and, as per her own retelling, Carol.

You kept your head low, grateful that the fight didn’t seem to be about you. Billy was getting even more reckless and you almost wanted to seek him out and help him, but that meant speaking to him of your own free will and that wasn’t in the cards as of late. You were still too mad and broken to even think of speaking to him right now. You spent the rest of the day trying to push him from your mind and the afternoon out of school at the Hawkins Library, your home away from home.

When you finally had to go home, you thankfully found groceries in the fridge and your father asleep on the couch. You made dinner and brought your mother some, surprised to see her awake and doing something other than watching mindless TV; she was up in bed reading a knitting magazine. You made your father a plate and ate alone in your room. For the first time since meeting Billy, you felt lonely. You contemplated called Stacy but you weren’t in the mood to hear about her boyfriend or drama with Kristen, which seemed never ending. You went to bed early, wishing you could call Barb and sinking into the pain like a warm bath.

You woke up at midnight with a throat dryer than you ever felt before. You tiptoed downstairs, heading into the kitchen. The only light illuminating the kitchen was the moonlight from the open window and the small yellow light you’d forgotten to turn off hours early. You decided that you didn’t need more light than that and dug through the cupboard for a plastic cup you felt comfortable bringing upstairs. You filled the cup quickly under the sink and drank the whole thing in one giant gulp. You filled the cup again, leaning against the back of the sink, letting out a breath through your nose.

Then, someone rapped at the back door. And you dropped your cup, slapping one hand over your mouth to muffle the scream that emitted from your throat. You let your gaze linger to the window above the sink, hoping for some sign of who was there without actually going to the door.

The blue Camaro sat on the street outside. You groaned loudly, stomping to the door.

“Jesus Christ, are you looking to get murdered? Cause I was about to grab a knife and-” you started, but when your eyes flicked up to his face, the words ran dry in your mouth as you felt your eyes widen. You’d seen Billy look bad, beaten up by forces he never mentioned, but this was a new level. He looked absolutely terrible-there was blood crusted under his nose, his right eye blackened and there was a small cut on the bag under his eye, his lower lip fat and busted. Tommy could never do this much damage, even if he gathered his whole gang including Steve Harrington, the best fighter of all of them, which wasn’t to say much.

“Oh my God get in here!” you gasped, pulling him by the arm and pulling him inside. You grabbed the first aid kit off the shelf above the sink and led him upstairs, shushing him. You flicked on the overhead light in your room and locked the door.

“Sit.” You commanded, pushing him down onto the bed. You noted how he winced when you touched his left shoulder. You opened the old kit and knelt in from of him, removing an alcohol wipe and dabbing away the crusted blood. Billy winced when the wipe touched the cut on his eye, but he didn’t complain beyond that.

You placed a bit of pressure on the sides of his nose, checking for irregularities. You sighed “Well, it’s not broken. I’m gonna go get some ice, you stay here. Take off your shirt, I wanna check your shoulders.” You said.

“Always trying to get me naked, aren’t you?” he chuckled, wincing as he tried to pull his infamous smirk. You rolled your eyes, stepping out of the room. Billy sighed, watching you go. He knew you well enough to know that this was just you being nice. You were still upset and now, the obvious answer that it was his fault shined bright neon in his eyes. He settled in to try to fix the mess he wouldn’t admit that he caused.

When you returned, he had stripped off his shirt, the large bruise on his left shoulder fully on display. It was fading, a mark from another night, but he’d obvious been shoved into something or hit, based on the redness around it. You had to keep yourself from running your fingers over the constellations of freckles, moles, and tiny scars on his back, focusing on the bruise itself. You handed him one bag, pointing to your own eye to explain where to place it. He did as you did and you took your place behind him, icing the large bruise.

You sighed “So, are you ever gonna tell me what’s going on?” Billy grunted in response, not bothering to attempt to look at you. “I worry about you, Bill…” you muttered, letting your forehead rest on the top of his spine.

Billy’s gaze flicked to his hands, the faint bruises on his knuckles felt weak instead of strong now. He took a shaky breath. “My dad’s an asshole.” He admitted. You didn’t respond, unsure of what to say.

“When he gets pissed, he takes it out on me…” he muttered. You nodded, lifting your head to lean it on his uninjured shoulder.

“And he did…all this?” you asked. Billy nodded and let out small gasp, immediately embarrassed by it. You didn’t want to make a big deal of it all, you wanted to seem calm and understanding.

“I deserve it most of the time.” He added softly.

“Bill,” you whispered “You don’t deserved his shit.” You felt him nod and you turned to look up at him. “Do you have anyone you can call about this? I mean I don’t wanna tell you what to do but I think maybe having a backup plan, in case shit gets too bad, might be a good idea.” You asked.

Billy nodded again “My stepmom.” He said.

“Susan?” you asked.

“No, Karalee.” He replied, letting out a small sigh “When we moved out to Sacramento, he married this chick Karalee, nice lady, big house. When he’d get mad, she’d kick him out and take his house key, make him go handle it somewhere else. She watched out for me. But then he started in on her and she left him. Tried to take me with her, but it didn’t work out. Not her kid, courts ruled in the bastard’s favour. Gave me her number when we left, told me I can call if I need anything.” He said, lifting the small Virgin Mary charm he wore around his neck “Gave me this too, don’t know why but it was nice, best thing anyone did for me.”

You nodded softly “Good…” you muttered, wrapping your arms around his middle “I don’t like seeing you hurt…”

“I don’t like seeing you hurt.” He replied forcefully, turning to look at you “Y/N, when’re you gonna tell me what happened? Why won’t you talk to me?”

“I just-” you sighed “It’s embarrassing and I don’t wanna talk about it. You’ll laugh at me.”

“No I won’t.” Billy retorted, watching you carefully.

“You already did…” you muttered and Billy found himself shut right up. Everything he’d been trying to pretend wasn’t true was and he felt like an ass. All that work, all that searching and sleuthing and it was his own pigheadedness that caused all this.

“I’m sorry…” he replied softly. You nodded, looking up at him. His whole face was broken with concern and disappointment. Not in you, but in himself. He looked so upset. It broke your heart a little.

“You weren’t sober, I get it.” You replied “I’m not mad at you anymore, I’m just embarrassed.” You said.

“If it makes you feel better, I can’t remember anything you said.” Billy replied.

“Really?” you asked, a small smile breaking onto your face. You didn’t know if he was telling the truth, despite how solemn he looked, and that made you nervous to accept the words as truth.

“All I can remember is you leaving crying, not a great image.” He said.

You chuckled drily “Sorry ‘bout that one, bud.” Billy felt his face pull into a smirk, which hurt his lip but he didn’t mind this time. Now, the minor pain of his busted lip pulling didn’t compare to the warmth filling his whole body, like the California sun warming his skin on one of his family’s rare beach days.

“Nah could’ve been worse. Could’ve been Carol crying, she looks like she’s melting. It’s nauseating.” He replied. You chuckled, nodding along. You’d only seen her cry once, but it looked like someone took a hairdryer to a velvet painting.

When your laughter died down, you found yourself smiling, leaning into his shoulder. It was a brief moment-nothing you hadn’t done before, but Billy found the moment suddenly very private and intimate. His smirk fell into a small smile and his hand came instinctually around to touch you, his hand coming to your ankle and his thumb grazed it lovingly. The whole moment felt out of time, as though you’d entered a different universe where everything was normal. If you could have lived in this moment forever, where you could pretend that Billy cared for you the way you cared for him, you would’ve. But you had to return to the real world.

“How’d it go with Val? You two talk it through?” you asked.

Billy shrugged “We broke up.” He said, as though it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Huh?” you asked, lifting your head to look at him fully “I thought you were in love with her?”

Billy shook his head, trying to understand the logic. “Where the hell did you get that idea from?” he countered.

“From you!” you said “You told me that you loved her after Vicki’s party, that you couldn’t dump her for that reason alone!”

Billy fell silent. He did know what to say-you were right, he did think that he loved her once, back when things were simple and loving, but that feeling fell away after weeks of Valerie putting him off for people she deemed as more important or better than him. Vicki’s party was the last straw for him.

“I…I don’t think I did, I mean I did once, but not then. I was over her then. I think.” He stuttered.

You shrugged “Eh, you were drunk; you were doing a lot of stupid shit. There was a keg, I’m sure you did a keg stand or four. Saying that you love someone when you don’t is only a problem when you say it to that person. Otherwise you’re fine.” You explained softly.

Billy found himself agreeing, nodding along with you as though you spoke a gospel. “You’re right, you’re right, you’re really smart, you know that?” he said.

You smirked “Yeah, yeah I do.”

Billy rolled his eyes, turning to face the window. You followed suit and Billy wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side and returning you to the position you’d been in before, leaning on his shoulder. Through your blinds, a full moon lit the room and you contemplated getting up and pulling the blinds, letting in all the light, and turning off the bright yellow light that hurt your eyes.

You sighed “Let’s stay here forever, yeah?” you muttered dreamily.

“Up in your bedroom? Pretty sure your mom would find us soon enough, definitely before we starved to death.” Billy replied softly, teasing you just a little. The idea didn’t feel bad to him, which felt even stranger than it should’ve.

You giggled, shaking your head slightly. “No, I mean here, in this moment. It’s so quiet and peaceful and nobody wants anything from us. We don’t have to be anything or do anything. Let’s just stay here, okay?” you replied, the dreaminess in your voice increasingly becoming evident of your tiredness.

“Yeah, sure why not?” he muttered. Billy looked down at you, watching the way you snuggled into him, trying to harness the warmth his body emitted. You look so small; soft and sweet and innocent and curled so close to him. If Billy had felt butterflies in his stomach around a girl recently, or even at all, he would’ve known the feeling well enough to identify it in that moment. He would’ve known the meaning of the feeling. But Billy didn’t know the feeling well enough and chalked it up to some form of late onset nausea from the pain inflicted on him. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss in your hair and moving you into your own bed, chuckled at the small whine you emitted as he lifted you away from him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, kid…” he muttered in your ear, pushing off the bed and out the door, flicking off the light as he left. He snuck downstairs and out the side door again.

You two were going to be okay. This was proof. The butterflies be damned.

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redditnosleep · 6 years

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The Cat Lady

by theoddcatlady

I used to have three beautiful cats. Chloe, Jewel, and Mercy. My sweet girls. I had the perfect family. A husband Greg, my son Dylan, and of course the cats. Jewel was the snitch. Always pacing around the table, warbling for whatever we had. She had developed a taste for green beans. Mercy was the prim lady. Always cleaning herself. Always sitting on the bookshelves. And always found where I hid the cat treats.

Chloe was my favorite though. Whenever my lap was available, she was sitting there. At night she’d sleep at the foot of the bed. In the morning, she’d wake me by kneading my chest. Greg would laugh and say she was just making sure my heart hadn’t stopped. Her version of kitty CPR.

Greg and I were considering getting just one more when the accident happened. Greg was on the way to the clinic with the cats to update their vaccinations, and… well, I’m almost thankful that my babies didn’t suffer.

I lost my cats and my husband all at once. Dylan was already a grown man, and after barely four months after the loss he took off for college. I was all alone in my house, and my broken heart showed no sign of mending. Dylan barely came to visit, and after the first five years I was lucky to get a card for Christmas.

I became the ‘old crazy witch’ on the block with a dead husband. The kids made up their stories, I mostly just sat on my front porch and enjoyed the sun when it came out- the heat made my sore joints feel better.

Then I met Goliath.

My neighborhood is very close to a wooded park. On my days off from work at the grocery store Greg and I used to walk down those quiet paths. But there was also a feral cat problem there. I’d catch only glimpses of their skinny bodies and wild eyes.

But while I knitted on the front porch one morning, a streak of fur caught my attention, and I saw him. Immediately I dubbed him Goliath.

He was enormous. A tomcat that was bigger than some dogs, he had a mean face, matted long fur, and torn up ears. But he had the same coloring as Chloe, black with mottled orange and brown.

He came to a stop in front of the porch and froze, staring at me. I stared back. His tail twitched. His amber eyes bore right into mine.

“… Here, kitty kitty.”

Goliath slowly stepped closer to the porch, stopping at the steps. When I got up and tried to get closer, Goliath darted away and ran into the bushes. He didn’t trust me.

But I was so lonely. Even big old mean cat like that could give me some sort of companionship.

I went inside and got some canned tuna, opening it up and setting it at the steps. After I retreated to my chair, Goliath returned. He smelled the tuna. He licked his chops and stared at the can, but he was nervous around me. So I went inside. When I came back a few minutes later, Goliath was focused on licking out the can.

I made a friend that day.

Goliath took forever to get used to me, the mistrusting kitty who had never felt a human’s touch. But he didn’t leave, he took to sleeping in the tire swing in the front yard. Greg never got around to taking the damn thing down when Dylan grew too old for it. Goliath showed up for lunch every day, I’d feed him tuna and chatter to him. He’d purr like a semi truck.

Then one day he brought a date- a gray tabby with a short tail and a missing eye.

I went to the store that night and invested in bulk bags of dry food and the canned stuff.

Duchess, the gray tabby, didn’t hesitate to make herself at home in the tree outside. Neither did the others. It was a trickle, and never consistent. One day I’d just have Goliath and Duchess, the next there would be six or seven meowing babies ready for lunch.

For the first time in years, I felt whole. Like I had a purpose again, to take care of these innocent creatures. Most wouldn’t come close, but Goliath had become my friend. While I watched the sun set, Goliath would sprawl across my lap and would purr when I scratched his ears.

But of course, the new neighbors didn’t take so kindly to my new friends.

It was one family in particular, the Hubbards. The Hubbards had five boys between seven and fourteen. All of them were incredibly ill behaved. This was the same family that tried to claim that the lovely Hakim family was building bombs in their garage (their eldest daughter was actually building an automatic feeder for their dog) and that the reason that one house down the street wasn’t selling was because we had Alec and Derek living together ‘in sin’. The poor couple actually moved away from how awful the harassment got.

So when the wife Carla saw me with my cats, she threw a fit. She slammed her trash bin shut and marched over to my yard. The shyer cats ran off to the backyard, while Goliath sat content on my lap, unamused by this intruder.

“What is with all these cats?” She snapped.

Goliath just yawned and licked his paw.

I nervously smiled. “Good afternoon, Carla. These are just some strays I like to take care of. They’re harmless, maybe a bit fleabitten but they do no harm.”

Carla huffed and glared at Goliath. “That one looks like a wildcat, he could hurt my boys! And why are you wasting money feeding these… these strays, when you could have been donating to the church food drive?!”

To calm my nerves, I stroked Goliath’s ears. “Goliath won’t hurt a soul that won’t hurt him. And I did donate.”

“Well clearly you had some to spare.” Carla flipped her hair over her shoulder, looking down her nose at me. “My son already says the neighborhood calls you a witch. Stop attracting these diseased animals or I’ll be forced to call the police!”

Goliath tilted his ears back and hissed. Almost instantaneously, all the other cats turned and started to circle Carla, lurking, hair standing up their backs and growling. The scene was unnerving, to say the least. Carla backed away, growing pale, before she screamed, “Get away from me!” She kicked Kirk across the lawn before she dashed off.

The cats immediately gathered around Kirk, licking his face and purring to soothe him. I got up to check on him, nothing was hurt except for the neutered tom’s pride. I reassured them, the police wouldn’t do a thing about my babies, they weren’t destroying property or using the other yards as their toilet. They didn’t even meow loudly at night.

Well, they didn’t.

That night became an entire chorus of yowls. I looked out of my bedroom window to see a whole clutter of cats gathered in the Hubbard’s front yard. There had to be at least twenty five to thirty. In front was Goliath, I could make out his quivering hollers out of the rest.

The minute a light would go on inside the house, the cats would scatter, leaving none in sight. I think a few times I saw Carla’s husband John pitch something out of the window, probably a bottle considering the crash of glass, but as far as I could tell none made it close to a feline target.

Even though it was wrong, I giggled like a schoolgirl before shutting off the light and going to bed. I’d had cats in the past. I could sleep through it.

The next morning Carla was banging on my door, clearly exhausted after a night with no sleep. A paper was shoved in my face, I almost got bopped across the nose.

“Your neighbors aren’t happy with you, Doris.” Carla had the nerve to look smug. “We petition that you take care of your cat problem, stop feeding them, hire an animal control service, just do it!”

I took the petition and read down the list of names. There wasn’t as many as Carla would make me think- and the families that did sign up were her lackeys, the ones who kept their negativity to themselves until someone spoke up about it.

I sighed and lowered the petition. “Carla, it wasn’t anything I did that made the cats loud last night. They were in your yard, weren’t they?” My turn to look smug.

That knocked the wind out of Carla’s sails. She stammered for a second before snatching the petition out of my hands. “This is your last warning. If you don’t do something about these cats, I will!” With that, she stormed off, and would’ve looked awfully haughty… had not Goliath darted from the bushes and tripped her. Carla fell flat on her nose and Goliath ran up to me, rubbing himself against my ankles and purring before entering my house.

That was the first time Goliath entered my house, I’d never tried to take him in. But I was determined to keep him. A trim of his fur to get out the worst of the mats, a bath, and a collar later, Goliath looked like a real prince. A champion of his breed.

He seemed to have a goal in mind though. That goal was to drive the Hubbards insane. It was war and Goliath was the general.

The nightly choruses were lessened, just enough so that the neighbors couldn’t hear so well but completely obnoxious to the Hubbard household. The grass was going dead from cats pissing in the yard, along with piles of dirt from where they handled their business. Dead birds were strewn across their yard, and I heard Carla screaming about the fact a cat had taken an enormous poop right outside her door, ruining her heels.

Goliath got an extra pat on the back for that.

But the Hubbards weren’t going to play nice. Every day their boys would ride past my yard, yelling obscenities and chucking rocks at the cats. The slower ones would get struck and they would mew and cry out in pain. When blood was drawn Goliath would usher them inside and I’d care for them for the night.

It was a step too far when John put rat poison in his yard.

Duchess, poor Duchess. She’d mistakenly eaten half of the tuna can left in his yard, laced with the deadly ground up pellets. I found her barely alive on my porch.

All I could do was take her inside and make her comfortable.

All the cats came in, through the windows, through the cracked door, I think even some made it up from the basement. There was probably fifty cats, all sitting around me and Duchess as she was curled up on my lap, each breath growing lighter and lighter.

Goliath was the most distressed, pacing around, mewing, licking Duchess’ head every few seconds. I never knew a cat could love so much. When Duchess went lax and her breath came no more, he yowled so loudly I’m sure the whole town could hear it. A grieving cat, who lost his friend and love.

It was exhausting to dig the grave, but I had to do it for her. Duchess was nothing but sweet once I’d gotten her to come around. The cats stayed with me, mewing in distress and nudging at the small coffin I’d crafted for Duchess out of a box and some paints. She was a lady and she was going out in style.

Her body was lowered, the dirt covering the box, and I went to bed. Goliath slept with me that night, and I swore I would occasionally awake to hear him cry.

The next day I could barely get out of bed, but Goliath nudged me awake.

I had to take care of the others still, after all.

Carla was swearing and screaming at her car when I exited the house, and I could barely believe it. A single cat didn’t have much strength, but an army? Oh boy. The car was covered in cat pee and feces, the antenna chewed off, one of the windows was somehow broken and the seats were torn to hell.

She turned and saw me, foaming at the mouth in anger. “You!” She stormed over, her fists clenched. Goliath nudged me back and I hid behind the door, my throat dry.

“Y… yes?”

I’m sure the woman would have punched me if I hadn’t had the door between us. Instead, Carla started screaming. “That was my birthday present! I don’t know how you’re doing this, but this ends. Now!”

I took a deep breath and stood as tall and brave as a sixty eight year old woman can. “You killed one of them. Rat poison. You asked for it.”

“Like you’re going to miss that one! What is the matter with you?!”

I heard the chorus of hisses and growls from under my porch, Carla jumped out of her skin and shivered. She took a deep breath and glared.

“I swear, if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to make sure each and every one of these cats ends up in the pound or as roadkill. And I mean it!”

With that awful, awful threat, she stormed off. I stumbled onto the porch and sat on my chair, too nervous to stand. “Oh, Goliath, what am I going to do?” I whispered.

Goliath licked my hand. His way of telling me it would be okay.

That evening I decided to stay out late. Watch the moon and the stars. The cats stayed with me rather than attack the Hubbards’ yard. The sun had just gone down when I heard the sound of children’s bikes.

It was the Hubbard boys, and they were armed with rocks again, the three youngest aiming at the cats who darted and dodged under the porch or into my backyard. I’m not sure if the oldest two were aiming for me or it was just an accident, but one rock smacked right next to my head… and the other cut open my forehead.

I cried out as pain exploded across my face and blood started to drip down my face.

Every cat stopped.

Goliath mewed and licked my face before he turned.

The growl he made wasn’t a typical cat’s sound.

It was like a demon from hell.

Goliath leaped from my lap and trotted closer to the boys, fur puffing out and continuing to growl. The rest of the cats ceased running and grouped up. Some of them I didn’t even see leaped down from the tree. I had to have over seventy cats in my yard. I didn’t even know so many had ever come to see me.

The eldest boy stopped his bike, the others falling in behind him. He pulled another rock from his bag. “Stupid cat!” He pitched his arm back…

And Goliath went for his throat.

I don’t really remember what happened. I think I blacked out. What I can remember is that Goliath grew… big. Even bigger than he already was. Even bigger than a lion. And the rest of the cats swarmed behind him, a hive mind of violence and with only one goal- kill.

When I woke up, it was past midnight.

There was no sign of the bikes. No boys. No army of cats, either. Just a few left, licking at a puddle in the street where the bikes had been abandoned.. It was a dry summer. There hadn’t been a puddle there earlier.

I stumbled back to my room, the bed cold and empty of my cat. I fell asleep in bed and dreamed of the ripping of wet flesh and the crunching of bones.

The next morning I woke up and there was Goliath, sleeping across the other pillow. He was fine, he wasn’t hurt. I tried to ignore the smell of blood in his breath as he nudged my face to get me up.

There was no sign of any bikes, or puddles. Just a normal plain street like the one I’d gotten used to living on.

There wasn’t many of the cats today, only four plus Goliath. These ones that weren’t present last night, either- Chip, Dill, Biscuit, and Bambi. Bambi had sprawled across my lap and was purring when the police cruiser pulled into my driveway.

Dill hid under the porch while Biscuit and Chip ran up to say hello.

Officer Holly Silva stepped out, with Carla in tow. Carla looked like she’d been crying, but when she saw me she smirked. I sighed and looked for Goliath but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Ma’am?” Holly held up her badge, even though she knew I recognized her. “I need to speak with you, please.”

Carla’s grin grew darker.

I invited Holly inside and we sat at the table together. Carla invited herself in and was standing in the corner, looking around my pristine house. “Thought it’d be more of a mess than this, given the animals you have,” She grumbled.

Holly ignored Carla before clearing her throat and looking at me. ��Listen, Doris. Last night two of Carla’s sons came home shredded up and claiming you sicced your cats on them.” Holly took this moment to conspicuously look at Biscuit and Chip played with a ball of yarn, still quite kitten-y. “Her older three never returned home. Have you seen them?”

I reached up and touched my forehead. “I can’t really remember, last night I got my head bumped something awful.” I looked meaningfully at Carla, who sneered back. “It’s not anything serious, but no, I don’t remember where the boys went. I think they just rode past the house on their bikes, they were saying some quite nasty things, but that’s all I remember.”

Holly nodded and wrote that down. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s all I needed to know.”

“What?!” Carla looked ready to blow her top. “This isn’t close to all of the cats she had! My sweet Alexander said there had to be a hundred! Over a hundred!”

Holly snorted and her lips twitched. She somehow managed to remain professional. “Mrs. Hubbard, if Doris really owned over a hundred cats, I don’t think she’d be able to hide them this well in this two bedroom house.”

“Well… well…” Carla stammered before she looked around. “Where’s that big one? The awful one, the one that attacked my sweet son!”

Goliath. Oh no. Holly looked at me. “Is this all of them? I’m sorry, I have to ask.”

I looked around. “Well… Goliath should be here. Goliath? Come here, boy, no one’s gonna hurt you.”

“The officer is going to put him down the moment she sees that monster, don’t you try to pretend otherwise!” Carla’s eyes were full of murder, I was nearly about to start crying.

“Mew?”

I looked down.

There was a fluffy kitten, with black and orange fur and bright amber eyes. He jumped into my lap before hopping onto the table and sniffing Holly.

Holly examined his collar. “So, this is Goliath?” She couldn’t help it, she immediately started giggling. “The ironic naming style, I dig it. Hey, buddy, do you smell David? He’s my German Shepherd, he’d love to take care of a sweet lil thing like you…”

Carla was completely flabbergasted. She opened her mouth and shut it a few times before saying, “No, that… that’s not Goliath! Goliath is huge! He’s practically a mountain lion!”

“All right, Mrs. Hubbard.” Holly stood up and scratched Goliath behind the ears, who purred and teasingly batted at her hand. “That’s quite enough, I think your boys probably just are out playing somewhere. Let’s go now, you can help coordinate the search.”

I saw them out, Carla was fuming and now I was the one grinning. Carla turned to me and hissed, “This isn’t over. I will get the gun myself, and when the real Goliath shows up, I’m putting a bullet in his head.” With that nasty threat, she stormed back to her house.

I closed the door and turned around.

There was Goliath, sitting so proud, his normal self.

Nervous, I went to my knees. “G… Goliath? How… how did you do that?”

Goliath stepped forward and just batted at my hair. But I swear he smirked.

A few days ago the bones of a few adolescent boys were found. Picked clean. Carla didn’t even try to come over, the marks on the bones were larger than anything a cat could make. The word through the grapevine is that it’s probably someone’s escape pet lion. Adopted it as a baby and let it go when it was no longer cute.

But tonight, I’m holding a party. I invited most of my neighbors, I did my hair up all pretty like. I’m no longer going to estrange myself from my neighbors. Holly will be there, with her dog David. So will the Hakim family, the eldest girl is going to bring her boyfriend and his band. I’ll have to clear out the dining room to give them enough space but they’re fond of classic rock. Everyone’s responded enthusiastically.

Even my son Dylan’s going to come home, and bring his wife and twin children.

That should be enough noise to cover up Goliath and his army handling the Hubbards and their goons. In in the morning it’ll be either be interpreted as a mysterious vanishing or written off as another animal attack.

After all… how could a single cat maul a human being?

#creepy #horror story #cats #author: theoddcatlady #demons

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teacherintransition · 3 years

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“Oh what a time it was and what a time it was; it was ... a time of innocence... a time of confidences”*

“... long ago it must be ... I have a photograph, hold on to memories... they’re all that’s left you...”*

We think time follows rules; strict and linear and precise... the truth is there are no rules: a moment can be a decade, a memory can immediately transport you back twenty years in a blink of an eye.

On January 6th, 2002 ... Fant Smart, my best friend was murdered ... I have never truly recovered... it’s been nineteen years, a few of us did a little writing about his place in our lives... thank you friends. Today the topic isn’t in question; for me, it’s a sacred day.... a day where time has no meaning... for this I’m glad. As I was contemplating how I would approach this, I was drawn to how unfathomable and meaningless the passage of time can be. I’ve known people for up to 50 years or more and many move in and out of my life like shadows passing through tall grass in the wind. I knew my friend from 1996-2002... in that short period of time we became close friends, good friends don’t need anymore time than that. In truth, my bond to Fant was cemented after only a couple of days as I’m inexorably drawn to eccentric, non conforming characters. But Fant was gentle and kind ... the only time I can recall him confronting someone in anger was when he confronted me over misplacing some photograph prints in his classroom. Even though I was getting the “chewing” I felt bad for him because he looked so damn uncomfortable being angry. A hour later, he came up to me and said, “hey, you know I found those prints, they were on my desk.” With an air of , “I told ya so,” I answered him with a snarky, “uh huh.” Fant looked embarrassed and said, “I guess half the story can be a dangerous thing, but not with friends huh?” We grinned at each and I replied, “...especially not with a couple of weird hippies like us.”

Fant Allison Smart was born in 1946 in East Texas. He and I taught together for six years which I think for him was sixteen years at his end. He was a songwriter, a traveler, a stone mason and about a dozen other things. To quote from an essay written by a friend of his in Goliad named Rocky trying to describe him on first sight,

“Most of our group were Children of the Sixties, and, try as some did to overwhelm their innate look of Child of a Small Town, one thing most of us didn’t sport—even those who lived and worked the ranch and farm—were cowboy duds.”

This fellow had a nice gingham shirt on, pressed and the pearl buttons all intact with the right about of luster. Wranglers and shined on kaboy boots, and a big kaboy hat on the bar in front of him. Well, to the side, really, since in front was a domestic beer.”**

Fant was a walking, talking conversation piece with all he did and said. Once we had a rented a beach house in Bolivar to celebrate the retirement of a colleague. Having just the right amount of “coldbeer,” (to Fant it was one word without the hint of a pause), I sat down beside him on the deck. He was wearing flip flops I noticed as he always wore the aforementioned kaboy boots, and I looked down aghast at the sight that on his left foot, his big toe was missing. I freaked, “SON OF A BITCH, DAMMIT, WHERE THE F*** IS YOUR TOE?” He barely looked up and giggled and said, “I guess somewhere in Nacogdoches county. I kicked a running mower when I was eight... off it went.” Still recovering from the sight, just seeing Fant’s feet was shocking enough as it appeared that any type of pedicure had never entered his mind, “SHIT! I’m sorry dude.” He winked at me, “don’t be... it kept me out of Vietnam.... hmmm, that might make a song.” It was always like that with Fant...

A victim of heart break and unrequited love, Fant could no doubt be the inspiration for any old school, wang tangy, heartbreaking country song. He didn’t wear it on his sleeve; the bits and pieces of his hurt would escape on FAC (Friday afternoon club), song lyrics, or cryptic emails delivered late, late Friday nights or early, early Saturday mornings.. it just depended on how much coldbeer we had consumed. His mysterious late night emails which often were song lyrics written in reverse and signed to the love of his life, “we should’ve done it different Tressie Ann” or “ in my heart you’ll be Tressie Ann;” was his gesture to let his friends all over the country know that he’d made it home safely...we could all rest with a clear mind. His emails and correspondence were signed with one of his two nom de plumes: J. K. Schwartz or Vance Mart. There is a memorial brick on the square in downtown Nacogdoches with J. K. Schwartz placed on it. What a guy, you getting the picture?

Once, Russell, Fant and I had cooked out and had drinks at Russell’s home. We told him, “you’re not getting out of here tonight... your staying here,” to which he acquiesced pretty easily. There was nothing small or quiet or anything done with finesse when it came to Fant, yet as surreptitiously as a ninja, that six foot, 275 pound bear of a man snuck out of the house. We waited viewing the computer, waiting for his email so that we’d know he made it home safe. 12:10 an email from J. K. Schwartz hit the inbox, we could go to sleep.

FAC, (wasn’t that what I was writing about before chasing a rabbit), was where the witticism flowed like wine ... often literally. One night at O’Malley’s, he had his lap top out which had no Internet service, and we spent the night drinking and typing to no one how our conversation would sound if spoken in an Irish accent. Two big guys with ponytails, drinking copious amounts of coldbeer, speaking like Irishmen, and rolling with laughter at how the conversation looked typed on his lap top and no one was getting hurt. Ahhh “shiny times” ... his term for the best of times...and that they were.

Self discipline has to come into play with this piece, for truth’s sake, I could write for hours. I laugh and I cry when I tell Fant stories even after nineteen years. I’ve mourned him three times the number of years I knew him. I saw him yesterday, I see him now...remember what I said about time having no rules? My biggest fear is that someone so kind, creative, affable, wise, eccentric, funny and human to might be forgotten. We are a poorer species without him, but fewer and fewer people know it. At Lufkin Middle School where we taught, the kids and I and Madeline Porter made a memorial sidewalk to honor Fant. On the day of dedication, it was rainy and gray. I had my guitar and some kids accompanied me as I sang two of Fant’s songs: “Would it Matter if I Misspelled Thermometer” and “We are the Standing People,”(which is a grace he said over Thanksgiving one year as if the tall trees were praying). So many of the staff has moved on (myself included) and all the students grown to adulthood, that I reckon no one even know who the sidewalk is for. It is unavoidable I suppose, but as Merlin said in L’Morte de Artur, “it is the doom of men that they forget.”

I’ll not forget ole Bean, Frijole Compadre ...I know I write about him this time every year ... and it may seem morbid to some; but I subscribe to the Druidic belief that no one really dies, we just change form and we can hold on to special characters if they aren’t allowed to be forgotten

Kaep in kickin' mah stoatin mukker Fant Alisson Smart... I’ll nae ferget ye

Nineteen years ago, I lost my best friend to a senseless act of violence. There has not been a day that I haven't thought of him ....and the days have never been the same. The world lost one of the kindest, creative, gentle, imaginative, idealistic human beings I have ever known.... and had the most fantastic sense of humor that was delivered with a keen and childlike wit. I have experienced loss since and will again .... but have never lost such a rare spirit. I wish I could play guitar with him again ... as I have never played as well since, I wish I could dig deep into the well of philosophical dialogue again.... as I have never visited such since... I wish I could revel in nonsensical humor with him again .... as nothing has struck me as funny since.... I wish I could have one more Friday afternoon club at Flashback as Friday afternoons have felt much more lonely since. No one I know has started a phrase with, " I've heard it said," since I met my friend ... and only the best stories could begin with such words . The world has not been the same since his ugly departure from this realm. I don't feel anger or vengeance .... just loss ... deep loss. I miss you old friend ...the world is somewhat more dim since you went away, but my life is the better for having known you.

“You don’t know what you had Tressie Ann”

*”Bookends” by Paul Simon

**”Where You Bean, Frijole Compadre, J. K. Swartz” ...Rocky and Rosemary.

http://labibliotecacoffee.com/

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heartlandhq · 6 years

Photo

❝ sometimes humans just die & you cannot save them. sometimes humans do not die & you cannot save them. ❞

INFORMATION,

full name ⋯ Genevieve ‘Neve’ Sloane Channing age ⋯ 30 years old pronouns ⋯ She/Her/Hers origin ⋯ Omaha, Nebraska / Portland, Oregon affiliation ⋯ Bergan Mercy Hospital position ⋯ Leader

SURVIVABILITY,

advantages ⋯ compassionate & resilient disadvantages ⋯ self-righteous & aloof preferred weapon ⋯ smith & wesson M&P 9 shield, ka-bar straight edge ( full size )

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger warning ⋯ murder, death, gore, mental health, post-partum depression, suicide, cancer, drug mention, parent death, medical, euthanasia

BEFORE DECEMBER 25th, 2017,

THE FOG CREEPS IN ; GIRLHOOD IS A GRAVEYARD

there aren’t many trees on their street–unlike some of the other neighborhoods. the big weeping birch in their backyard that drives her father crazy as he rakes leaves every fall is neve’s pride and joy. their is comfort in the shade its branches cast every summer. at night it makes her lonely as it blocks the silhouette of the waxing moon. on lazy summer days when her father leaves for work, neve sits with her back curved against its rough trunk and read the day away.

THE ODDS ARE STACKED AGAINST HER ; A GIRL LEARNS TO COUNT CARDS

SPRING RETURNS TO PORTLAND ; THE FROST CLINGS TO FRAGILE BONES

she returns home to the small party of friends she’ll start to grow apart from when she gets tired of the jeers about how she thinks she’s ‘too good for them’ now. neighborhoods like hers don’t always love to watch you grow if it means you’ll leave them. they’ll still blow up her phone for medical advice, but the invitations will dry up like the drought of portland natives in southeast. for now, it’s a pleasant barbecue. the highlight of the evening comes in the small bundle of inky fur that douglas proudly produces after neve’s second burger. peering out from his strong arms are the brown eyes of a young siberian husky. douglas begs her to name the pup murphy over robocop, but loses easily–a hearty chuckle on his lips. they are bonded instantly–girl and dog–robocop becomes neve’s second most stalwart companion next to her father.

DEATH RATTLES AND DYING BREATH ; THE GIRL’S OTHER SHOE DROPS

as neve focuses on school, douglas seems to be making steps to keep himself around longer. they go for long walks with robocop around the neighborhood. southeast portland is becoming a different neighborhood and the cost of living is high. restaurants crop up with around the block waits and family friends are forced to move to grayer pastures. it seems, to the channings, that it’s the end of an era. with neve spending most of her time at shane’s apartment on south waterfront, douglas’ weight loss ishardly noticed–everyone assumes it is merely the byproduct of increased activity. it isn’t until his stature becomes gaunt that neve starts to worry.

it’s hard to keep up on her studies, but somehow neve muscles through. shane gives up his idyllic apartment and moves into their modest southeast home to help out. he makes a lighthearted joke about finally being a real portlander and moving so near the trendy, revitalized mississippi neighborhood and neve breaks her coffee mug on the unfinished wood floor of the kitchen. it’s just another reminder that he doesn’t belong in her world anymore than she does in his. it doesn’t sting as bad as the ink on his mother’s checks that she cashes to keep her father comfortable on his death bed while she learns to be a better caretaker. life ebbs and flows, but douglas’ drains away until she hardly recognizes the sinewy, pale hands that hold hers so strongly for a man that can’t sit up by himself any longer. she curses her mother once more for leaving and twice for never having been there in the first place.

death isn’t slow or peaceful like the woman from her father’s church will lie about at the funeral. his death rattle lasts for hours and the bellows of his chest quake with weary breath. shane and neve sit at the side of his bed with rapt attention and as his breathing slows, neve crawls into the hospice bed next to him. the next several months are a blur and a father misses his only daughter’s graduation. neve is barely present there herself.

shane insists that she’s not an orphan–his parents fly in from denver and treat her like one of their own. it guilts her that she can’t help but resent them for the simple virtue of living while her own father is reduced to a cold dust. she wears his ashes around her neck in a pendant from the funeral home and spreads the rest in every beautiful place she can find. some of them spill into her purse during a hike with robo and shane and she breaks down in tears. there are so many small things that make her sick or numb. even around the stone family she feels alone. maybe especially around the stones.

LOVE IS A HARD KNIFE ; A GIRL CAN’T STOMACH AMBROSIA

it’s not his fault and she means that from the bottom of her heart. she owes him everything and she can’t help but let the resentment fester in the tasteful diamond on her finger. when she looks upon his face now all she can see is death and it’s the world’s cruelest joke, because she’s the one with cemetery dirt underneath her fingernails. she can’t tell which of the two of them she resents more and they both deserve lives where ghosts stay buried and the dead don’t whisper malcontent in her ears while she struggles to fall asleep. nightmares are her own warm milk.

neve yearns to discover who she is outside of grief and love. a daughter cannot bloom in her parents’ shadows and she is suffocating underneath the gentle love of the mourning glory. she turns in her notice at the ohsu emergency department and signs on for a travel nursing company. the first assignment takes her to salem hospital an hour south and it’s a great department, but it’s too close to home. it doesn’t feel like enough of a difference to start anew and it isn’t until she sees bergan mercy among the selections that she feels she’s found the right place.

the bergan mercy trauma center is still relatively new and neve is the experienced nurse the department needs. there are several nurses who pick up the assignment with the same backgrounds and they’re a welcomed addition to the team. nebraska is no oregon, but it’s not so bad. there are people making love in moonless skies. there are mothers reading bedtime stories to their children. there are people dying everywhere everyday. neve thinks that maybe every place is more or less the same.

AFTER DECEMBER 25th, 2017,

DEATH RIDES A PALE HORSE ; THE AXIOM OF AN APOCALYPSE

the first inklings of the outbreak pique neve’s interest–an amateur virulogist and a woman on the front lines, she turns her watchful eye on the reports. they are an obscurity, an oddity. they are a fun hobby that neve debates with her new coworkers in the bergan mercy er breakroom so that she does not lament the northwest so viscerally. the passing jokes do not end when the mandatory screenings are dropped in shift report. ‘it’s just like ebola all over again’ her colleagues joke. no one takes threats seriously when they’re far away; sometimes the only protection against the weight of the world is levity. the old nurse adage rings true–if you don’t laugh, you might cry.

neve is adjusting to life in a part of the country she had never imagined, but her father spoke of the place well enough. she spreads her ashes in the lovelier parts of the city with robocop in tow. even though she is miles away from home, there is a connection. quiet nights with netflix and a growing mountain of takeout containers are interrupted by a phantom of the pacific northwest–shane comes with an unwelcome grand, romantic gesture. it’s like every movie they’ve ever seen and he means to win over her heart–sure that she’s only needed the time and space to heal. reluctantly she agrees to trial a friendship and he moves into an apartment twenty minutes away. neve is never sure, but she still loves shane enough to wish him a happy ending–the deeper part of her knows it can never be with her.

A GIRL AND HER DOG ; OMAHA BECOMES A WASTELAND

even on the way in there are cracks of normal life leaking through. the juxtaposition is harsh; neve knows the implications and feels her stomach twist at the sight of a naive family on their evening stroll. she wonders how many older adults on blood thinners won’t make it through the night. the lanky black and white husky isn’t meant to be in the hospital–the no pets policy only exempts therapy animals–but no one bats an eye in the chaos. neve is not about to leave her most cherished friend alone in the dark silent apartment while the city of omaha descends into a frenzied nightmare. he’s a good dog–more or less follows commands and keeps close to neve more than ever after mellowing out in his third year.

neve may be a traveler, but it’s still her responsibility to show up when things get rough and she shoots shane a text to meet her there even though she’s sick to death of him trailing her around with puppy dog eyes. she still needs to know that he’s safe. he’s getting better at wearing her down and it’s not that it’s hard to be without him, but that it’s just so easy to fall back into the familiarity of his arms. it was hard enough breaking it off knowing that he was the last man she was with who would ever truly know her father. he never makes it to the hospital and neve is torn between cursing his name and blaming herself for his probable death.

as far as neve can tell most of the people from the hospital are dead or missing. earnest from environmental services hasn’t shown up to work in days and instead his annoying replacement keeps chatting her up while she tries to chart. domina’s regular partner juan says she’s been out with some nasty bug as her helps neve transfer a patient from his gurney to the er stretcher. carla from the cafe who always made her pre-shift americanos checks into the department, looking febrile and sweating until blood and salt stick the hospital gown to her skin. neve checks her in and starts an iv and carla tries to take a bite out of her. neve doesn’t think twice before smacking her head into the wall as the woman jumps up from the bed, iv ripped from her flesh, and postures to attack. the small nurse tastes the familiar coppery taste of anxiety on her tongue and books it back to the education office where she’d set up robocop in to keep him out of the sight of management. the big stuff always happens minutes before day shift gets there, but today day shift never comes.

WOLF AND WOMAN PERSIST ; IN THE FACE OF CLUB AND FANG

neve never intended to lead the group of survivors as if she had more right than any other. she’s never been one for power grabs, but has always been drawn to informal leadership. in the absence of someone else worth following, the girl reluctantly steps up—heart beating harder in her chest at the threat of taking charge than at the threat that looms outside the hospital walls.

no one likes a leader when the hard choices have to be made and neve is not naive to the gravity of her proposal—it’s a response to the unanswered questions that have persisted over the last day. it’s disaster triage at its most heartbreaking and she knows that no one person in the camp can carry the weight of the merciful executioners axe on their own, so she puts it to a vote. neve and the small group of healthcare professionals make their rounds to discern which patients have the potential to recover under their finite resources and which do not.

neve knows that almost half of patients in the icu die within ten years of hospitalization even if they do recover. fifteen percent never make it to begin with. it is that small sample—the people she knows have no chance at a normal life even in the best case scenario—that the hospital camp votes on. the information is then presented to the group. the decision to euthanize is almost unanimous, but like a firing squad no one person assumes the weight alone. no one person except neve channing. it’s the right call, but it’s not the easy call. the survivors grieve in their own ways and a team tasks themselves to dispose of the bodies—those forsaken by both god and man.

the nurse and her dog carve out a life for themselves in the midwestern wasteland. she had never intended herself to take leadership of the group, but after everything they’ve been through as a group she knows that it is she who is looked at to forge their fate in blood and blue nitrile gloves. there is nothing left in this bleak world but survival. it’s survival, if little else, that she can promise the inhabitants of bergan mercy. it’s survival, and nothing more she thinks, that she can promise herself.

CENSUS,

faceclaim ⋯ Adelaide Kane played by ⋯ Buffy

#adelaide kane #rp #rpg #new rp #town rp #{ a. }#{ f. }#{ 30. }#{ bergan mercy. }#{ leader. }#{ buffy. }#{ genevieve channing. }#death tw #suicide tw #cancer tw

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wendylewis-blog · 4 years

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05.14.2020 /MamasDay+M-Th

Mamas’ Day

My friend Annie sent me a link this morning. I’m embarrassed that I never knew the actual history of Mothers’ Day. I’ve made the grave mistake for years, it appears as of this morning, dismissing the event as just another Hallmark holiday created to ramp up national consumerism—out of sincerity or duty. Actually, the bigger story has been omitted from American history. The patriarchy (not YOU, men I love) strikes again! There is real feminist significance attached to this day, which deserves not only our attention—but also, our reverence.

Teaser. “Mothers’ Day”—with the apostrophe not in the singular spot, but in the plural—actually started in the 1870s, when the sheer enormity of the death caused by the Civil War and the Franco-Prussian War convinced American women that women must take control of politics from the men who had permitted such carnage. Mothers’ Day was not designed to encourage people to be nice to their mothers. It was part of women’s effort to gain power to change modern society.

Thank you, Heather Cox Richardson. I suggest following her with an easy click at the end of the link and/or follow her on Twitter. She posts daily, is politically savvy and keeps it concise/in-depth/readable.

After canceling the initial Mothers’ Day plan with H/G/bbE/K because of bad weather, which would have put us inside the house, Kitty ended up in CF anyway to grab items I’d purchased for her at Costco. We spent an hour outside in the chilly grey afternoon by the fire pit after gathering kindling and firewood. She brought me brownies, a herby Italian verde sauce she’d made and a bottle of rye whiskey. H/G/bbE surprised me an hour later with a request via text to come into the yard in five minutes and brought tomato and pepper plants (woot!) for my garden. We all watched Ezra TV in the driveway for an hour. We especially enjoyed the episode featuring him teething on the steering wheel. Creative work, little man!

After they left, I poured myself a stiff drink and stared out the studio window into early evening. A gentle rain was falling. I let circumstance go, let sadness and angst go. I washed my turgid blackboard down and tried to embrace some peaceful emptiness. I was in bed long before 10pm, sliding willingly into the time warp sleep provides for me lately. It was another bittersweet time with my people—not touching, not sitting at a table together, not able to relax into each other the way we would have a couple months ago. But, they are my family and it is never a diminishing return to be with them. Thank you for driving down to see us even though we had called the gathering off. It was a good Mothers’ Day. I love you all more than I can express!

My dreams that night were flush with all things post-apocalyptic. I was in an office building transformed into a flophouse of endless lonely cubicles, bare mattresses thrown down on synthetic grey carpet, bland tan fabric divider walls too short and porous to provide any privacy, a random empty chair here and there—askew, the bathroom’s flickering florescent light pulsing numbly through its plastic diamond-textured ceiling panel. I felt a disconnected calm inside me—a dead calm as I moved through the building. Everyone I saw in there was a stranger—except for an old bandmate I ended up in bed with— so impossible and surreal. It wasn’t the act, gratefully omitted, but the aftermath scenario instead—exposed, mannequin-esque bodies, no desire, no connection, no tenderness—only his crushing possessiveness after I explained that I had many other lovers even though I knew they didn’t matter either. I turned his noise off undramatically, easily as his panic escalated—the click of a switch—like turning off bad radio. He vanished, seemed to dematerialize on the dark street, leaving only strangers hanging on the corners, propped against buildings, inert yet somehow, guardian—but I felt nothing—nothing at all. Alive but dead inside.

Mon

I woke up at 4:30AM. Shared dream details with B before he headed off to a fresh pot of coffee and work. I always benefit from his insightful (often hilarious) perspective on my intrepid darknesses, asleep or awake. In a previous issue of Lockdown, I’d queried how the virus and physical distancing might affect our intimacies going forward, the dream standing as the latest metaphor. I laid back down, folding into the quiet of my bed and may have slept awhile longer, still rising before dawn.

Hours were spent in my garden that morning turning over soil in the crisp air, laying straw tiles separated from the bale in the wheelbarrow after cutting the blue plastic string. I laid them over the mulch that had cooked over the summer of 2019, which I’d lovingly spread a few days prior, prepping the ground for seeds that are en route to me: bush beans, marigolds, arugula, mustard, zinnia and nasturtium seeds from my sister, cilantro and basil from Etsy and those MD tomato and pepper seedlings from H+G. It’s been difficult to find non-GMO seeds around here—the same way it’s still hard to find TP, hand sanitizer, and lately, yeast and flour. I planted cilantro, Mexican tarragon, and basil plants I’d found in Northfield in pots, thyme and mint along garden edge that meets my front stoop.

The morning felt hushed, orderly—my act of civility engaging with living things that don’t speak but offer company and require only my willingness to share a piece of earth with them. Before the sun reached over the garden, I decided to put in one cherry tomato plant because a tomato cage represented future sustenance. I could imagine the little plant growing tall to fill the cage, yellow flowers appearing before the fruit. It felt romantic and I succumbed. I watered everything, filled the bird feeder and headed off to Redwing to run an errand.

It felt good to drive the winding two-lane roads between overwintered, as yet unturned spring fields, slipping down the bluff lines along the Cannon River, the sun all full of itself. The sky was cerulean blue with tiny cotton ball clusters of clouds. The world beyond my windshield seemed serene and normal—even pastoral—a momentary ruse worth believing against the numbing dripdripdrip of our internment. Returning home, I cleaned the kitchen with a similar communion felt with the garden and highways. FaceTimed with a friend and planned a fire pit hootenanny with him and a few friends soon, walked the dog and sat on the stoop overlooking the yard. We ate soup from B’s mama for dinner (thank you, Helen), brought in the tender herb pots for the night and was ready to sleep before 8:30, a rarity for me. I have to say, it felt like a pretty good day! I count them all, good or not.

Tues

It dipped just below freezing again last night and I really thought that sweet li’l cherry tomato plant that looked so sturdy yesterday could handle it but, ooof!—it’s droopy, quietly murdered overnight. Another casualty of Corona Times, like a broken promise, a breach of trust. I jerked it out of the ground without any tenderness and tossed it into the yard where it will eventually make love with mower blades and clipped grasses. I was mad at myself, of course. It’s just one tomato plant and I have more perched on the radiator under the south facing window, lined up like fresh recruitments ready for service. Still, each seedling, especially this year, feels like an individual.

I’m alarmed with the message being conveyed by the White House in recent days��normalizing the loss of life, the US population being at least encouraged and possibly forced back into a virulent world with the expectation that we can save the collapsing economy. The grim reaper is leaning casually on his sickle next to my dead tomato plant, the one I exposed to the elements too soon, the one I planted with careless impunity to serve my immediate desire.

Please listen to this conversation on Pema Chodron’s book When Things Fall Apart. I ordered it after years of intending to and it’s on the way. I will set it on the bookshelf next to my worn copies of Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, the Tao te Ching and Dillard’s For the Time Being. Reference books for being alive, human and uncertain.

JFTR. On Being continues to win me over. Here’s another one if you decide to check it out. She’s really smart and this guest, Ocean Vuong—brilliant.

Wed

A beautiful essay penned by Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s son Rodrigo. Thanks, C, for sending—and for the seeds which arrived today. I didn’t plant more today because still freezing overnight.

My college roommate long friend Toni linked me to this article over the weekend. It was SO fkn HELPFUL. It breaks down how the virus gets spread in a very practical way that you can use every day. This article is exactly why my fam and I reeled ourselves back from having lunch inside my house on Mothers’ Day. Everyone agreed.

Colbert has been killing it, as always and this one—so spot on. Also, Seth Meyers’ latest episode—I mean, please! Trump’s Mothers’ Day bit is truly—uhhnbelievable. Waking up to the absurdity of what is happening right now as it rolls and rolls. I also truly live for these socially distanced performances with Jimmy Fallon and The Roots. They make me joy-cry.

There are good ppl out there doing their best. We are all trying to do our best, even on our hardest days. Beating the zombies back one by one. Don’t believe that the angry gun-toting ppl are coming for us. They are few. We are many. It’s time to activate.

I’ve noticed lately I’m getting a sense for when Jimmy Fallon or Stephen Colbert, for example, might be having a bad day. They aren’t on stage anymore, they don’t have a responsive audience to pump them up, they are people like we are, broadcasting from their homes. They struggle with life under the pandemic just the way we do. I can feel when they are having to get up for another broadcast from home or lapsing in attention, disengaging or losing the thread with someone they are interviewing. It’s an subtle nuance to notice, and it makes me feel as if I am getting a brief peek into their humanity instead of simply watching them put on the show.

I’ve also been making... um, haha... bread—the kind of bread you have to knead and let rise and punch down and knead and let rise again and so on. I finally got some active dry yeast and made two sandwich loaves a week ago. On my second round yesterday, I pushed my 20+ year old Kitchen Aide stand mixer beyond its limit. Smoke drifting from the housing, dough hook seizing up, goodbye trusty appliance.

While the dough was going through its rising process, I searched DIY fixes which were plentiful and also searched for parts through the Kitchen Aide website, discovering they—are—not—selling—them. Really? Boo on you, Kitchen Aide. You won’t force me to buy a $400 mixer ever again. Double boo on you, assumed capitalism. Until I’m able to find the parts I need via Etsy or wherever (NOT Amazon ever again), I’ll use the mixer my mother-in-law offered me since she doesn’t use it much and remind myself of the days when I used to knead bread by hand—that ancient task. Again—get it together, Lewis!

I’ll leave you with this brilliant essay from The Paris Review called Fuck the Bread. The Bread is Over. Thank you, Byrdie, for tagging me on this one. I’m still gonna make the bread one way or another because it saves money but I’ll keep the wise words from the authors mother closest to my heart, which translates loosely into stop holding on so tight to what you think you need.

Thurs

So, I’ve been writing today and editing and writing more and editing more. It’s all about thinking and re-thinking everything with nothing on my plate but time staring up at me. There is a strange blessing that has a chance to bloom inside this isolation.

Go gently, my friends, family and any strangers who may be stopping by. Thanks for being here with me. I really appreciate you, wherever you are today.

Stay safe. Be strong. Fall apart. Know you aren’t alone. Lovelove.

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lookwhosfhtagn · 6 years

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THE ADVENTURES OF ARGUS ARMSTRONGMAN - LONE STAR DETECTIVE

Case 637435: Attempted Murder, Breach of Trucking Contract, Breaking and Entering, Assault, Gross Sexual Misconduct, Trespassing, Unlicensed Gang Warfare, Unauthorized Corporate Espionage, Second Degree Murder

It had been years since I had left the metropolitan area of Indianapolis, but the flat expanse of Illinois was exactly as I remembered it: a monotonous grid of monstrous corporate soy megafarms, attended by a fleet of hovering drones and massive lumbering combines. The floating disks darted like dragonflies over the fields, spraying nutrients and pesticides on some sections while the gargantuan combines lumbered about, harvested the bounty of the fields. This prolonged modern agraria played out to the soundtrack of wind whipping over the open top of the Saab Dynamit that Catrina Noire had procured for our trip. Its smooth curves and gleaming yellow composite body were equal parts work of art and engineering marvel. The feeling of my hands on the steering wheel was the closest thing I’d ever felt to unconditional love. In my mind, I was already naming it Tracy.

My silent adoration of the chariot bearing us forward to Dak Rambo was interrupted when Catrina cleared her throat. “What is it?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the tediously straight roads.

“Listen, Detective. I know you’re not a fan of the League’s plan.” She paused, trying to think of her next words carefully. “But with Dak and his NeoScum crew having left Chicago, we really need a lead.”

“We have a lead,” I corrected her. “This Tech Wizard character has a relative nearby in Peoria. And not just a relative: a grandmother.” My eyes left the road for a second to connect with hers, hoping to impress upon her some fraction of my surety in this theory. “From all my research, Tech Wizard loves the old dame. Loves her bad enough he wouldn’t skip the area without saying goodbye first.”

Catrina sighed, her ears flicking in frustration. Or maybe it was just the wind of the road. Being a Changeling with feline traits, she didn’t have normal human ears. The large triangles of fur on top of her head weren’t just for show. “Fine, so maybe they did go to visit the wizard’s grandmother. Do you honestly believe they will still be there?”

“No,” I said, my tone sinking slightly. “But it could give us a trajectory to follow.”

“Alternately, we could just use the data we got from Cognitia.” Catrina’s voice was confident and slow, with just a hint of exasperation. It was almost like she was talking to a child. “We could slot Beans in right now. He knows Dak. He could give us information and help us figure out not just where the NeoScum have been but where they will be.”

My gut sank like it was full of stones. “You’re not the least bit creeped out by that? Taking a person’s memories, turning them into data, and having them live on after him?”

The feline fatale paused, the overcast afternoon of the Illinois plains only barely highlighting her dark skin and rounded cheeks. “No. Beans is dead. The only reason these memories exist at all is because he was afraid of a hereditary neurological disease among dwarves.” She adjusted the Matrix sunglasses that would have cost me a month’s salary and looked at me with those narrow slit-eyes. “These are here for us to use. That is that.”

“I’ll be honest, I was hoping for a little bit more nuanced discussion of the situations.” My frustration at her curt answer caused my foot to press down on the accelerator.

“You’re not in Indianapolis anymore, Detective. I think it’s time you give up on idealistic notions and focus on what really matters: results.” And with that, she produced the old data stick and slotted it into the dashboard console without a second thought.

“Wait, I-”

But it was too late. Whatever programs were on the stick executed and a thick brogue poured out over the car’s speaker system. “Ack, that one hurts like a bastard! Never goin’ to get used to that-” He paused. “Wait a minute. What’s goin’ on? I can’t see! Sweet Merciful Satan, my eyes!”

“Beans?” I asked, not really sure how to address the disembodied consciousness. “Beans, calm down. My name is Detective Argus Armstrongman. I’m with Lone Star Security and-”

His voice became more and more panicked with each second. “This was Rambo, wasn’t it? How did he find out about the job? Waitin’ until I was in here, getting’ my brain scanned to finish me off? What kind of cowardly, spineless, no good-”

Ms. Noire chimed in in an assertive voice. “Computer, mute process Beans.” And with that, Beans was silent. “Now then, if you are done losing your mind, I have some information for you. Beans, you are dead. Dak Rambo shot you in cold blood in Chicago and fled the city. We want you to help us track him.” The air hung heavy for a moment, then she laughed to herself. “Oh, sorry, I forgot I muted you. Computer, unmute process Beans.”

The speaker erupted in a volcanic pyroclast of pure vitriolic hatred. Profanity and threats the likes of which I had never heard spilled out in a devastating landslide, making me grip the steering wheel tighter. But Catrina just sat there, that confident smirk on her face. She lived for this: the feeling of power over others.

“-and then I’ll make you sit on the shards while I piss in your dad’s beard!” Beans finally relented, his inorganic virtual lungs expended of the fictional resource he knew as air.

Catrina gave a soft cluck of her tongue. “That is not way to speak to your new partners, Beans. If not for us, you would just be a corpse in a morgue, being harvested for organs. Now? You’re at least a mind. A mind who I have no doubt would love to go home to his family someday, yes?”

“Listen, you daft cat. I don’t know where Dak is. I don’t even know that Dak killed me!”

“But you know him. I’ve worked with him. I bet you have some ideas where he might have scurried off to.” The feline purred softly. “If you help us catch him, we’ll see about getting you a proper mechanical body and sending you back home.”

Even though he wasn’t real, I could hear the hitch in Beans’ voice. “I can’t help you, damn it. So just send me home. Let me see my wife. Let me see my family!”

I turned to cat, shooting her a glare. “This isn’t working. He’s not going to help us.”

The expression I saw on that woman’s face chilled my blood to pure ice. It was equal measures fury and desperation, shaken and served on the rocks. “I’ll let you go if you can answer me one simple question.” The predator hunched forward in the car’s passenger seat, looking into the nonexistent eye of the console. “What is your full name, Beans?”

The simulacra of the dead dwarf’s memory laughed softly. “Really? My name? My name is Beans-”.

Before he could finish, Ms. Noire cut him off. “Computer, erase object Beans dot name dot middle dash last.”

Beans hung right there, a forgotten syllable hanging on the air. He choked out an attempt to push on, but faltered. “My name…my name is Beans…Beans…”

I’ve never heard a computer cry before. I’ve heard artificial beings mimic the depths of despair on trideo feeds, but it was always passed through the filter that is the Matrix. Everything and everyone comes out a shallow copy when it’s passed through the digital feed. But those deep, shuddering sobs blaring out over the speakers were so deep and painful, I felt my gut turn as I yanked the memory stick out and slammed on the brakes, sending up screeching down that Illinois highway until we stopped on the side.

“What the fuck was that?” I blurted out, clutching the memory stick tightly. My knuckles were white. “What kind of absolute drek was that?”

Her shades hid her eyes, but her body language said I had surprised her. The claw marks in the armrest didn’t do her any favors. “I am getting results, Detective.”

“You are torturing someone!”

“I am altering a program which fails to cooperate.” Her ear ticked anxiously. “That is not Beans. It’s a ghost.”

“Even if it is just a ghost, how about a little respect for the dead?” I took the stick and put it in the pocket of my Lone Star issued windbreaker. “I am going to hold on to this. We are going to cool down and try again when we get to Peoria.”

“Listen-”

“No, you listen.” My normally cool demeanor was melting rapidly. My hands fumbled for my vape but couldn’t find it. “You said you need my help. Well you’re not getting it unless you stop with this whole routine. Good cop, bad cop only works if you’re a cop.”

Catrina was about to speak out, but her mouth hung open. She looked out, unbuckling her seatbelt and rising up out of the body of the vehicle to survey the horizon. “Argus…” She trailed off, dumbstruck.

My head turned and I saw the carnage ahead of us: a city ablaze, the flickering lights and billowing smoke testaments to the conflict ahead. And directly in front of us on the roadside was a large black LCD screen with scrolling green letters spelling “WELCOME TO PEORIA”.

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#NeoScum #argus #fan fiction #shadowrun #one shot

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