#plaid vapors

[idolatrybarbie]

the world tipped on its side

chapter one - a helicopter

series masterlist | read on ao3

pairing: francisco "frankie" morales x f!reader

word count: 5k

rating & summary: mature | you are a stunt coordinator on an action film. frankie's the stunt pilot you need. everything's gonna be airplanes, rainbows, and sunshine…right?

warnings: references to physical injury, chronic pain, prescription medication & medication usage, references to surgery, reader has a disability.

notes: thanks iz for beta'ing this. just occurred to me that some people might find issue with writing about disability but i am #disabled so idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

You don’t know when you make the smooth transition from sleep to wakefulness. Suddenly your eyes are open—or maybe they’ve been open the entire time. It doesn’t matter, really. You stare up at the ceiling, curtains still drawn, tucked neatly under your duvet. Brain silent, waiting.

It’s almost every day now that you beat your five o’clock alarm. A funny recurrence, like your body knows. Moving your head is slightly painful, cheek brushing against the pillow to turn and look. The neon of the alarm’s display stings, burning the numbers behind your eyelids when you blink. 4:58. Waiting…waiting…

The machine only manages a single pathetic, high pitched squeal before you shut it off with a harsh thwack. You’re up and moving in the dark, closet door folding open with a rumble to reveal your capsule wardrobe of workwear. Everything is organized neatly along their plastic hangers, by clothing item and colour; your small collection of nearly-identical black pants next to the dark teal and navy pencil skirts, followed by a heather grey blouse, plaid ankle pants…it’s all very dressy. No one would guess that these clothes are the fruits of several weeks of careful curation at the thrift store. That’s kind of the point.

Getting ready at dawn is a blur these days. Nothing more than going through the motions. Clothes, then you brush your teeth, styling your hair in the bathroom mirror with the cheap toothbrush between your tongue and palate. Breakfast is a glass of water from the tap of your tiny apartment kitchen; the fridge sits empty, spare a stray tomato and a few expired string cheeses that you toss on your way out the door.

Outside, the sky is still dark, slowly lightening with the rising sun. You’ve come to appreciate the moon like this, waiting for its overbearing big brother to get the day moving. The definition of the clouds up above is enough to have you staring up for hours, if you had the time. It feels like looking at a famous painting—a Van Gogh or something, the edges of each vaporous form crisp against the changing blue.

The twenty minute commute from sleepy Cobb County to metropolitan Atlanta is driven in silence as you organize your thoughts. It’ll be another sixteen hour day of shooting, surely. That’s what you prepare for and are never disappointed. You make a mental note to order groceries while you’re on lunch, hopefully getting the latest time slot this time. Last time, Whole Foods left you with five bags of perishables in the front lobby that sat for six hours before you got home. Half of it was inedible.

The lot is unchanged from yesterday as you drive in, flashing your I.D. badge at the parking gate attendant before he lifts the striped arm up to let you through. Ashton is waiting for you outside of the soundstage, because of course he is.

“Good morning,” he smiles.

You give him a mumbled greeting in return, nodding as you pass him on your way in. He follows you, keeping the brisk pace of your heeled flats.

“I wanted to walk-and-talk,” he says.

Of course he does. “Sure. What’s up?”

“So we got new pages last night,” Ashton says, his dingy sneakers squeaking across the floor beside you.

“Okay,” you say.

“It’s a whole new scene.” You still aren’t sure how this concerns you. “A stunt.”

You stop abruptly. He isn’t expecting it, almost tripping over his own feet to pause. “What?”

“I figured you would have that reaction,” he says.

You close your eyes with a slight huff, ignoring the comment. “What do you mean ‘a stunt’? I thought we had them all outlined in pre-production. I got a list of—”

“The studio wanted some changes to that big arrival scene. They wanted a helicopter.”

“A helicopter,” you repeat.

“A helicopter,” Ashton confirms.

Fuck. “How am I supposed to get a helicopter?”

Ashton shrugs, helpful as always. “You’re the stunt coordinator,” he says.

In your brief Hollywood career, you would have to say he is the most useless functioning part of a production that you have ever worked with. Who the fuck gave this guy a blockbuster?

“A helicopter.” You let the word sit in your mouth, wrapping your brain around the idea a little more. With a sigh, you relent. There is nothing to be done about it now. “Fine. Give me a week.”

“One week,” Ashton agrees. “I want to get that scene out of the way as quickly as possible. It’s all just flashy nonsense.” He nods at you once more before disappearing amidst members of the crew, the area filling up slowly as people arrive on set for the day.

You wonder who’s going to tell him. This whole thing is flashy nonsense. When you first read the script, you could barely parse out the plot beyond the action scenes outlined for you, practically dripping in yellow highlighter. You don’t mind so much, though; every day on set is another day of getting paid. It isn’t your job to worry about the artform of cinema, but to make sure the punches look like they land without anyone losing a tooth. This could be the next Transformers threequel, and you wouldn’t care.

Mia’s shoving a paper cup of something warm into your hands, pulling you from your thoughts.

“You’ve got that glassy look in your eyes, which means I know you’re ready for a caffeine re-up,” she says.

You take a sip. Coffee, black. You savour the acrid taste for a moment, burning your tongue before you swallow. “Did you hear about this?”

“No?” she asks. “What?”

“The helicopter,” you say, and her face immediately falls.

“What helicopter?”

“The studio wants a helicopter stunt.”

“But that wasn’t—” she starts.

“I know,” is all you say. “And of course, Ashton brought it to me instead of, you know, a producer?” You two are walking now, moving past bodies and equipment to the attached office space.

“I’ll talk to Moby,” Mia says.

“It’s not talking to Moby that’s the problem,” you say. “This is the biggest movie that I’ve ever done and…”

“Come on. Don’t get all defeatist on me.”

“Maybe this isn’t for me, is all I’m saying.”

“What?” Mia looks aghast. “You were the greatest stunt actor I’ve ever seen,” she says.

“Were. I had, what? Four good years of doing flips and expertly dodging rubber katanas, and now I can barely fall asleep at night.”

“Even with the new mattress?” Mia asks.

“The new mattress doesn’t do shit,” you say.

Every once in a while you still lose some sense of feeling in your right arm, muscles in your legs spasming uncontrollably, keeping you up at night. On lucky days all you are left with is the unending stiffness in your neck.

“With all this shit… Maybe it’s time for me to move on,” you say.

“Don’t say that. You say that and we’re all screwed,” Mia says. “You’re going to finish this movie, and it’s going to look awesome, and then you’ll get your next one. Okay?” She won’t stop staring at you with those imploring doe eyes until you nod hesitantly. “Great. Good. I’ll call some people, get a beat on this helicopter. You just…do your thing. Make that movie magic.”

You groan. “You know I hate that.” Movie magic. The term oozes nothing but cheese.

Mia’s walking away now, a smile on her face as she calls back, “But you love me!”

And you do. You met Mia back in community college, when you were both aimlessly jogging through life. Your shared love of movies is what brought you together, an unlikely duo; she’d been a star athlete in high school, spanning volleyball, cheer, gymnastics and rugby. You, on the other hand, skipped class to practice parkour at the abandoned strip mall with your friends.

You’d gotten your associate’s degree in digital media arts, dreams of editing bays and Adobe software crowding your future. Mia moved to California and lost contact, until you got a phone call six months later asking if you could catch the next flight down. She had a stunt job she couldn’t take, something she swore you’d be perfect for. You didn’t even know she’d gotten into acting.

It was definitely non-union, and certainly dangerous, but the experience was unlike anything you had ever done before. Now, six years later, you mostly sit on the sidelines and watch other stuntpeople pretend to duke it out in front of greenscreen, or land safely onto crash mats one hundred feet below them. You still love this, still want it. But things aren’t the same. On top of seemingly never-ending demands, the thought of getting into a harness to show an actor how to maneuver around has your stomach churning, the axis vertebrae at the base of your skull flaring with that cushioned stabbing pain.

Life was a lot of that now. Pain, pain management, doctor’s visits and specialist appointments. You are set to make thirty thousand dollars this year, counting every penny to assure that you qualify for health insurance. Pill bottles click and clack in your belt bag, the only thing interfering with your business casual persona. Lyrica twice a day, at noon and night time, and a concoction of Panadol and naproxen throughout the day for when the pain acts up beyond what the anticonvulsant can cover alone.

There are always odd glances, looks exchanged between your crewmates when you pop a pill next to the catering table or trip over yourself simply standing, due to the side effects. The job is already alienating enough, outside of your assembled stunt team, that you can shrug it off in the moment.

Your wristwatch is telling you that it’s almost six, giving you another ten to fifteen before you have to meander back onto set for the first call time of the day. You lean against the chair behind you, not risking a sit down right now, and sip at your coffee.

-

You’re watching, waiting. Mikey Schultz is at the edge of a lime green block, waiting for the call to action. Keeping your knuckles at your lips, you stand next to Ashton, trying to get a view between the wide camera monitors and the real deal in front of you.

“Action!” Ashton yells from beside you.

The cameras are already rolling, panning up to focus on the actor perched at the edge of the greenscreen structure. Without hesitation, he jumps, managing the pseudo-superhero landing you’d revised over thirty times in pre-production flawlessly. His knee digs into the foamy crash mat, surely to be edited away in post and replaced with the jungles of the fictional South American country that’s been created for this movie. Despite your quiet, distant opinions on that matter—on the whole movie really—you can’t help but be proud of this moment.

“Cut!”

The end of the take marks the end of your work day.

“Good job everybody! We’ll be back here tomorrow bright and early.” Ashton nods at you, a motion you politely return before walking off set.

Bright and early is, bless the heavens, not the reality for you tomorrow. Tomorrow is what you like to call a dialogue day. They film all the sappy shit—the emotional core, as Ashton loves calling it—and you don’t have to be there until noon for the hospital fight scene.

You find Mia first, approaching her with a wave. She smiles back, walking to meet you in the middle. She has two bottles of water in her hands, and you already know that one is for you. She knows it’s about time to take your meds again; she’s also known you long enough to be hyper-aware of your aversion to drinking water unless instructed to.

“So how was that?” she asks when you’re close enough.

“Another day, another dollar,” you say, taking one of the bottles from her. “I’m going home to crash, for sure.”

Mia nods. “Same. I think—” A ringtone interrupts her. She reaches for the back pocket of her leggings, whipping out her phone. “Hello?”

There is silence for a moment before Mia’s face lights up; you know exactly who it is on the other end. She doesn’t get that sparkling Eiffel Tower look for just anyone.

“Babe, hey,” she says, and then Mia’s frowning at you, mouthing a sorry as she holds up her pointer finger. Just a sec. “I don’t know, what do you want to do for dinner?” She turns away from you, covering one ear to hear her fiancé over the bustle of people hauling ass off set.

A small knot forms in your throat. Not because you’re jealous, and not because Mia’s a bad friend—quite the opposite. Even amidst all of the commotion on set, this still feels like a moment. You’re here, standing, waiting like a jackass for your friend to hang up on the love of her life. Sam’s up visiting from Texas for a week, so it’s been phone calls like this the whole time. Every private tinge of annoyance makes you feel like an awful person.

“Hey, I’m just going to go. That okay?” you ask Mia, who’s only half listening.

She pauses, holding her hand over the speaker of her phone as she pulls it away from her ear. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

Mia nods, giving you a thumbs up, and then she’s fully consumed in the phone call.

Your car is too warm, the Georgian sun filling it with heat while it sat on its own in the parking lot. The A/C is blasting on the drive back to Mableton, its hissing thrum the only sound around you other than the open road. You sprinkle a small white capsule pill from its script bottle, putting it in your mouth and swallowing it down with the water.

Sam and Mia have been engaged for a year, dating for three. You remember their first meet cute, in some new artsy Los Angeles coffee shop that closed the following year. He’d bought both of your coffees for the morning, and she’d asked for his number. He’s cute, in a nerdy way. You remember the handful of guys Mia was involved with while you two were in college. Sam is definitely an upgrade.

It was an odd occurrence; going through the motions of mourning your health as time neared the anniversary of what happened, only to see happy, smiling engagement photos all over your socials. Mia called you not long after, gushing over the phone. You’d done the part of the good best friend, sharing in her excitement and all of the beautiful potential of the future. After sending her one last peppy text, though, you went radio silent for about three weeks.

You weren’t upset, and if you were, it certainly wasn’t with Mia. The way you liked to think about it was this: it’s very hard to feel good about being miserable when everyone around you is terminally thrilled. You needed space to be despondent. Mia needed space to be elated. Ultimately, you’re still unsure if she ever noticed the intention behind it.

The wedding is planned for next spring. When this shoot ends, it’ll be August, and Mia’s made you promise to block out a few chunks of time here and there to help her out with the specific bridal party details. It’s a part of the job of maid of honour, after all.

Anybody else, anybody normal, would be thrilled. You aren’t. You’d been secretly hoping that Mia would choose her little sister to take on the title. No dice. You’ve told her a million times that you haven’t ever been to a wedding, only funerals, but she wasn’t having any of it.

The things that make the role usually undesirable aren’t even what it is that you’re dreading—picking out a spring colour for yourself and two other women to wear that looks both cohesive and flattering across everyone isn’t that hard. It’s moreso all of the questions, the whispers from the old bitties about the distinctly solo bridesmaid—oh god.

Working in film and television doesn’t really afford you the luxury of a relationship. Up until two years ago, you’d lived the life of a creative nomad. You’ve had five apartments since you graduated college, bouncing around the continent with no station to go back to after your father sold your childhood home. There’s a map in your front hall now, charting all the places you’ve lived with thumbtacks and red string: Montreal, North Hollywood, Calgary, Culver City, and now Mableton, Georgia. It’s your own personal serial killer wall.

You had the apartment just outside of Los Angeles when the accident had happened. When you finally got home, everything felt…wrong. The person who’d lived there before wasn’t you, or you weren’t her, everything haunted in the places she’d last left them. So you dumped half of your shit in a Beverly Hills storage locker, bringing the rest with you in boxes down south.

Everyone in California expected you to bounce back right away, like a cervical spine injury was something you could pull yourself up from to walk it off. The doctor forced six months of bed rest on you after the surgery, at minimum. She didn’t know at the time that your life is defined by minimums: minimal pay, minimal oversight, minimal time. You had a job lined up four months in, spending the rest of the other two wondering how many ways you could craft the same placating email to the production company.

You park at the side of the road, looking up at the windows of your apartment. The windows are dark, the curtains drawn. No one is waiting for you up there.

Sometimes, you long for something like that. Wish for the windows to hold light, the shadow of another human being in the light cooking you dinner, watching television. Your mind wanders to the sets of the epically corny love stories you worked on at the very beginning of your career, hauling around lighting equipment and taking coffee orders from the talent. Most of the time, though, you want exactly what you have now. 

You take the elevator up in silence, checking your emails and clearing them as you go. When the sleek metal doors slide open before you, you stroll to the end of the tiled hall and wiggle your key into the lock, letting the door squeal open. You toe off your flats at the entryway, leaving them to sit on the floor as the door closes behind you. The light comes on in your kitchen automatically, sensing your presence. It’s only then that you remember the groceries you were supposed to order, jamming the heel of your hand into the middle of your forehead.

“Shit,” you mutter, the shadows on the walls surely berating you silently.

There’s nothing more to do than sigh and scour the cupboards. You find bread tucked away in one of them, one last decent slice and the heel waiting for you in the crinkly plastic.

You stick them both in the toaster Mia got you last Christmas, stacking them onto a plate when they're done. Walking to the couch a mere few feet away, you turn the TV on to the fireplace channel, the one reserved in most households for snowfall and holidays. The toast feels dry in your mouth, wood crackling through the television speakers. Your bones are too tired to do anything else.

Somewhere between ten and eleven, you realize you aren’t going to make it to bed tonight. Your feet feel too wobbly beneath you, eyelids heavy as your vision blurs. So you make yourself comfortable, laying your head on one of your throw pillows, the fabric gritty against your cheek. A last notification lights up your phone, slowly but surely sapping itself of battery beside you. An email. You can just make out the subject line and email addresses; your own CC’ed onto the exchange, and two others.

[email protected]

[email protected]

Stunt Pilot - Urgent Inquiry

-

It’s just after noon. You sit in a folding chair, watching the scene play out before you. They did all of the blocking before you even got here, a rare occurrence, letting you walk on set ready to watch Mia in action. She performs a wall flip over a stray hospital bed effortlessly, like she was born mid-air. When she kicks Andy square in the padding at his chest, you stifle a bit of a chuckle.

They cut, Mia staying on her mark as her and the actress starring in the film—you’re blanking on her name—swap places. Mia has worked with her on a couple projects now. For a while, you were picking her up for lunch over at the Warner Brothers’ lot when she was doing a couple seasons of some teen superhero soap.

Ashton calls action again, and everyone watches as the actress stalks down the hall with her nostrils flaring, splattered in drying blood. Mia sidles up beside you to watch, too, her chest heaving silently as she chugs a bottle of water. They do several takes of this scene, definitely more than necessary. Ashton says that she isn’t capturing enough ennui and your eyes almost roll to the back of your skull.

The break for lunch cannot come any sooner. Hailey from makeup hands Mia a baby wipe to clean up the smear of stage blood on her face.

“I have a surprise for you,” she says, trying to remove the waxy, fire engine red lipstick that tints her mouth.

“Is it a pony?” you ask, injecting the enthusiasm of a preschooler on Christmas morning into your voice.

“No,” Mia says. “For you, it’s more like a unicorn.”

You arch a brow at her, barely noticing that she’s guiding you away from the catering hall in the direction of the side doors. You realize too late, shielding your eyes to the blazing sun when Mia pushes them open. You mutter a curse at the blinding light, eyes downcast for a brief moment as you still follow her out into the parking lot.

“Are we going to lunch? Or do you just need help getting something out of your car?” you ask, looking at her again.

She meets your eyes, and you watch as her gaze shifts to something in front of you. Following her eyes, you see an unfamiliar pickup truck in the spot to the left of you. It looks a little old, beaten up. You can’t tell what the colour of the body really is, a thin spray of dirt coating most of the hard surface.

You give Mia a strange look. “Did you get me a carpenter?”

“Better,” she says.

You both watch as someone—he—gets out of the driver’s side, muscles in his back flexing against the grey shirt that stretches across his shoulders. The truck door closes with a firm toss, and then he’s turning to face the both of you. He’s tall, dark and one might caution to say, handsome. Not you. Mia, probably, if he weren’t standing right there.

Mia’s unicorn lifts his baseball cap off, pushing long hair away from his face before returning it to the crown of his head. A beard, more like scruff, lines his jaw and a bit of his cheeks. If Bass Pro Shops had a Man of the Month calendar, he would be Mr. March.

“Francisco!” Mia calls out to the man, waving him over with a smile. He saunters over, bootcut jeans tinged with dirt at the bottom hems.

When he meets you at the sidewalk, he shakes Mia’s hand and then yours.

“Frankie’s fine,” he says, a small smile breaking out across his face.

“I’m seeing a distinct lack of a rainbow horn here,” you say, mostly to Mia. Frankie’s smile morphs into confusion, your words pulling a light laugh out of his chest.

“You’re her unicorn,” Mia clarifies. Then, to you, “This is Frankie Morales. He’s a stunt pilot.”

“Think Art Scholl without the tragic plane crash,” he says.

It’s your turn to laugh, a small, brief thing punched from your lungs. “And he’s got jokes.”

“And he’s going to fly your helicopter,” Mia says.

“Really?” you ask, looking at Frankie now.

“You need a chopper flown, I’m your guy,” he nods.

A chopper.

“I guess…you should meet Ashton, then,” you say.

“Oh, yeah. Totally,” Mia agrees.

As the three of you walk back into the studio, you notice how Frankie looks at everything. Not a simple scan, a glimpse over the walls. Looks, like he’s noting every security camera along the walls, every exit sign, the handle on each closed door. That’s definitely something.

Ashton is forking greek pasta salad into his mouth everso gracefully when you find him at lunch. You wonder what Frankie thinks of him upon first glance, taking in the designer polo shirt and the beady-lensed sunglasses drooping off the bridge of his nose as he laughs too hard at Gwen’s bad joke. Everyone knows he’s trying to get into the script supervisor’s pants.

“Ashton!” Mia calls for him, interrupting their surely riveting conversation. He frowns at the sight of the three of you.

“Mia,” he says, wiping at his mouth with a napkin.

“We’ve got good news for you.”

“About the helicopter,” you say.

“This is Frankie. He’s going to fly the thing,” Mia says.

You’re expecting Ashton to stand, hold out his hand and greet the man—you know, the polite thing to do with someone you’re about to work with. Instead, Ashton stays seated, pinching his fingers along the left arm of his sunglasses to pull them further down his nose. He gives Frankie a onceover, his mouth settling into a line of a smile. Thoroughly unimpressed.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Ashton says.

Immediately, the mood between the four of you shifts. It’s awkward, not because this has to be but because Ashton is making it that way. You can see Frankie tense, visibly drawing a blank as to how he’s supposed to respond.

He opts for, “You too,” raising his eyebrows as he says it. He shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

“Great,” Mia says, the end of the word tipping up into a question. She steers Frankie away from the interaction. You stay put, gaping a bit incredulously before shaking your head, turning to follow them.

Mia is standing near a catering table, already stammering out a string of sorrys.

Frankie shakes his head. “No need to apologize,” he says. “Not you’re fault that was…whatever that was.”

“Jesus Christ,” you say.

“He’s not usually like that,” Mia says, which is a lie. “Since you’re here, though, you might as well stay. Grab a sandwich?”

You nod. “You can sign the contract after lunch.” Which means you’ll be spending the hour drafting it.

Frankie appears hesitant, looking between Mia and yourself. You’re not much of a persuader, but Mia can put on these giant sulking doe eyes when she wants to. It’s crippling, shattering any viewer’s ability to not bend to her present wish. With that look, you’re fairly sure she could bring about world peace.

“Okay, sure. Why not?” Frankie asks.

Mia smiles, mission accomplished, and wonders off to raid at the salad bar on the other side of the room. You watch her go, shaking your head.

“She always like that?” Frankie asks, still standing behind you.

“Mia? More or less,” you say.

Frankie walks to the end of the table you both stand beside, grabbing a plate. He offers it to you, and you take it. Then he grabs one for himself, shoveling tuna macaroni salad onto the porcelain.

“She’s a good kid, though.”

“Aren’t you two the same age?” he asks.

“Yeah. Kind of feels like I’m her older sister, in a way,” you say.

“In a way?” He watches you grab a set of tongs, a bunch of salad landing on your plate.

“We’ve known each other for a long time. I was usually the more protective one, when we were younger.”

“Not now?”

“Well now she doesn’t really need it. And even if she did, not like I could do it,” you say. On your worst mornings, you can barely make it out of bed.

A question dances across Frankie’s eyes, but whatever it is, he keeps it to himself.

“Where did she find you anyway?” you ask, changing the subject.

“She emailed me. Just last night, actually, but I’m always in the business for work. Summer’s usually pretty busy, but I’ve got more time on my hands than I’d like this year.”

“So, a stunt pilot. Air shows, then?”

“Air shows, state fairs, military celebrations,” Frankie says. He uses a giant metal spoon to scoop cooked legumes on his plate.

“And you always dreamed of a life in aerobatics, or…?”

“I was in the military for while, as a pilot. Couple tours. When I came home, I still had that itch, y’know? Now that I’ve done it I can’t stop doing it.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” You cringe internally at the lame response.

“What about you?” Frankie asks.

“Went to school for video stuff, did some stunts for a while. Now I do this. Make sure no one loses a limb,” you shrug. The walls are starting to feel a little too close, the scattered conversation of the voices around you peaking in your ears. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but you interrupt. “I hate to leave you stranded but I should probably get back to work.”

“Right, yeah,” Frankie says.

“I’ll have Mia give you the contract when everything’s wrapped up in here.” You smile, hoping it looks more grateful than grimacing.

Throwing a baked potato onto your plate to join the salad, you ditch Frankie at the other end of the table and make a beeline for the doorway. Your stomach twists in your gut, guilt settling before you’re even finished being rude. Someone should tape a sticky note to your back: Hi, I’m an asshole.

#frankie morales #triple frontier #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fanfiction #pedro pascal #i am so nervy omg why it's fanfic i've been doing this for years #hello people of pedroland please like me smiley face #pedrostories #fic: the world tipped on its side

[shimmershae]

OK, I think you may have me beat for sheer volume of WIPs!

What a juicy list. I can't resist asking to see two - "she finds him on the porch steps" and "tried to tell you I couldn't bake."

I'm the self-proclaimed Queen of Unfinished fics around these parts if I do say so myself, lol.

So. "She finds him on the porch steps" sadly never made it past the idea stages, at least not to date, but I had this image percolating in my brain of Carol and Daryl on a set of porch steps in Alexandria similarly to that scene with her and the man in plaid. The community was all but sleeping and the stars and the moon were out and they talked, openly and honestly. Confessions were made on both sides and kisses may or may not have been exchanged.

"Tried to tell you I couldn't bake" on the other hand is a little Christmas Caryl ficlet I'm currently trying to write and it's giving me fits. Mostly because I'm trying, emphasis on the trying part, to set it post-finale during that year time jump with the assumption that Christmas happened in the CW while they were still trying to figure out what came next and not during the hopelessly muddled timeline that was S11 in general.

A wee excerpt for you, with no guarantees it will appear in the final version because this thing is a real shapeshifter, lol--

“Shit, shit, shit.” 

“Language!” 

Judith’s pointed rebuke is quickly lost in the scramble of Daryl’s preoccupied thoughts as he bustles around the kitchen.  The place looks like Ground Zero.  Like a literal bomb of flour and sugar exploded in it and hell if he can find anything.  Not the timer that’s buzzing insistently.  Definitely not the silver wrapped package he’s safeguarded half the never-ending day only to misplace it sometime in the last ten, fifteen minutes.  Daryl yanks open cupboards.  He rifles through cutlery drawers and peeks beneath RJ’s abandoned comic book.  He gives the Ass Kicker approved “decorating station” a brief once-over but the damn oven mitts seem to have vaporized along with the last shred of his good sense.  Temporary insanity.  That’s the only explanation for the fool thing he does next.

Hope those didn't disappoint too greatly, lol. Thanks for the fun ask.

#fic games #asks #Caryl #Caryl fanfiction #things that make me smile

[angelboybreakdowns]

running around the house gnashing my teeth with excitement

[ID: Two images. The first is a meme, with stick figures around the edges. Clockwise from top left; a stick figure clenching its teeth, its mouth filled with blood. A very grainy stick figure hunched over and vomiting blood. A stick figure kneeling by a dead stick figure, blood surrounding the dead one and dripping from the living one’s mouth. A grainy stick figure holding another stick figure down and punching it, blood flying from its fist. A very grainy stick figure with rays of darkness flowing from its eyes. A stick figure gripping another one by the shoulders so hard its fingernails are drawing blood. Text in the middle reads “Boys when their mcr pin arrived”. End image one ID. A second image shows an enamel pin in black, white, and gold, on a blue and green plaid background. The pin shows a skull, outlined in gold, floating in a white jar partially filled with black liquid. The jar is wreathed with gold vapors, and a black partial circle surrounds the top, with “thank you for the venom” written in gold, and in all caps. End ID.]

#mcr #LOOK AT IT LOOK

[cthonicascendant]

Just fucking all of them

vvell if you in5i5t

Fuzzy socks - What is something that made you smile today? vve got to meet tvvo of our tumblr friend5 in per5on vvhich vva5 technically la5t night but 5ince it happened on the 11th an im 5tartin to an5vver thi5 on the 11th im callin it today Soft blanket - Did you drink and eat enough today? maybe not 5ure Strawberry milk - What is your favorite (hot) beverage? black coffee not that i eVer get to drink it no more thank5 to mir Cupcake - Do you have a comfort food? If so, what is it? uh chocolate i gue55 i alvvay5 vvant chocolate vvhen im 5ad Teddy bear - Do you own any plushies? Please tell me about them! i only ovvn a manta ray plu5h it5 about the 5ize of a dinner plate an dark blue rainbovvy fabric Tulip - What is your favorite flower? one a them i5 dandelion5 Bunny - When was the last time you saw a wild animal and what was it? 5ome kind a bird out in the parkin lot here earlier Fluffy cloud - Do you think clouds are made of cotton candy? im too auti5tic for thi5 all i can think i5 they are literally vvater Vapor Warm milk - What is something that makes you feel comfortable? haVin 5omethin around my neck Angel - What was your last dream about? it vva5 i dont knovv i had the Vague impre55ion a bein at vvork but that dont make 5en5e becau5e that vvould be a nightmare an i mo5tly vvoke up thinkin that it vva5 a vveird dream Vanilla - What is your favorite scent? campfire 5moke Biscuit - Do you like to cook / to bake? no not really crovv i5 the baker Kitty paw - Do you have any pets? not at the moment Sprinkle - How old are you? (if you are comfortable sharing) fifteen 5vveep5 Pillow - What are five (or more) things that make you happy? bein in bed gettin attention uh vveed uh chocolate uhhh 5pendin time vvith friend5 vvait that5 ju5t gettin attention Puppy - What is something that you like about yourself? eVerythin vvhat5 there to not like

Pastel - What is your favorite color? Violet an teal Slipper - What is your favorite clothes? current faVorite outfit i5 thi5 turtleneck vve got vvith me5h 5leeVe5 an a royal blue an neon green plaid 5kirt got to be vvorn vvith boot5 an 5ome kind a bright legging5 la5t time i vvore it i vvent vvith the glittery 5tar print tight5 Cat nose - What color does your phone-case have? it5 a gradient from neon green through yellovv orange an then finally pink Soft fur - How are you feeling right now? Vaguely entertained Chocolate milk - If you are comfortable with it, share your phone’s wallpaper im goin to pa55 on thi5 one becau5e i think my notification5 vvould giVe eVeryone el5e anxiety /lighthearted actually im 5kippin becau5e im doin thi5 on my computer an dont feel like figurin out hovv to get a 5creen5hot in here vvithout fuckin up the formattin Animal Crossing - What is the last video game you played? pokemon cry5tal Sugar - How many siblings do you have? tvvo Popcorn - Do you prefer movies or shows? moVie5 Blush - What is your favorite season and why? fall it5 nice an cool an the leaVe5 are pretty Sparkle - What are some of your wishes? not feelin like an5vverin thi5 one 5orry Love - Are you in a relationship? all in 5y5 at the moment but yeah Pajamas - Are you an early bird or do you rather sleep in? vvere nocturnal Cream puff - What was the last thing you ate and did you like it? it vva5 a burger from vvendy5 an it vva5 alright Meow - Share a random fact about yourself, please ok you knovv thi5 i5 really long did you really haVe to 5ay all of them im tired here uhhhh the only thing i cant do left handed i5 vvrite neatly Warmth - Do you like to cuddle? once i get to knovv you ye5 Cozy - How many pillows do you have in your bed? like four or fiVe Glitter - What color are your eyes? MY eye5 are Purple like in my icon the body ha5 a different eye color obViou5ly Cinnamon - What are some about your hobbies? obViou5ly dravvin i al5o do a bit a paintin on the 5ide an knittin an im 5till tryin to learn diVination vvith card5 Unicorn - Do you believe in magic? i think it5 fake but vvhateVer im not goin to go policin vvhat other people do Butterfly - If you could live anywhere you like, what would you choose? i vvould vvant a nice hou5e near a city or eVen better like the entire floor of a buildin in the city dont knovv exactly vvhich one yet Princess - Do you prefer to wear skirts, dresses or pants? 5kirt5 not that i get to much Bonbon - Do you rather like sweet or salty snacks? 5alty

#Void5ong #ask game response #anonymous #long post #me i hope that fuckin read more vvork5 #there you go #fuckin #all a them

[morebedsidebooks]

The Heartbreak Bakery by A.R. Capetta

When I was young and full of feelings I didn’t know how to share, when I was afraid nobody would understand me, I found a language everybody knows. Sugar, flour, butter. The comfort of a perfect cookie, the joy of a celebration cake, the bittersweet importance of chocolate. I put everything in my heart into my baking. Years later, I lost the one person who I thought would see me and love me for exactly who I am — and the magic started up again. This has always been my way of sharing what I feel. Especially when things get hard.

  The Heartbreak Bakery by A.R. Capetta is a contemporary LGBTQ+ YA with a dash of magical realism as teenage baker Syd realizes crafting food is more about feelings than one might expect. Syd’s creations at work or home aren’t just an outlet or inspire the usual emotions— they’re saturated with them. Concoctions sometimes irresistible and consuming one can make sentiments under the surface rise to the top in Syd and others, having at times very intense effects.

Though I’m older than the target demographic this story is like an expertly flavored recipe with baking, passion, community, culture, and change. One of the cutest parts is also recipes for various baked goods or occasion guides that head each chapter. From simple Breakup Brownies in the beginning to more elaborate Agender Cupcakes, and Today’s Gender or A Big Gay Bakeout days it’s a fun distinctive touch. I decided to try the Get Comfy with Your Great Big Feelings Cookies because the book basically stirred up the same. Syd is a welcome addition to my list of books with agender bisexual characters.

I get big feelings anytime the subject of gender and vaporous clouds come up…

“I have to find a way to help them understand me, even though I don’t really understand them either. Having a gender? Why? Feeling like your body and who you are inside line up all the time? How? Identifying with other folks of your assigned gender as a kid, when I identified with things like extra-fluffy cumulus clouds and nebulas? What does that even feel like? I get nervous trying to explain myself sometimes. I get tired. I grow sharp edges where I didn’t think I had any. And I definitely get to the point where I just want to bury myself in baking and not deal with any of it.”

 Too the Proud Muffin Bakery and its owners, staff and customers make up a diverse and resilient rainbow in the Texas capital. (Special mention to the pansexual drag queen military veteran turned barista, D.C.) Truly there are so many great passages worth marking and quoting. Including some of the cream of the crop of food related analogies I’ve read in a while. For example:

“Sometimes I come up with these little recipes . . . like, gender recipes. For how I want to look or feel that day.” I might be an agender cupcake, but I have to live in a world where most things have been flavored with gender. Even when I was little, I mixed and played and had fun with those flavors. I showed up to second-grade picture day in a pink skirt with neon yellow suspenders and a blue plaid tie. I made it through most of eighth grade in big unlaced work boots, black tights, and overall shorts. And then there’s my baking uniform: guys’ baggy jeans, a binder or sports bra under a fitted Tshirt and a bright sunny apron.

 Or “Our motto is love comes in every flavor.”

  Though for as much as I love and do praise this precious book, it’s not potentially without a little distasteful bite. This most prominently involves an event in chapter seven. There are a few things I think need examined when it comes to continuity but also consent. For the spoiler version read over here.

Honestly the entire basis of this book is that Syd does not know how the magical baking exactly works, is controlled, or always uses proper mindfulness when making something. Fundamentally, the whole aspect of magical baking does create moral and ethical questions that infuse the whole novel. The handling of such can and will be debated by readers. (Particularly in the instance I chose to highlight.) But I would still judge The Heartbreak Bakery as a delicious and inspiring LGBTQ+ YA book with an agender main character in a contemporary setting.

  The Heartbreak Bakery by A.R. Capetta is available in print and digital (including audio) from Candlewick Press

#ya novels #lgbtq+ books #the heartbreak bakery #a. r. capetta #agender character #beat the backlist #cw: mentions of biphobia dysphoria fatphobia transphobia

[vapehk1]

North FT12000 Disposable Vape Review: Unmatched 12,000 Puff Capacity

The vaping industry is continually innovating, presenting a wide array of sophisticated options tailored for adult users. Among these, the North FT12000 disposable vape stands out significantly due to its remarkable 12,000 puff capacity. This comprehensive review will explore the technical specifications, user experience, and flavor profiles of the North FT12000, providing potential users with vital information to make an informed choice. Technical Specifications and Features Impressive Capacity and Longevity - Prefilled Capacity: 15mL of 5% nicotine salt e-liquid - Battery Capacity: 650mAh, rechargeable - Puff Count: Up to 12000 puffs - Operation: Draw-activated - Heating Element: Dual Plaid Mesh Coils - Airflow: Adjustable via the Crown Airflow Dial - Display: Immersive Screen - Charging: USB Type-C with battery life and e-liquid level indicators Cutting-edge Design The North FT12000 is designed to provide a superior vaping experience. The dual plaid mesh coils ensure enhanced flavor and vapor production, while the Crown Airflow Dial allows for customization between Discrete, Full Flavor, and Auto Boost modes. The immersive screen adds a modern touch, enhancing user interaction. User Experience: Simplicity and Customization The draw-activated mechanism makes the North FT12000 extremely user-friendly, eliminating the need for buttons and complicated settings. With customizable airflow and multiple power modes, users can easily tailor their vaping experience to their personal preferences. The USB Type-C charging port supports fast and efficient power replenishment, enhancing convenience. Flavor Exploration: A Palette for Every Taste North Vapes has gone above and beyond in offering a diverse flavor range with the FT12000. Here’s a glimpse of some of the flavors available: - Apple Gummies: A sweet blend of apple and gummy candy. - Bahama Bliss: Tropical fruits like mango and pineapple with a hint of citrus. - Blue Crystal: Blueberries with a menthol kick. - Cherry Lemon: Sweet cherries and zesty lemon. - Cool Mint: Refreshing and crisp mint. - Frozen Raspberry: Ripe raspberries with a menthol frost. - Strawberry Watermelon Kiwi: A fruity mix of strawberry, watermelon, and kiwi. Each flavor is crafted to deliver a unique and satisfying experience, ensuring there is a choice to suit every preference. Safety and Durability Key safety features, such as overcharge protection, are integral to the North FT12000, ensuring both device integrity and user safety. The robust construction paired with these thoughtful features makes it a reliable choice for adult vapers seeking performance and peace of mind. Conclusion The North FT12000 Disposable stands out in the crowded market with its exceptional puff count, robust battery, and a wide variety of flavors. It combines ease of use with advanced features, making it an attractive option for both new and experienced vapers. Whether you’re drawn to the robust flavor of Strawberry Watermelon Kiwi or the refreshing simplicity of Cool Mint, the North FT12000 is designed to enhance your vaping experience. Discover more about this innovative product and explore the full range of flavors by visiting one of the best online vape stores today. Experience the pinnacle of vaping convenience and quality with the North FT12000! Read the full article

[maryrecetas]

Pollo Katsu airfryer

Ingredientes Para el chicken katsu:

1 pechuga de pollo sin piel ni hueso (unos 326 g) si tus pechugas de pollo son más pequeñas, puedes usar dos pechugas de pollo y omitir el corte

120 gramos de harina de trigo

1 huevo grande batido

60 gramos de panko, también conocido como pan rallado japonés

Sal y pimienta negra al gusto

Arroz blanco cocido (para servir con el katsu)

Repollo verde finamente rallado (para servir con el katsu) Para la salsa de chicken katsu:

34 gramos de ketchup

30 mililitros de salsa Worcestershire

12 gramos de salsa de ostras

1 cucharadita de azúcar granulado

Instrucciones Para el chicken katsu:

Prepara la estación de empanizado con la harina, el huevo batido y el panko, cada uno en su propio recipiente.

Con la pechuga de pollo plana en la tabla de cortar, corta el pollo por la mitad. ¡Haz lo posible por mantener el grosor de la pechuga de pollo uniforme y ten cuidado al cortar!

Coloca las dos piezas de pechuga de pollo una al lado de la otra y aplánalas con el lado plano del mazo de carne hasta obtener un grosor de ¼ a ½ pulgada. Recomendamos cubrir el pollo con un pedazo de plástico cuando lo estés aplastando para evitar que se rompa.

Empaniza la pechuga de pollo, una a la vez, comenzando con la harina. Cubre el pollo por ambos lados y los bordes con harina y da golpecitos ligeros para quitar el exceso. Sumerge el pollo enharinado en el huevo batido. Asegúrate de cubrirlo completamente. Por último, aplana el panko antes de colocar el pollo en él. Echa el panko sobre el pollo, luego presiona firmemente el panko sobre el pollo para ayudarlo a adherirse. Repite con la otra mitad de la pechuga de pollo.

Rocía el fondo de la cesta de la freidora de aire con spray de cocina. Coloca el chicken katsu empanizado en la cesta de la freidora de aire y rocía generosamente la parte superior del katsu.

Fríe el chicken katsu en la freidora de aire a 400°F (204°C) durante unos 14 minutos, o hasta que estén dorados y cocidos. A mitad de camino, voltea el chicken katsu, vuelve a rociar generosamente con aceite de cocina y continúa cocinando.

Una vez hecho, retira el chicken katsu de la cesta de la freidora de aire y deja que el pollo repose de 3 a 5 minutos antes de cortar.

Para la salsa katsu: 8. Mientras el chicken katsu está en la freidora de aire, prepara la salsa katsu. Simplemente combina todos los ingredientes (ketchup, salsa Worcestershire, salsa de ostras y azúcar) en un tazón y mezcla hasta que estén bien combinados.

Para servir: 9. Una vez que el chicken katsu esté listo, córtalos en tiras y sirve con arroz blanco al vapor, una cama de repollo rallado y la salsa katsu. ¡Disfruta!

Notas

Por favor, consulta la publicación anterior para referencias fotográficas paso a paso, consejos y preguntas frecuentes.

Preparar tu estación de empanizado antes de comenzar te ahorrará tiempo y mantendrá todo súper organizado y libre de estrés.

La harina y el panko sobrantes se pueden almacenar en recipientes herméticos y guardar en el congelador para cuando los uses de nuevo. Así que si prefieres, usa un poco más de harina y panko para facilitar el empanizado.

La receta de la salsa es justo para 2 chicken katsu. Si eres amante de la salsa, puedes duplicar la cantidad.

Si aumentas la cantidad de chicken katsu que estás haciendo, ¡no los pongas todos en la freidora de aire a la vez! Mantén el chicken katsu en una sola capa para que se cocinen de manera uniforme y tengan el mismo color.

Todas las freidoras de aire son diferentes, lo que significa que pueden variar en la configuración de temperatura y tiempo de cocción. Así que, por favor, ajusta el tiempo de cocción y la temperatura de la freidora de aire según lo consideres adecuado para tu freidora de aire. Nuestra receta se basa en nuestra freidora de aire Power XL de 7QT.

#pollo #almuerzo #empanizado

[flyxchange]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Columbia Shirt Mens XXL Vapor Ridge III Plaid Orange Red Long Sleeve Button Up.

[peacedtogether]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Nike Women's Zoom Vapor 9 Tour Style -610 size 9.5 tennis.

#543222

[westbay34]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: 💯 percent authentic Louis Vuitton, men’s leather dress shoes!!!!.

[candiceaof6-blog]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: The North Face Top Button Down Plaid Collared Short Sleeve Side Rutched Pink XL.

[poconopaula]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Sugar And Vapor, plaid mini skirt with shorts.

[j77m]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Columbia Vapor Ridge III Long Sleeve Shirt Size XL.

[119piom]

pls, say me you know who this guys..

#growing up creepie #goths #plaid vapors #tarantula boy #skipper #raven #misery #morpheus

[lieutenantcactus]

Some rare pairs that I think I literally pulled out of my butt

(also he/him for Aloe please, he’s a trans man :3)

#daring do #coco pommel #cosy glow #babs seed #vapor trail #lotus blossom #sky stinger #mlp flam #svengallop #silverstream #plaid stripes #gabby griffon #wind sprint #mlp shipping #my little pony friendship is magic #my little pony #mlp:fim #mlp

[txemrn]

Book: Open Heart

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x f!OC (Tatum Erikson)

Song Inspo: "Everything We Need" by A Day to Remember

Summary: While attending the Bloom's Thanksgiving dinner party, Dr. Tatum Erikson reminisces her earliest memories of the holiday, and learns quickly that those humble traditions won't soon be forgotten thanks to her new family

Word Count: ~3920 (+/-)

Warning: a smidge of angst, but this is fairly fluffy; a few curse words; reference to child abuse and neglect; reference to grief

A/N: Better late than never! I hope you all had a lovely Thanksgiving! Most of these characters belong to Pixelberry; huge thanks to @kat-tia801 and @ao719 for pre-reading some chunks of this piece.

----------

Small fleeting vapors of her warm breath dance across her crimson lips into the brisk Boston sky; her cheeks glow rosy pink, making her bright eyes sparkle like sapphires even in the darkness of night. Marveling at the glittering twilight, Tatum Erikson steps out further onto the quiet balcony, wrapping her arms around her body. Feeling the goosebumps on her normally soft skin, she wishes she hadn’t let the kind greeter take her jacket. For starters, she wasn’t sure her company for the evening would be approving of the blanket of filigree and lace inked across her entire shoulder cap. But, now that she is chilled, she could really use the extra warmth of her glen plaid peacoat. Who has a coat check-in at a Thanksgiving dinner anyway? Leave it to the Blooms. So pretentious. She had to escape--just for a moment--from the crystal stemware, from the aged brandy, from caviar-garnished, well, everything.

Tatum inches closer to the balustrade, resting her hands on the frigid smooth stone. A simple, flesh-colored surgical scar on her delicate wrist catches her attention before she adjusts her rose-gold bracelet to hide it from sight. The silver crescent moon flirts with her attention, pulling her into the deep sea of her memories: back to a simpler time, back to a time when she still believed in magic and wishing on shooting stars. Basking in the blue moonlight, she cinches her eyes tightly closed. The sounds of obnoxious laughter and the clanging of china from the affluent dinner party diminish into silence. A single, familiar voice echoes softly.

“Tatum?”

Her eyes startle open just in time to watch the remnants of celestial dust streak across the sky. Gasping into a toothy smile she flutters her eyes closed again. And makes a wish.

“Tater Tot?”

And all she can see is him.

“Did you find one?” Eleven-year-old Trevor Erikson grabs an extra blanket, wrapping it snuggly around his six-year-old little sister Tatum. She shakes her head no, her bottom jaw trembling from the cold as she coddles her wrist close to her body. “Well, keep looking, silly! There are plenty of stars out there. We just need one.”

“I’m hungry, Trevor.” Her quiet, innocent voice quivers. “Do you think Mommy is coming to pick us up? She said I could have berry sauce.”

“Cranberry sauce, Tater Tot. It’s called cranberry sauce.” Trevor kindly smirks, playfully gripping her pink-nose between his knuckles.

“Maybe she got lost.” A tinge of hope soars through her tone. “She hasn’t been here in a long time. She might have forgotten.”

Trevor slowly sighs, his face falling as he tries to find the right, tender words to share with his little sister. “Mom was supposed to pick us up this morning for Thanksgiving, Tate. I don’t think she’s coming.” He gingerly rubs her back, “But, hey, I’ll cook us something when Dad gets the power turned back on.”

Tatum nervously looks back outside, her breath fogging up the bedroom window. She hugs her wrist again, her eyes darting back and forth down the dirt road as she looks for the truck’s headlights.

She didn’t mean to make her father mad again. She actually has been trying extra hard not to make him yell as much in hopes for a new pair of shoes from Santa Claus. But, at the mention of her mother, young Tatum became the target of his wrath. When she tried to hide, he caught her by the arm, twisting her wrist until they both heard a crack. Dropping the terrified little girl on the ground, he grabbed his keys and left. That was almost eight hours ago.

Tatum stares intently out the window. This time, she would be prepared. This time, she would be good. This time, she would hide before he could get angry with her.

Trevor continues to look for items that will help keep them warm throughout the night. He has watched his dad burn brush and trash in a barrel outside plenty of times, but he can't find a single match. His father has a secret stash of lighters next to his pack of Marlboro reds in the truck, but once again, he and the truck were nowhere to be found.

Trevor decides to work on the next problem: food. Opening up the pantry, he is dismayed to find bare shelves and empty containers. He discovers a bag of rice, but without power, he is clueless as to how to cook it. Reaching far back in a cabinet, he pulls out a can of cream of celery soup, but they only had an electric can opener. He found a bottle of soy sauce and mustard, but he wasn’t about to feed that to his baby sister, let alone himself.

Frustrated, he storms into his room. He digs into the back of his closet, pulling out an old, tattered shoe box. One by one, he pulls out $1.81 in change. He then slips on his coat, a skull cap, and gloves.

“Trevor?” Tatum chases after her older brother. “Trevor? Where are you going?”

He grabs her jacket, handing it to her to put around her. “We are going to celebrate Thanksgiving. Let’s go get food.” He stops to give a reassuring nod to his sister. “Is that okay, Tater Tot?”

“Tate?”

“Tate?”

A man’s wool sports coat is slipped onto Tatum’s chilled arms; the frigid air suddenly swells with the warmth of Ethan Ramsey’s comforting, woodsy smell. She delicately grabs the lapels, pulling the oversized jacket around her body.

“I know you have to be freezing out here,” he sardonically chuckles, gently combing her curled, blonde locks out from being tucked under his jacket. He then firmly strokes her arms to warm her up before tightening her into an effortless embrace. He presses his lips against the shell of her ear. “Any shooting stars tonight?”

Tatum bites her bottom lip as Ethan’s pout returns to her ear, finding his way to barely grazing her neck. Twirling around in his arms to face him, their mouths meet sweetly, pecking once, twice, three times before she rests her head against the firm planes of his chest.

It had only been a couple of months since Ethan and Tatum had taken the plunge, agreeing to exclusively date each other again. No relationship is perfect; but, even though they each had a ton of baggage to unpack from the last fifteen years, being together was the answer. It had always been the answer.

“Nope. No shooting stars. But you're here now, so I don't need one,” Tatum sweetly whispers, gazing dreamily into Ethan’s eyes.

Clearing his throat, Ethan purses his lips together, choking back a laugh. “Wow. Want some wine with that cheese?”

“Really?" Tatum's face drops into a scowl as she scoffs. “You’re not even using that punny phrase correctly." She rolls her eyes, letting out a dramatic exhale as she pushes away to jokingly pout. "I was trying to be romantic, asshole.”

“Ahh, see? There’s the whine,” he snickers into a knowing smirk. Tatum can't help, but smile in defeat.

Ethan gently takes her elbow, guiding her back into his protective arms. Planting tender kisses in her hair, her eyes flutter, relishing the moment. Finally looking up towards Ethan, his lips instantly find hers, melting into a warming kiss.

A sudden roar of laughter from inside the dinner party abruptly pulls the couple apart. “Well, I guess we better rejoin the group,” Tatum suggests, a clear reluctance in her tone.

“That’s why I came out here.” A look of sorrow flushes Ethan’s stoic demeanor. “There’s a case in the ER needing an ethics committee--”

“Oh no,” Tatum clenches her teeth, giving a mournful look, “that poor family. And on Thanksgiving--”

“Exactly. It’s Thanksgiving. Are you--?”

“I’m fine.” Tatum laces her fingers with Ethan’s. “Duty calls, Chief,” she smiles brightly, jovially saluting him. More than anyone, Tatum understands the demands of Ethan’s job, and likewise, he respects the exigencies of hers.

But, Ethan is right: it is Thanksgiving. Trevor gave Ethan the heads up back in medical school while the soldier was visiting the couple for Christmas between tours. Although she conceals it well, major holidays are bittersweet for Tatum. She wars with herself every year between basking in the joy of the season or getting lost in memories of the past. It's unintentional, but her ghosts are real.

She feigns the role of supportive partner today for him, but mainly because she wants to look and feel normal. But in reality, she needs him. And she hates herself for being that girl.

"Try to have fun, okay?" Ethan offers a crooked smile, pulling Tatum into another hug, finishing with a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll call you.”

Watching him bound out the door, Tatum takes a couple of deep cleansing breaths before rejoining the Bloom's dinner party. Entering the room, she was greeted immediately by several guests, including several newcomers to the party.

“Tatum!”

“Tatum,” Trevor reaches out for his little sister’s hand as they walk into their local Seven-Eleven. The trek was frigid in the sub-freezing temperatures, but luckily the convenience store was less than a mile away. “Stay close to me.”

They walk together over to the ready-made food, their eyes growing large with excitement. Looking at the rolling hot dogs and greasy pieces of pizza instantly made their hungry stomachs growl with glee. But, unfortunately, they were only able to afford one hot dog or one piece of pizza.

“Let’s see if there’s something else that will warm us up and fill us up,” Trevor grins while informing Tatum. He wasn’t about to tell her that he is clueless as to what--or when--they would eat next.

Suddenly, a deep raspy voice of an older woman, wearing a vest with Seven-Eleven logo on it startles them. “Can I help you?” Her face brightens when she recognizes Trevor. “Oh, hey, kid! Your dad want the usual?”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” Trevor cordially shakes his head. “My sister and I are just grabbing some snacks--”

“It’s sorta late for you two to be out.” Her piercing hazel eyes shift from Trevor to a shy Tatum, hiding behind her big brother. “Don’t you have Thanksgiving leftovers?”

“Oh, um,” Trevor grins, “we wanted something different to eat.” He grabs Tatum’s hand and walks down another aisle.

“Trevor?” Tatum innocently whispers, “what are 'Thanksgiving leftovers'?"

"Remember how Mom talked about all the different types of foods? The turkey? The rolls? The casseroles? The--?"

"--berry sauce?" Tatum interrupts, a smile crawling across her face at the mention of the dish.

Trevor sighs into a chuckle. “Cranberry sauce, Tater Tot. Well, there’s so much food, no one can possibly finish it. So, there is food ‘left over’ for another meal.”

“Wow!” Tatum’s eyes widen with shock. “That’s crazy!”

Trevor leads the way to a shelf with styrofoam cups of pre-packaged Asian noodles. “Now we’re talking,” he breathes a sigh of relief. He smiles when he sees the price: $0.89 for each cup. “Do you want beef or chicken?”

“Can I get berry sauce instead?”

Trevor looks over at his sister who is tenderly holding a dented-in can of cranberry sauce. “Tatum, we can’t--”

“Please, Trevor?” She pleads.

“Tate,” he shifts his eyes around, ensuring no one was listening. “You need to eat something that is going to fill you up and keep you warm. Cranberry sauce is like dessert. It tastes good, but you’re going to be hungry.” He grabs the can, placing it back on the metal shelf. “Besides,” he lowers his voice, “we don’t have enough money.” He hands her the cup of noodles. “Here. I bet you they have a microwave here--”

“No.” Tatum crosses her arms, refusing to take the container.

“Tate?”

“I don’t want noodles. Or-or rice. Or soup.”

“Tatum,” Trevor sternly calls her name, reaching out to rest a calming hand on her shoulder; but she shrugs away with a scowl on her face.

“I want Thanksgiving, Trevor,” she whines. “Why does everyone else get Thanksgiving? And leftovers? And berry sauce?”

“Shhh, Tatum--”

“--and a nice mommy and a daddy?”

Trevor froze, watching the thunderclouds build in her innocent eyes. He doesn’t know how to answer, not because he wants to spare his little sister’s feelings. He honestly doesn’t know the answer to her questions. And, he probably never will.

“Come here, Tate.” He motions for her to come closer, giving her a hug. “I’m sorry--I really am.” He turns his attention to the noodles in his hands. “But, this is the best I can do right now. I promise--next year will be different--”

“‘Scuse me,” the kind, older clerk from earlier interrupts their whispers. Unbeknownst to them, she had been listening to their entire conversation. “Are you two ready to check out?”

Trevor smiles politely. “Yes, ma’am.” He hands over the two cups of noodles while she quickly grabs another product from the shelf before leading the way to the register. Once behind the counter, she inspects Tatum’s small frame and smiles. “That sure is a pretty coat.”

Tatum beams, coyly grinning as she models her purple winter coat, playing with the drawstrings with her good hand.

“What do you say, Tate?” Trevor prompts with a low voice.

“Oh! Thank you, ma’am--”

“Darlin’? What happened to your arm there?” In the midst of showing off her jacket, the deep discoloration of her wrist was exposed for the clerk to see.

“Oh,” Tatum fixes her eyes to the ground, her voice growing quiet. “I was talking to Daddy about Mommy and picking us up for Thanksgiving, and then--”

“--she accidentally slipped and fell off the wooden deck earlier while she was playing,” finished Trevor. “She gets pretty clumsy.” The clerk narrowed her eyes, glaring at Trevor before training her eyes on Tatum. Noticing the suspicious look on her face, Tatum begins to nod her head, agreeing with her brother’s story.

“Hrmm, well, then,” the clerk gives a sympathetic smile. “Best be careful on that deck next time, hrmm?.” Tatum nervously nods. The attendant turns to Trevor. “That’ll be $1.91,” she sympathetically smiles.

“Oh, ma’am? I thought they were eighty-nine cents a piece,” questions Trevor as he digs into his pockets, pulling out his coins.

“Plus tax--”

“Tax. Of course.” He spills out his pocket of coins, counting out his $1.81. “I’m sorry. I-I guess I don’t have enough,” he bows his head in shame. “I didn’t mean to waste your time, ma’am--”

“Y’know?” she interjects, resting on her elbows to talk closer with the children. “We get a lot of impatient truckers from the interstate, stopping by here. You wouldn’t believe how many times they tell me to keep the change from their transactions because they don’t want to wait for me to count it out for them,” she sarcastically snickers. “Here.” She reaches below the counter, pulling out a dime. “That oughta do the trick,” she grins, scooping the silver coins in her hand.

A flood of relief washes over Trevor as he wraps his arm around Tatum. “Thank you so much, ma’am--”

The clerk nods, winking at the young boy. “There is a hot water spigot next to the coffee burners, but be careful. It’s boiling hot.”

Trevor gives a grateful smile as he turns with his sister to head back to the coffee burns.

“Um… say, what are you two going to eat for dessert?” The young boy turns back, his eyebrows furrowed sorrowfully at the clerk before shrugging his shoulders. “You gotta have dessert on Thanksgiving!” The attendant joyfully smiles as she pulls out the dented can of cranberry sauce. “Listen, I can’t sell this can lookin’ like this, so I have to charge it back to the company in which they will tell me to throw it away. Would either of you be interested in some cranberry sauce?”

Tatum’s eyes light up, fixating on the can. “Can we have some, Trevor?” She tugs on his arm. “Pretty, pretty please?”

With a chuckle and a curt nod from her older brother, the friendly attendant came out from behind the counter with the precious can of cranberry sauce in hand. While Trevor prepared the cup of noodles, the clerk went back into her office, looking for a can opener with no avail, but was able to find a knife, a screwdriver and a hammer. After several innovative attempts to crack open the aluminum can, they were finally able to create a big enough hole for the gelatinous confection to pour out into a bowl.

While Trevor finishes preparing their dinner, the attendant takes Tatum to her warm office. Sitting in her rolling chair next to the heater, she sweetly lifts the little girl to sit in her lap while they adjust a bag of frozen peas onto her tiny bruised wrist. “I know it’s cold, darlin’, but we need that swellin’ to go down.”

“Swelling? Like when your boo-boo gets bigger?”

“That’s right,” the clerk raises her eyebrows in surprise.

“Did you know that your body knows when you have a boo-boo? And-and it sends fluids to help make you feel better? That’s what makes it bigger.”

“You’re a smart little cookie, aren’t cha?” The attendant chuckles to herself, wrapping a warm embrace around Tatum. “You just might be a doctor someday, little one.”

“Noodles are ready!” Trevor bounds into the room, taking a seat in a metal folding chair next to his sisters and the convenience store worker. Without missing a beat, the two children dive into their feast, eliciting sweet moans of joy of finally eating food.

“You know what this means, don’t cha?” The clerk interrupts. Both of the children curiously return their attention to the older woman. “You have a new family tradition,” she kindly smiles.

“What’s a family tradition?” Quietly asks Tatum.

The clerk sweetly combs Tatum’s blonde wisps behind her ear. “A family tradition can be anything. It’s doing something special to help you remember something important about the past. It could be eating a special meal to remember a loved one or playing a specific game to remember a fun memory or watching a holiday movie because everyone loves it. The most important part of family tradition is that it brings family together, no matter how big or small.”

“So,” Tatum slurps up a noodle, “what could our tradition be?”

“...but the most important part is the orange zest while the cranberries are boiling. But, I highly recommend juicing them before you zest them. Easy-peasy!”

Tatum plasters a fake smile to appease a very pregnant Sienna Trinh-Aveiro, although the obstetrician is pretty sure she blanked out during the pediatrician's animated retelling of the recipe.

"Orange zest," Tatum nods as she scoops a small helping of the deep red relish onto her plate. "I'll be sure to, um, remember that next time. Would you excuse me?"

With a cordial nod, Tatum saunters through the crowd of the affluent collection of party-goers. Finding solace in a quiet corner, she begins to fidget with the appetizers on her plate, paying close attention to the cranberry sauce. Perfectly cooked with thrilling flavors of tart and citrus, it was garnished with a sprig of mint.

And fucking orange zest.

It didn't come from a convenience store. It wasn't from a can--a damaged metal can that would otherwise be considered garbage. There was no need for a screwdriver let alone a hammer.

Tatum's vision suddenly blurs; quickly blinking her eyelids, she realizes her eyes are flooding with tears. Setting down the exquisite china, she quickly surveys the room, planning her escape. Politely nodding at her colleagues and hospital investors, she stops to specifically thank Caroline Bloom for a lovely evening before retrieving her coat.

"Leaving so soon, Dr. Erikson?"

She holds up her pager, toggling it in between her slender fingers. "I'm so sorry, but duty calls," she fibs.

"Of course," Caroline embraces Tatum, placing chaste kisses on her cheeks. “Make us proud--as usual,” she chuckles, quickly turning back to entertaining her guests. Tatum collects her jacket and hurries out the door to head back to her loft.

After a long warm shower, Tatum cinches her bath towel around her body before retreating to her bedroom. She grabs her phone, noting that she had not received any new messages or phone calls. She considers contacting Ethan, scrolling to his name, but she knows impromptu ethics committee meetings can take several hours. And knowing him, he will want to manage the proceedings.

She tosses her phone back onto her bed, turning to her walk-in closet. She slowly strolls by her rows of clothes, dragging her fingertips across the various fabrics and textures until she comes to his small part of her closet. She leans in, nuzzling her nose into his clothes as she breathes in the scent. Trevor. Her hands tremble as it crosses over his combat uniform, over the embroidered name Erikson. Tears fill her eyes, her heart swelling with pride as she stops to admire his green dress uniform, tinkering with the flashy buttons and awards.

Tatum grabs one of his heather gray ‘Army’ shirts, and quickly slips the oversized fabric across her body. Carelessly pulling her damp, blonde tresses through the neck of the shirt, she hugs the material close to her heart. Ready to say goodnight to the emotionally-charged day, she turns off the lights before crawling under her weighted, ruffle duvet. Relaxing into her sea of pillows, the natural moonlight illuminates the framed picture on her bedside table: a photo of her and Trevor at her white coat ceremony at Johns Hopkins. A crooked smile gently fixes to her face, remembering that day so clearly: it was the first day her family came together; it was the first day Trevor met Ethan.

As her eyes flutter close, there’s a sudden pounding on her front door. Grabbing her phone, she notices it’s after ten; but again, there were no missed calls or messages. With her heart beginning to race, she slips on a pair of her boyfriend’s sweat pants before padding quietly to the front door. As soon as she peers through the peephole, a big grin crawls across her face. With her nerves relaxing, she unlocks the door, swinging it wide open to reveal the one person that could make the day end perfectly. Tatum playfully leans against the door, placing a hand on her hip. She jokingly looks at her wrist as if she’s looking at a watch.

“What?” Ethan cheekily smiles, shrugging his shoulders. With his tie undone and the top two buttons of his oxford unbuttoned, he holds out a brown grocery bag.

Trying to hide her smile, Tatum eagerly steals the paper bag. Peeking inside, she notices instantly the content: two cups of ramen noodles and a can of cranberry sauce. She abruptly looks back up at Ethan, tears gathering in her eyes.

Ethan quickly grabs Tatum’s shoulders, pulling her into a tight embrace. She buries herself into his shoulder, her breath hitching in her chest. “Hey, hey--” he whispers, pressing his lips against her tousled waves. “Shhh, none of that,” he chuckles to himself, massaging intimate circles against her back. “You know it’s family tradition.”

Tatum looks up, staring deeply into Ethan’s gentle eyes. Wiping away her tears, she begins to titter, nodding in agreement. He's right.

It is tradition.

And Ethan is her family. He always will be.

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