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incorrect-ikevamp-quotes · 3 years

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Comte’s 4th Birthday Story Event: Before the Clock Strikes Midnight

REEEEEEEE Ik it was a long time ago but life has been a [redacted], so I figured better late than never HAHA

So without further ado, anybody who’s curious feel free to click for more--I’ll put it under a cut for spoilers as per usual~

So in this story it’s the usual, a few days before his birthday, and they’re discussing a bump in the road. Essentially, it appears a friend of Comte’s is going to be celebrating a wedding, and as such he’s going into the suburbs/affluent part of the region to be able to attend. It’s only a few hours away from the mansion, but he will be gone for a few days with the arrangements made for his stay.

While this wouldn’t typically be an issue, MC has some things to take care of and opts out of attending with him (preparing for his bday probably LMAO) and Comte is immediately big sad. My favorite dramatic fool is already pouting, though he fully accepts and respects her decision. Besides which, he fully intends to be back in time to celebrate his birthday as well. He notes that he’s always admired how driven and independent she is, and has no intention of getting in the way of that. He’s just going to miss her, is all.

He says as much, figuring there’s no point in hiding it: “I really wanted to bring you with me to attend…but I suppose it simply can’t be helped” … “That’s not it…I guess I’m just wondering if you’ll miss me as much as I’ll miss you while I’m away.”

And MC’s just like “Aw, it’s okay it’ll only be a few days.” While Comte’s response is a very mature, high-pitched whining sound at a frequency only King (Theo’s dog) and Theo himself can hear. When MC tries to reassure him once more, his Hamlet impression continues: “Even the prospect of a few days away from you feels unbearable.”

Naturally, as any man do that loves his wife, he draws her close and proceeds to bang the living daylights out of her. I would offer details, but I have no deets to give beyond: [Well MC, it appears I won’t be letting you get much sleep tonight.]

Brief intermission for the vague sounds of fangirl cardiac arrest.

The scene opens again to him doing his walk of shame (the slut) down the walkway and into the carriage that will take him to his friend’s house. His thoughts carry the regret of burdening her with his desire, though MC is pretty much on cloud nine and unable to stop thinking about the heady night they shared in a good way. Bruh and the sly look when he figures out why she looks like that--I’m boutta call the police, he is going to make women and men alike act up.

MC scrambles to cool his already returning desire by insisting he will be late if he indulges any further, and he laughs and agrees easily–albeit with the slightest hint of reluctance. My favorite part in this exchange is that he kisses her forehead, adding that it’s because she’s the most adorable person in the world to him (a moment of silence for our uwus).

Fast forward to Comte trying to get home after the festivities are over. Problem is, it’s been raining like a mOTHERBLEEPER, and as such carriages have no safe way to traverse the roads at the moment. He waited out the first day as patiently as possible, but after the second–and no sign of stopping–his Leeroy Jenkins instincts kick in. He notes to the coachman that he’s aware he’s asking a lot, but they fully intend to take the long way which invites the least risk–and the rain is ebbing, even if the progress is slow.

It’s interesting because there’s another echo of his main story in this moment. He essentially showcases a desperation to return before the day ends, though without context it’ll probably seem a little strange, so I’ll do my best to explain. Basically, in his main story, MC notes that she doesn’t really care how different they are. Different time, different species, different experiences, so on and so forth. She hammers home that what matters is that the present is something that they actively share. It’s theirs. And no amount of divisions he desperately tries to draw will change that fundamental reality.

And it’s a little moving to see how deeply he takes it to heart? I think it’s one of those wonderful phenomena, personally–the way a person can influence how you think and act with their sentiments. Sometimes someone says precisely what it is we need to hear, and it changes us–while it can be for the worse, it can also be for the better. He notes that he spent so many birthdays; among the people serving his house when he was little, raising hell with his friends in his younger days, so on and so forth. Not unlike Leonardo, he says that after so many “special” days the faces become a blur, the festivities lose their luster. It’s just another day, at this point.

Note, one interesting thing here that stands out to me is that I feel like this is a reflection of both of their larger struggles. Where Comte can’t stand the relentless flow of time rendering him the only constant (and something of a ghost, never fully present), Leonardo can’t bear birthdays because it means remembering people who still mean the world to him, but are long gone. People he can never see again, never laugh with again, never share his life with again. And I think that’s a very profound pain, an anguish that just keeps on settling its weight. (Oh, Sisyphus…)

Comte’s is similar, but different. He actively works to keep his distance-- unlike Leonardo, he approaches immortality in the pragmatic way. He knows getting close will hurt, so he opts out of that–keeps a step behind, an easy smile on his face. Betrays only fragments to anyone, always has his guard up. But the downside of being so guarded means you eventually feel hollowed out and alone; nobody truly knows or understands you. There is a distinct loneliness in that approach, where memories only become reminders of how nothing ever improves and how bereft you are of warmth.

Leonardo, at least, gets to have the joy of being known from time to time. But loss and estrangement from those people means double the pain in the long run, because he loved them fully. Comte chooses to live in the cold to protect himself, but ends up in a kind of catch-22; the cost of forgoing loss means a constant deadening of his own feelings. It means living in a kind of fog, where there is a distinct discomfort in the silent obscurity of your own heart.

There’s something I’ve come to believe in my short course of living, so I guess I still need time to determine how true it is. But…I feel like, when people live this way, where who they are is a lie or it’s at the very least carefully concealed, we in part start to become that lie. I think it’s fascinating because Comte seems to have so much personality to him. He’s dramatic, he’s thoughtful, he has a sense of mischief about him, he has strong ideals, and he has an even more ironclad moral grounding. And yet, when he talks about himself, he always uses descriptions that hinge on emptiness. Like he’s worth so little, worth nothing. And that’s what I mean–he’s been trying so hard to glide on the surface that he has come to believe he really is equivalent to something that ephemeral. Like there’s nothing more inside him, or if there is, that it will never be worthy of much. I think it really speaks to the ways behavior impacts the psyche, even though the opposite tends to be considered the only possible cause and effect relationship.

He’s so determined to live for and in the future while he’s in the present, that he forgets to enjoy himself and really live. And while that approach is certainly understandable, I do think he loses parts of himself along the way. Only to be rediscovered and placed back into his hands by MC: [Today–this moment–our now, I don’t want to miss it for anything.] And that's not even touching on how quick she is to make them a we; she's not letting him keep that distance. It’s not “you have the ability to share this day with me” it’s “we’re here and in this together.”

I feel like what I love about this is that it’s not only about how sweet he is on MC, but also about how much he’s truly living again for the first time. His defenses are slowly inching their way down, he’s letting himself hope and want things and look forward to things again. The thing about being a responsible person is that–while responsibility is all well and good–sometimes you become so mired in doing the right thing and planning the most optimal outcomes that you just aren’t thinking of yourself anymore. That is, if you ever were to begin with. He went from the careful cultivation of a life as an aristocrat, to a life that spoke of more freedom and fun beyond those iron wrought gates, before he returned to the structure of what he knew. Freedom speaks to him I’m sure–we all need it in some measure to survive. But I do think a good portion of that was unfulfilling for him after a point. It was only feeding the void that was beginning to form inside him. He was instinctively retreating into himself to avoid pain, and in doing that the only result was feeling like a coward and a fake. He wasn’t happy, he wasn’t able to be himself, and nothing was fulfilling–every single day just another forward march.

I think it comes as no surprise he took up Vlad’s initial invitation so willingly.

But then I digress, back to the story. There’s another timeskip and it finds him racing down the hall of the mansion. He’s hoping to make it in time but knows he’s racing against the clock, and fully expects MC to be asleep by this point in the night. Midway along his path he thinks he spots MC and falters in his step, blinking. He decides to hang back, watching the figure enter his room with a great deal of curiosity and resists every urge to burst in after her. He hears MC speak into his pillow, her voice muffled but clearly despondent: “I miss you, Comte. I hope you get back home soon…”

Comte pretty much dies right there. I literally have no better explanation for it. He freezes, his heart sputters and stops. He’s just completely taken aback.

And then, naturally, he goes about feral with desire as is his modus operandi: “Oho, I heard something incredibly cute just now. Were you also having a hard time spending so long apart?”

MC: “…!”

[Startled, she turns around and her eyes widen and widen.]

MC: “Comte, how...”

Comte: “Took a detour in areas with less rain.”

MC: “?? Wouldn’t that still be hard in weather like this?”

Comte: “I told the coachman I wanted to see you as soon as possible. Even if it was only for a second, I wanted to spend today with you…”

[Everything I was thinking while in the carriage spills out of me long before I can help it. I am reminded again of just how utterly irreplaceable an existence MC is in my life.]

Comte: “Even so, it seems interesting that I would find you in my bed”

MC: “...! A--Ah, I’m so sorry for entering without permission!”

[I quickly grab hold of her before she can scramble out of my bed, coaxing her to sink back into the sheets.]

In between a lot of intense making out and [redacted], the larger overtone is that her reciprocated ardor just destroys him inside:

MC: “It was...because I couldn’t stop thinking about you, about wanting to see you…”

Comte: “!”

[You know just how to drive me mad with desire.]

Comte: “I’m the same...the first thing I did was look for you. Even though it was only a few days, your voice, your body, everything...I missed you”

[Because today, our ‘now’--I never want to lose a single moment with you as long as you’re by my side...]

Comte: “I’m so happy to be able to be with you, right here and right now.”

It gets funny too because Comte is trying to take it slow, but when she tells him “Happy birthday” and goes on to say she was so glad to greet the day he was brought into the world by his side, he just loses all control LMFAO. It ends with them getting more heated and [redacted], to the point where he doesn’t even hear the clock strike midnight.

And if him being the cutest and sexiest romantic wasn’t obvious enough, he spends the next morning just sighing blissfully with her in his arms:

[The next morning, when I wake up, MC is still fast asleep. I mean, given she only fell asleep a few hours ago. I’m still reveling in the afterglow of a sweet night filled with her cries, the way she looked at me and held me. MC...]

[I relax to the sound of her breathing steady with sleep, stroking gently at her hair as I hug her from behind.]

Comte: “I’ve had countless birthdays. In an endless life, I was convinced it was just a day that would come and go every time.”

Comte: “It was only after meeting you that I could understand there was no such thing as an overlapping or identical moment. I don’t want to miss a single second by your side...that’s what I think now.”

[I admit the truth of my heart, brushing a kiss against her cheek. Over and over and over again, showering her in my affection--]

But dun dun dun!!! MC was awake the whole time, so when she fidgets a little at how ticklish his kisses are, he 👁

[Oh, I see. Well then, two can play at that game...]

Comte: “Your punishment is to stay in my arms just as we are...how’s that?”

He gets his mischievous (and hilarious) revenge for being revealed (HORNY TIME), though it’s so suffused with love it’s hard to call it revenge hahaha. She reminds him to go easy on her because they have his birthday party to attend later, and he agrees~

Honestly after such killer hurt/comfort spice fluff, I can only tremble at the thought of what his 5th year bday story will be

It’s either going to be Some Angst^TM or even more killer fluff, and either way that means my days are numbered

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp comte #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp jpn spoilers #ikevamp leonardo #the way this man makes me have So Many Thoughts #every time i remember this story i just go dreamy-eyed #hes an absolute romantic and i die head empty only love comte #not incorrect quotes #rambles #fangdad propaganda #comte propaganda

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codex-archives-exe · 3 years

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Only A Heated Touch Truly Conveys The Sentiment | Yahari Ore No Seishun Love Come Wa Machigatteiru. Kan. [EP 11] | Yukinon x Hikigaya/Hikigaya x Yukinon [Yukigaya]

Transcript:

(Yukinon and Hikigaya begin walking up the bridge)

Hikigaya: “Sorry to drag you into this.”

Yukinon: “It was inevitable. There’s no way I could have refused in this situation.”

Yukinon: “Seriously, what are you doing?”

(Yukinon, in denial, that after everything, Hikigaya persistently tries to be with her)

Yukinon: “I don’t get this at all.”

(Yukinon slightly ahead of Hikigaya, walking up the entrance of the bridge)

Yukinon: “It actually felt terrifying watching my own family get coaxed along like that.”

Hikigaya: “I wasn’t really doing anything of the sort.”

Hikigaya: “To be honest, I’m terrified by the fact that they just backed down.”

Yukinon: “Good point.”

Yukinon: “My mom and sister definitely aren’t the type to give up that easily.”

(Hikigaya, awkwardly asking if he can move ahead because he has a bike, Yukinon shakes her head in disagreement)

Yukinon: “That look my mother had... It was the same one she has when she looks at my sister.”

Hikigaya: “Do you mean she acknowledged you?”

Yukinon: “She might have given up on me instead.”

[...]

Yukinon: “Why did you say something so absurd?”

Hikigaya: “That was the only way I could stay associated with you.”

Yukinon: “...Huh?”

Hikigaya: “With the club ending, we’d lose our only real place of contact.”

Hikigaya: “I couldn’t think of another excuse to you to come to me.”

(Yukinon stops in her place, as Hikigaya moves up slightly ahead)

Yukinon: “Why would you do that?”

Yukinon: “What about your promise? I asked you to grant her wish.”

Hikigaya: “We could say that this is a part of it.”

(Hikigaya puts the stop on his bike on the bridge)

Hikigaya: “Because she told me she wanted you to be a part of our afternoons filled with nothing.”

Yukinon: “Then there was no reason for you to do all of that...”

Hikigaya: “As if.”

Hikigaya: “Acquaintances, associates, friends, classmates. You can call it whatever you want. But I have no confidence I maintain that kind of relationship.”

Yukinon: “That may be true for you, but I’m going to do this. I’m going to get better at doing this!”

(As Yukinon, walks out of Hikigaya’s way creating distance between them)

[...]

Hikigaya: “This may hurt to hear, but both of us have pretty much zero communication skills, and we make things too complicated.”

Hikigaya: “Not to mention that we’re absolutely terrible at socializing!”

Hikigaya: “I don’t think we can start doing it well now!”

Hikigaya: “Creating any distance between us won’t be the end of it, and I’m positive we’ll just drift apart even further apart!”

(Hikigaya starts to run after Yukinon as she walks further away)

(Yukinon begins to walk faster and further away as Hikigaya reaches out his hand)

(Hikigaya realizing that Yukinon is getting too far away)

(Determined - Hikigaya, begins to gain speed and run after Yukinon)

Hikigaya: “That’s why...!” (as he grabs Yukinon’s hand)

Hikigaya: “If I let you go, I can’t grab hold of you again.”

Hikigaya: “This is extremely embarrassing for me to say, and I’d like to drop dead right about now, but...saying all that stuff about “taking responsibility” was totally insufficient...I don’t feel an obligation to do this...It’s more like I want that responsibility. Or rather ...I want you to let me have it...”

(Hikigaya, finally lets go of Yukinon’s hand, and they blush and look away from each other for a brief moment)

(Yukinon rubbing her wrist and hand, where Hikigaya held tightly)

Hikigaya: “It might not be something you’re wishing for, but I want to remain involved with you. This isn’t about obligation, but desire.”

Hikigaya: “So...allow me the privilege of distorting your life.”

(Yukinon shocked, realizing what he really means)

Yukinon: “What do you mean “distort”? What do you mean by that word?”

Hikigaya: “Well, I don’t mean that I have enough influence to change your whole life or anything. I think both you and I go on to university like normal, reluctantly join the workforce, and then go on to live decent lives. But if we’re involved with each other, we’ll take detours, stay at a standstill, and things like that, right? That’s why I’ll distort your life a little.”

(Yukinon sighs in relief, and then smiles, knowing what Hikigaya means)

Yukinon: “If that’s what you mean, then my life’s been distorted for a while now.”

Hikigaya: “I agree.”

Hikigaya: “We met, talked, learned, and then separated...and at each my life got distorted.”

Yukinon: “But you were already distorted from the very beginning.”

Yukinon: “I was, too, though.”

Hikigaya: “And things are going to get even more distorted. But as long as I keep distorting your life, I intend to pay a price to make up for it. ”

Hikigaya: “Well, I have basically have no assets, so the only things I can give you are time, emotions, the future, a life and other vague stuff like that. I’m not living much of a life, and I don’t have a lot of prospects for the future. But as long as I’m involved in someone else’s life, I have to give something, otherwise it’s not fair.”

Hikigaya: “I’ll give you anything and everything, so please let me be involved in your life.”

[...]

(Yukinon blushing and somewhat upset)

Yukinon: “You’re wrong...There’s no balance to that at all!”

(Yukinon, upset, knowing very well, that is completely unfair for only her to rely on him)

Yukinon: “There’s not that much value in the path that I walk to the future.”

Yukinon: “In comparison, you have...”

Hikigaya: “That’s a relief, then.”

Hikigaya: “As it stands, there’s not much value in my life. It’s an unpopular brand that has so little value it can’t get any lower than it already is. It’s basically bottomed out. In a sense, you could consider it a principal-protected investment. Now’s the best time to buy in!”

Yukinon: “You make it sound like a huge scam.”

(Gently punching Hikigaya’s chest)

Yukinon: “Learn to present yourself better!”

(Yukinon, upset, knowing Hikigaya is worth much more than he always tends to describes himself to her)

Yukinon: “Why are you standing there spouting all this stupid stuff that doesn’t matter? There’s something else you should be saying!”

(Yukinon, knowing full-well he is talking about “love” but does not have the bravery or courage to be upfront about it)

Hikigaya: “I can’t say it. No way. You really think I can put that into words?”

Yukinon: “I think I may be a very tiresome person to deal with.”

Hikigaya: “I know that.”

Yukinon: “In any case, I’ve done nothing but cause you problems.”

Hikigaya: “I’m used to that.”

Yukinon: “I’m stubborn, and I’m not very charming.”

Hikigaya: “Yeah, that’s true.”

Yukinon: “I wanted you to deny that part, though...”

(Hoping Hikigaya would at least deny one thing about her)

Hikigaya: “That’s a tall order.”

Yukinon: “I feel like I’ll only become more useless as I continue to rely on you.”

Hikigaya: “Which means I just to have to become more useless than that. If we’re all useless, then no one is.”

Yukinon: “And also-!”

(Yukinon tries to deny every moment of Hikigaya doing everything for her)

Hikigaya: “It’s fine.”

Hikigaya: “I don’t mind how tiresome you get. Or how burdensome. I could even say that’s a good thing about you.”

Yukinon: “What?”

Yukinon: “That doesn’t make me happy at all!”

(As Yukinon, lightly jabs at Hikigaya’s chest)

Hikigaya: “Ouch...”

(Yukinon, then gently grabs and tugs a small part of Hikigaya’s scarf)

Yukinon: “There’s more than that, right?”

(Yukinon puts her hand down, then Hikigaya grabs her hand, and puts her hand on his heart)

(Surprised, Yukinon looks back at Hikigaya as he does this)

Hikigaya: “It may not be enough compensation for distorting your life, but well...I’ll give you everything. If you do not want it, then throw it away. If it’s annoying, then just forget about it. I’m still going to do it regardless, so I don’t need you to reply.”

Yukinon: “Well, I’m going to say it clearly.”

(Yukinon then grasps part of Hikigaya’s blazer then begins to lean on him)

Yukinon: “Please allow me to have...your life.”

Hikigaya: “That’s stiff.”

Yukinon: “I don’t know any other way to say it, so deal with it.”

(Yukinon completely leaning on him, almost crying)

(Hikigaya, then fully embraces Yukinon, and they hug each other)

Preface

Hello everyone, so I used to have a Tumblr a long, long time ago; 5 years to be exact; but have chosen this time, because on this very site I used to endlessly blog and jot down so many theories and thoughts about the possibilities - the sheer possibilities, of this couple, this ship being a thing.

AND THEN IT FINALLY HAPPENED. 100% CONFIRMED.

THERE ARE NO WORDS THAT CAN DESCRIBE HOW HAPPY I AM.

7 YEARS

3 SEASONS

38 EPS

AFTER STORY CONFIRMED TO BE IN THE WORKS

Sadly, I do not have the receipts or any core theory pieces or fragments from my past blog because it was wiped. Attempting to reconstruct any form of it from past memory, from what I thought from this, solely came from the fact Yukinon and Hikigaya, despite having so many disagreements and dragging each other down almost in some instances - they always watched out for each other. They always did. No matter if it was Hikigaya for Yukinon’s sake, or Yukinon for Hikigaya’s sake even in the some of the most simple scenarios.

I always thought the beginning of S3, was so daunting because the sheer separation of the Service Club caused so much anguish, because each one of them felt for a different desire for another. Although, the entire premise going out of his own way to be there for Yukinon. Is absolutely the cutest and most romantic proactive thing someone could do for someone they ‘genuinely’ loved.

Yes, I did go out of my own way to write the entire transcript of that five minute sequence because it is so incredibly memorable, cute, and heartwarming. As many have claimed from the start, they were absolutely meant for each other, knowing how much they rely, trust, and lean on one another. The writing is just so beautiful and always gets my heart pounding, and I practically cry every time. I could watch this a million times, I could never ever grow tired of it. Protect these two AT ALL COSTS 😭💗💗💗💗 it being well worth the seven years of waiting, was such an understatement, I am so excited for whenever the After Story for these two gets animated. My heart will not be able to handle it.

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aquilaofarkham · 3 years

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title: mishpachah rating: T+ word count: 3,085 summary: Five years after rebuilding the manor—and the birth of a new Belmont into the world—Trevor decides to share an old recipe with his newfound family.

For @fibulaa 💛 Thanks so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

The first bread Trevor Belmont ate while living his newly orphaned vagabond life was so dry it cut at the inner walls of his throat. He swallowed each bite with grimace after grimace, knowing that despite the pain, the already hardened child of thirteen could stave off starvation for a little while longer. Until he tasted the faintest tinge of copper on his ruined tongue.

Putting those years far behind, he now stands in front of a wooden counter, blurry eyed and with a yawn reminiscent of a sun drunk cat. It seems clean at first glance but in every corner Trevor notices fragments of past meals which he tried wiping away once they were finished and placed on a more pristine table meant for family. Bits of salt, half minced vegetables, and crumbs of bread much softer than the ones belonging to a later childhood he would rather forget. This kitchen, warm in its early morning sunlight, was the final instalment of the manor, newly risen from the ashes. Or rather, simply rebuilt thanks to the calloused, blistered, and splintered hands. No more ruined stone, no more fire blackened beams holding together little less than an architectural skeleton. The somewhat mirror image of Trevor’s lost home has been faring better than the castle. Too many memories, fresh, ranging from bitter to incomprehensible.

Slowly, he grows conscious of his surroundings and his own self. A continuing habit of being the first to wake not just in this manor hold but in life. Reluctantly opening his eyes prior to dawn covering the landscape while still traveling alone only to drag a pair of worn boots back along a similar muddy road. Trevor never wanted to wake up before the sun. He just couldn’t bear to stay in the same place for much longer whether due to the laundry list of dangers or more often than not, his newfound hatred of whichever backwater hamlet he unfortunately found himself in.

He’s happy to wake up early. Happy to never feel a need to leave or escape, happy to know that lack of food replaced with pints of liquid pleasure mixed with death will never plague him again. Happy to prepare breakfast in a hot iron pot over a well stoked fire. What he thought he lost forever has come back, along with new additions to the family he’s carved out.

Another presence bounds her way into the kitchen and ambushes Trevor from behind. He’s not old—not yet, he’ll give it time—but years of drinking have made their permanent stay, dulling the more acute senses. Makes it easier for a five-year-old to catch him off guard. Trevor’s eyes bolt open as tiny arms hold him in a tight cage.

“Good morning, papa!”

His ears ring at the sound of Mirele’s loud voice, but at least he won’t have to worry about nodding off. He stares down at the youngest Belmont who looks as though someone had split Trevor and Sypha straight down their centres into four pieces and sewed each differing half onto the other in order to create a new person. A homunculi of messy dark chocolate hair, bright eyes shining with blue ice, full rosy cheeks somehow conspicuously smeared with some sort of dirt or jam, and enough energy to wear out an electric powered jackrabbit.

“How’s my little monster doing this morning?” Everything Trevor says is laced with his own personal touch of affection and Mirele loves it.

“Mama and papa are still asleep. Help me wake them up! Pleaseeee?”

This doesn’t surprise him; Sypha has always preferred to savour her last moments of sleep longer than normal and Alucard is… well, Alucard.

“Tell you what.” Trevor places a lid onto the simmering pot with a heavy clank. “While this heats up for our breakfast, we’ll go wake up those lazy bones.”

“Right!” Hand in smaller hand, the two make their way upstairs into the shadowy master bedchamber. Curtains drawn with only a sliver of light cutting its singular path across the floor and over two distinct lumps covered by blankets and furs. They seem conjoined, linked in each other’s arms, unaware that a third party has been missing for long enough. Mirele plunges into the room first, jumping onto the bed as all children do when parents refuse to join the land of the conscious. She playfully shoves and cuddles her way between the two bodies who sink deeper beneath the covers, lazily moaning like ghosts.

“Mama! Papa! Wake up! It’s time to get up!”

Trevor hopes that his tactic of throwing open the weighted curtains works in a more effective manner. Listening to the rising chorus of wordless protests coming from behind, he’s pleased with the results. “Never thought I would be the one setting a good example for our daughter.”

“Do not get cheeky, especially this early.” Sypha’s response spills out like running water. It’s clear her mind isn’t quite all there yet. But she can scoop Mirele into her arms, find every ticklish spot, and illicit giggles that only canines might hear. “At least we both know how to have fun, right my sweet?”

“Vampires… nocturnal…” A deeper, muffled voice emerges from under one of the pillows.

“Something you’d like to share with us, Alucard?” Trevor quips, amused at how the other father of the household can never seem to shake off his morning dishevelment. Perhaps sleeping in a coffin would help—a very large one so he doesn’t have to be alone. Alucard reluctantly removes the pillow as tangled heaps of gold fall over his face.

“Vampires are supposed to be nocturnal. Would you rather I burst into ashes upon contact with the sun? Think of our girls, Trevor.”

“We’ve all seen you in the sun before, it’s about as dangerous as a clove of garlic.”

“I have my own means of physical protection. Far beyond your measly human comprehension, love.”

“Personally, I’ve been able to comprehend you plenty.”

Mirele stares up at Sypha, her bushy brows furrowed. “What does… comp… sshhheshion mean?”

“It’s just another word your fathers use whenever either of them want to feel smart.”

Alucard gives Sypha a gentle pinch on either side of her abdomen. “I thought you were on my side.”

“What about my side?” Trevor asks, excelling at the greatest strength he possesses—the ability to never take anything seriously, only when he must.

“I’m hungry,” Mirele speaks up. “Hungry and bored. Can we eat now?”

This life is not normal, but then again it is. It always has been for them. Normal once meant coming together because of violence, encroaching darkness, and some flimsy prophecy stringing them along one dead body at a time. A prophecy which never said what had to be done after they followed it to the hard earned letter. Perhaps that’s why Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard floundered afterwards. No instruction on how to live their upturned lives.

Fuck prophecy.

They made this life by their own standards and in accordance with their own desires. They loved how they wanted to love and no prophecy could have foreseen Mirele. How she calls for her father while both Trevor and Alucard turn their heads at the same exact second. How she quickly calms herself when presented with a bowl of warm oatmeal drowning in honey and wild fruits hand plucked from the surrounding forest. But it’s not enough. Nothing ever is for someone always growing, always wanting more from life at such a young age.

“Can I have bread?”

Trevor, half way through his bitter coffee, turns to Sypha then Alucard as all three parental figures exchange glances. They haven’t the heart to tell Mirele. No bread at the ready, only the necessary ingredients and a considerable amount of flour bags to blanket Enisala. There’s the option of making it themselves, yet it depends on a certain someone’s capacity for patience.

“How do you feel about baking our own?” Trevor’s voice wavers, which he tries to mask with his characteristic dry tone. It’s been a long time since he’s made bread. Then again, helping the manor cooks was a somewhat selfish endeavour as it meant extra servings for the baby of the Belmonts. Yet his proposal goes over well with Mirele, whose inherited eyes light up at the prospect of trying something new.

“I wanna make bread! Can we? Can we please?”

“When was the last time you baked anything, Trevor?” Alucard asks, genuinely curious and with a healthy dose of skepticism. “You still won’t tell us much about anything concerning your former life, let alone the sort of foods your family ate.”

Trevor feels a twinge in his gut—still better than a punch. His two lovers, even his daughter, they only know of his mother; a matriarch in her own right. They know her name, the monsters she killed, and not much else. Trevor’s excuses: he doesn’t remember anything about her, despite the fact that he does. He didn’t know her for very long or very well, so there’s no point in missing her. Trevor did know Sonia and he does miss her, sometimes more than he can handle. Then the easiest excuse: it’s just another self-preservation tactic.

Out of this inner reflection comes an idea. It breaks tradition in a way. For the Belmonts and other Jewish families, everything is passed down through the mother—recipes, forms of worship, blood memories, centuries old tactics of bruising one’s knuckles and temples. Trevor doesn’t think this slight deviation from his culture’s norm will make him any less of what he’s always been. Mirele will simply have to pick up where he left off when she’s grown.

He doesn’t want to think about that now. She’s only five after all. One lesson at a time.

“Alright. Gather round, pupils. The bread we’re making isn’t just any bread. Forget everything you know and everything you’ve been taught because this will be the closest thing to heaven you’ll ever taste.”

“How dramatic…” Sypha mutters under her breath. Alucard joins her amusement with a subdued chuckle.

“I believe you were partially his influence.”

Trevor knows how much trouble he’ll be in if he puts Mirele through the most agonizing cruelty of waiting a second longer than necessary. Fearful of her pint-sized wrath, he gives everyone the order to start gathering ingredients: flour, eggs, honey, and some indulgent herbs to make this particular bread something special. As much of a strategic leader in the kitchen as he is when the world is coming to an end. With everything spread out on the countertops, Trevor guides his family step by step through the only recipe he remembers. He calls this bread “challah”, which Mirele immediately strains her freshly green vocal chords, trying to pronounce the word exactly as her father does. She quickly gives up and focuses on mixing the ingredients with an intense look—almost to a fault as bits of sloppy dough fly out of the bowl. Good. This enthusiasm is what Trevor wants to see.

Kneaded and allowed time to rise, the next step is the most important. Trevor divides the dough into four halves, then again, and again until each participant has their own handful of raw unbaked strips.

“We have to braid them?” Mirele asks following his explanation.

“That’s right. It’s what makes this bread different from all the rest.”

“Just like when papa let’s me braid his pretty hair!”

Every pair of eyes turns to Alucard, whose smile widens in that way which causes his eyes to shut tightly. Fangs happily bared as he pulls Mirele into his flour and dough covered arms while she giggles in delight. After they all return to work, her loaf turns out the same way as the braids she gives to him—lopsided, uneven, lacking a few outsticking stray hairs, but filled with affection and genuine resolve.

Three loaves are placed into the oven, including a fourth crudely constructed but still adequately done piece. Mirele is now more willing to play the waiting game—so she claims. Sitting in front of the oven while staring directly into its insides, utterly fascinated, oblivious to her surroundings. Unaware that her three parents are whispering behind her back. Eventually, Sypha has to gently pull her away with her bottom dragging along the kitchen floor.

“How about you and I do something a little more interesting while your fathers keep watch over things.”

“But what about the c… the calla!”

“Don’t worry, they will look after it. And we are not going far, my sweet.”

“We’ll make sure nothing burns down.” Trevor assures, despite it being Sypha who usually revels in cinders and ashes, intentionally or not.

The two retreat down the corridor past diamond shaped stained windows and into one of the manor’s smaller libraries where the cabinets reach the high ceiling painted in deep blue hues. Scattered from corner to corner are constellations of stars and midnight clouds obscuring each phase of the moon. Once when Alucard found Mirele curiously asleep atop a number of pillows when she should have been in her own bed, it was his decision to paint the library in new colours. Sypha moves aside an entire shelf of thick volumes as though trying to find a carefully hidden switch that will lead them into a secret chamber. It’s what Mirele hopes but turns mildly disappointed when the books do not in fact magically shift to reveal a stone passageway. Her soured anticipation is only countered when Sypha places a box on the desk.

“Can you guess what’s inside?”

“Is it treasure?”

“Close! You are almost right.” Sypha opens the lid just as Pandora did except there are no horrors, no evils to be wrought upon humanity. Mirele peeks inside and her eyes shine with the glistening silver of trinkets, pendants, and talismans. She resists the innate urge to reach her hands, still white with flour, into the box only to briefly experience the sensation of holding one between her fingers. Even children know when something is sacred.

“These belonged to your grandparents. They used them for protection and strength. A long time ago, before you were born, their home burned down and everything was destroyed.”

“Papa’s home?”

Sypha nods, grateful that this story now has its happy ending, slight as it may be. “However, when your other father started building the manor we live in, he found this box trapped amongst all the rubble. It managed to survive.”

“What do they say?”

Mirele points to one pendant molded in the shape of a sword. Inscribed along the curve of its ash-riddled blade are the Hebrew names of angels which must have been muttered by Sonia or Gabriel. The longer Mirele stares, attempting to decipher yet another new language, the brighter her cheeks grow red with frustration. Her mother acts quick just as her eyes begin to water.

“It’s alright if you don’t understand what any of them say.”

“I can learn! Please, mama? I promise I’ll study really hard!”

Sypha’s lips curl as Mirele continues her begging. Oh the mind of a child. How quickly it changes.

The kitchen feels hotter, wafting through the air. Enveloping the room and everything caught between its walls. Trevor stands by the oven, a thick cloth ready in his hand. It shouldn’t take much longer. At least there’s no stench of something burning. Almost makes him pine for the days of his family’s massive stone oven and how he would sneak around at night and pick out leftover morsels from inside like an insatiable mouse. Not unlike the actual beasts which he hunted throughout the hallways before moving onto larger prey typical of a Belmonts’ work—or as large as his own runtish body mass could handle.

Minutes of quiet pass, still eyeing the loaves with a keen gaze. Trevor’s concentration soon broken by the feeling of two arms wrapping around his softening yet still robust midsection. Slow and careful, until his back is pressed against an equally broad chest.

“Can I help you?” He asks as Alucard buries his face into the curvature of his shoulder blades.

“You’re already helping.” The dhampir, unchanging in his physical appearance (a revelation both Trevor and Sypha refuse to acknowledge for the time being), tightens his embrace.

“Something wrong?”

“No… I just enjoy feeling how much softer and warmer you’ve become.”

Trevor’s cheeks blush ever so pinker and not because of the oven’s heat. By now he should be used to Alucard’s sudden bouts of outward affection.

“You even smell better.”

There it is. Trevor thought he would be waiting forever to hear that little jab, though said with nothing but a good heart.

“That might be the herbs you’re smelling.”

Alucard shifts around so that the two of them are side by side, cheek to cheek, as he chuckles in Trevor’s ear. “Come here.”

He doesn’t offer a kiss, not where Trevor was expecting. Instead of his lips, Alucard singles out every patch of stray flour on his face, kissing, wiping, even licking them clean. Cheek, jawline, and nose. Trevor’s expression twists into a ticklish, surprisingly delighted facade.

“You’re a half vampire, not a cat.”

“Better to clean you now than later.”

“Always so fucking odd…”

“You love it.”

Much to his lucky stars, Trevor manages one curse mere seconds before Sypha and Mirele return. They let their daughter speak at a breakneck speed neither one can fully comprehend—something about silver pieces and whether they can teach her a new language—until one series of questions finally sticks.

“Is the bread ready yet? Can we eat it now? Can we please?”

Trevor placates Mirele by revealing the fruits of their joint hard earned labour: four freshly baked and perfectly shined challah loaves each representative of whoever did the braiding. She bounces in her chair before simmering down to an excited tremble once Trevor warns her of how they need to cool. In order to make this more of a meal, he rummages about in search of two other beacons from his childhood. He’s rewarded with one of the few fresh apples they have left while Sypha, ever in tune with his inner thoughts, grabs another small pot of honey for him.

Trevor thanks her by gently running his palm across her lower abdomen, over the growing bump. He keeps it there for just a second longer, a subtle gesture of love noticed by Sypha. Fingertips intertwined with each other, they join Alucard and Mirele at the table as the midday sun shines golden through the windows.

#castlevania #castlevania fanfiction #trevor belmont #alucard #alucard castlevania #sypha belnades #trephacard #my writing #*cvfic #jewish trevor

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vidavalor · 3 years

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A ‘why Bucky stopped responding to Sam’s texts’ analysis...

This turned into a whole thing about not just the texts but the evolution of SamBucky in TFATWS so yeah, make a hot drink and get cozy if you want to read this as it’s a little on the wordy side...

So, what we know is that Bucky stopped responding to Sam’s texts ahead of TFATWS but *before* Sam decided to retire the shield. I’ve seen speculation on what event could have caused this and I think the fact that we aren’t entirely told it in so many words, plus some other clues from the show might lead us to one conclusion. Obviously, this is just what I see here and there are other ways to interpret it but some thoughts for anyone who feels like reading them... :)

The answer to why Bucky stopped responding to Sam’s texts is actually the shield, just not in the way that we think it is. Go back to Endgame and the scenes between Sam and Bucky. The amount of *feeling* there is already present and plentiful-- Bucky looks at Sam with naked love, right at him, and Sam touches Bucky so tenderly that it’s a bit heartbreaking. That little thumb swish on his shoulder at the funeral? That’s familiar and sweet and comes with intimacy born of the knowledge that Bucky is okay with him in his space. Between Sam knowing he has permission that others really don’t to touch Bucky (also add in how he’s a little jealous when Steve hugs Bucky) and between Bucky not hiding how he feels when he looks at Sam, we could speculate that there’s at least a working understanding between them happening by Endgame that they have feelings for one another. Now, hop back in time a little to see maybe what kind of understanding or what level of it they could potentially be at by Endgame...

If you go along with the idea that Sam found Bucky after The Winter Soldier and kept that a secret while he helped him to hide and that they built their whole banter-y rapport beginning then, then you also have to think that this is kind of a real slow burn romance happening. Sam is a sensitive, (semi-secretly) introverted guy who has been mourning the loss of a man who meant the world to him for years, mostly alone, atop trying to deal with his own trauma from witnessing that violent death and everything else he saw at war. He doesn’t open up easily and comes from a place of needing to seem in control of his emotions, even if he’s the first person to be there for someone else when they are struggling and is highly empathetic. Meanwhile, Bucky?

Bucky’s a mess. His memories are coming back in fragments. He’s plagued by nightmares and PTSD from the decades he’s spent as an assassin and is still on the earlier end of his healing process. Not to mention that he can’t have much in the way of normalcy because he’s on the run and in hiding. Sam is a decent man who is also experienced, both personally and professionally, when it comes to trauma recovery and he is the last man on earth who would try to take advantage of Bucky so this relationship is a friendship at the early stages. It’s one that’s complicated by their mutual attraction that won’t stop growing but they aren’t really discussing it. They’re getting to know one another and discovering that they actually like one another, as much as they try to hide it (and joke that they don’t at all.) The mutual respect grows.

This all continues until the plot results in Bucky not having to hide anymore and being able to get some help in gaining an edge over the Winter Soldier in Wakanda. This is especially true for Bucky because he might have been wildly attracted to Sam before this-- and a frustrating kind of attracted, a not-wanting-casual kind of attracted-- but he didn’t have any real hope in even thinking there could be a chance at this until Wakanda. He’d been afraid of not having enough control over his mind and somehow hurting Sam, even if he didn’t mean to. He’d been on the run, so not really a great life to offer the man you want to be with. By the time he gets to Wakanda, though, Bucky’s cautiously optimistic that even though everything always ends with a fight that maybe he could have some good things before the last one comes for him. Steve and Sam think they can get him a pardon and the Wakandans think they can help rid of him of being controlled by the trigger words and all of that does happen over the next few months for Bucky. For the first time in decades, he’s more fully his own person and can trust himself a bit more. He has gained more headspace and freedom and options and some calm.

Meanwhile, Sam? The 5-6 months when Bucky was in cryofreeze in Wakanda while Shuri figured out how to help him? He doesn’t want to go there when it comes to how much he missed Bucky. He and Steve are on the run but T’Challa is an ally so they can get into Wakanda. Sam comes to visit Bucky and is overwhelmed by how grateful he is that the deprogramming worked and Bucky is finding some peace. He watches him smile and tend goats and farm and play games with the local kids when he visits and it’s odd, in a way-- kind of like their lives have flipped around. Bucky’s the one who has a place that grounds him and Sam’s the one on the run. But more unmooring for both of them now is that there isn’t the excuse of staying away from someone who might be too in the throes of mental health problems to adequately consent because Bucky is in a place where his personal agency keeps growing and he’s more edging away from victim and into survivor mode. He’s not “fine” but no one ever is, including Sam-- but the idea of the two of them is no longer as prohibitive as it was when they first met. Sam, for his part, is healing more over Riley through his developing relationship with Bucky than he wants to admit, even if it’s obviously still traumatic and painful. They’re good for one another and grow more affectionate around the snarky banter, becoming more comfortable with letting how they feel show more.

They might get to a point of admitting that there is something between them and wanting to try for more but they’re like really, really cute about it in that they both keep trying to give one another almost too much space. Bucky knows that Sam has been through a lot and lost someone. He understands that it’s hard for him to trust and that he’s not great with casual and that, for reasons Bucky barely agrees with or understands, Sam sees him as someone he’d like to try being not casual with. Sam knows that Bucky has been through decades of trauma and that there is a really wide gap for trauma survivors between having sexual desire for someone and really feeling comfortable with the idea of having sex, let alone actually attempting that. He’s fine with going slow. Their touchiness with one another is an affirmation of all of this-- a way of saying that they’re there for each other without pressuring the other for more than they feel ready for but, at the same time, saying that they are very interested. As a result, they kind of run on this for awhile and probably don’t get much further than that because then a series of things start to get in the way of this potential romance on the cusp of these poor bastards finally getting to shag...

The first is that they reunite with Steve in Wakanda and fight Thanos for the first time which is all great but then they both get dusted right afterwards and disappear for the next five years. In a way, they’re lucky here with this because they both secretly think it’d be worse if only *one* of them had been Blipped. Would the other have found someone else? Would they still feel the same way after all that time? They’re afraid of those things and it’s another thing that shows them both how much they feel for one another. Instead, they went through the same thing and can go through the aftermath of that together as well. It’s more impactful for Sam because he’s the one with living family. He’s missed some of the early years of his nephews and he’s left Sarah on her own for five years. He leans on Bucky with the guilt of that and the two of them, in general, are starting to make some plans. Plans that involve one another.

For the first time since they met, they’re both in a place to try their hand at a relationship with one another for real. Neither of them are in hiding or on the run. Bucky is pardoned and further along in his healing process. Sam has decided he feels safe enough and ready enough for this. They’re in love and it’s basically understood between them, even if they haven’t really said the words. They’re also in a place that is different from where we see them at the start of TFATWS and that’s because the shield hasn’t entered into their plans yet.

In the post-battle/pre-Old Steve parts of Endgame, Sam and Bucky basically think they’re going to have different options when it comes to what they’re doing all day. They’re thinking of being together in terms of how they’re thinking they’ll both be Steve’s backup team in the field when Steve needs it. There’s vague talk of a garden because Bucky likes working outside and Sam wants Bucky to have all that calm like he had in Wakanda that he can handle. They’re talking about going to Delacroix at some point soon so Sam can visit with the family he’s been missing. Ya know, making plans like a married couple when they’re lucky if they’ve kissed yet, like the shy, snarky boys they are. Then, Steve... sorry but there’s no other way to put it this but Steve kind of f---s it all up.

Steve tells Bucky that he’s planning to go back to the ‘40s to find Peggy and live a normal life. Bucky, drunk on hope of the secret of his own potential normal life for the first time in basically a century, turns down Steve’s offer to join him back in their past. Steve is surprised because Steve hearts the ‘40s and thinks Bucky must want a do-over of his life but Bucky reminds him quietly that he never was much of a man of his time and he always had an eye to the future. He’s interested in the prospect of living a life here in the modern world. Bucky might have also at least hinted at the idea (or just said) that maybe he also wants to stay because his own chance at love is here in 2023, not back in the 1940s. (If Steve hadn’t already picked up on this by this point.) Steve tells Bucky that he has to pass on the shield and he wants to give it to Sam. This is a massive crisis for Bucky because there’s suddenly no way that this can work out, in Bucky’s mind-- no way for him and Sam to work out, that is. So, why then does Bucky support this plan?

Because he believes Sam is the right man to be Captain America. Because he believes in *Sam*, full-stop. He thinks Sam is the best man he’s met and the strongest. He feels this but it’s also reinforced by the fact that Steve-- Bucky’s best friend, who helped him even when he couldn’t help himself, and is a guy so good that Bucky tends to measure all men against him-- also feels this way about Sam. It’s validation for Bucky on his own feelings towards Sam and Bucky is a believer in the greater good-- and one who feels guilty for the pain he’s caused as The Winter Soldier atop that. He’s all in when it comes to supporting the idea that Sam should be the one to pick up the mantle to save the world because the world deserves Sam’s awesome goodness and will be a better place for it. As Bucky will later tell Sam in TFATWS, he and Steve weren’t thinking in terms of how Sam might feel about being handed this responsibility and Bucky acknowledges that they really didn’t think this through from all the angles necessary but it’s obvious their hearts were in a good place with it. Their intention was to honor Sam as a man worthy of something they both see as a mantle that can only be carried by men who are, well, the anti-John Walkers of the universe, and they were trying to tell Sam that they saw him as the best of men, even if they didn’t exactly win at considering it from Sam’s point of view.

What happens to Sam and Bucky’s relationship as a result of Sam getting the shield, though, happens when Bucky considers the fact that Sam having it means that he can’t see a way that their relationship will work. It was one thing when he and Sam were making quiet plans, planning to have some calm and privacy with one another, but now Sam is going to be *Captain America*. He’s going to go from lower level celebrity that a lot of people don’t even know exists to the guy who gets coverage on Good Morning, America. Bucky isn’t completely blind to race issues, either, as he knows that Sam would be the first publicly-known Black Captain America and that would come with a different kind of scrutiny. He knows how private Sam is as a person and how hard this will be, if Sam chooses to take on the shield. Bucky thinks the world might barely-- barely-- be ready to deal with a Black Captain America but he’s not naive to the world of the media. He was by Steve’s side for most of WW2 and saw how the role of Captain America is symbolic as much as mission-based. It’s about the image of the role. Bucky thinks there is no way on earth that Sam can be Captain America *and* in a relationship with Bucky.

The other side of the catch-22 is that if Sam decides *not* to take up the shield-- and he’s hinted to Bucky that he might not, he hasn’t decided yet-- then suddenly, Bucky is wondering if maybe he misjudged Sam. He sees Sam as a man who doesn’t back down from a fight, someone strong who defends others and stands up for what is right and to Bucky, that is what Captain America does and what the allies of Captain America do. He’s no stranger to feeling conflicted over how it is supporting a country that doesn’t value everyone equally-- Bucky is not straight and fought for an Army and a country that would have thrown him in prison for being caught being himself and still believes in trying to make that military and that country live up to the higher ideals it espouses. (Undoubtedly, something Sam values about Bucky is Bucky’s ability to comprehend feeling like an outsider. It’s a major difference from Steve, who might have not felt like he fit the ideal man of the WW2 era but whose response to that was to get himself pumped up with experimental drugs so he *could*... as opposed to Bucky, who for sure has conflict over it, probably a lot more when he was younger, but is someone who sees that the rules of society aren’t always something to try to live up to. Steve was in allies to try to prove he was as tough as guys who fit a type more valued by society. Bucky was in allies to protect Steve from himself sometimes... and other times, to get some in a flagrant f--- you to the same societal values. Sam has empathy for Steve but is partial to Bucky’s attitude towards things.)

The ironic thing about Bucky’s take on the shield and Sam is that for *Sam*, one of the many, many reasons why he was reluctant to take up the shield was probably Bucky himself. Sam obviously has a lot of very valid reasons for not being sure about taking up the shield stemming from being a Black man in America and one who has also seen his share of darkness during war, which are looked at during TFATWS. Additionally, I think there are other reasons he hesitated-- one is that he is a very private person who doesn’t have a lot of tolerance for the more b.s. parts of what the mantle would entail and the other is that he has been steadily falling in love with another person who deserves privacy and freedoms that he’s been denied and he’s not sure he wants to try this thing with Bucky under a spotlight. They weren’t completely at a stage of having actual, involved conversations about this at that point but I definitely think it was (and still is) a concern for Sam.

So, the point is that once Steve gives Sam the shield, Bucky begins to no longer see a path forward for him and Sam. He sees them being friends-- Steve’s mutual friends who look in on one another and who care. If Sam wants him there to back him up when he’s Captain America, Bucky would do that. He wants to keep Sam safe but Sam also has Torres and the Air Force and Bucky really... is not looking forward to the rest of his life going from this hopeful place of potential mutual love and adventures in the modern world to... the rest of his life mooning after another Captain America whose role in the world keeps him from loving him. Bucky, whose experience with close relationships with men and with Captain America is Steve Rogers, thinks that this is going to end just like that and it’s the lesser explored aspect of trauma for him. Everyone is all over his Winter Soldier issues in his world, fewer people notice that he’s also a man with a lot of love to give who has not really ever had someone look at him like they really notice that... ya know, until Sam. Until the man he’s just lost to the shield which, coincidentally, is the closest thing Bucky still has left that feels like family and home. Because yeesh, the world is pretty cruel to this guy sometimes...

So, they’ve split up for a bit under the guise of working out their different things to get their new lives as non-fugitives going. Bucky has to go to government-dated therapy and heads to Brooklyn in an effort to feel like he’s got some ground under his feet by going to a place he once called home. Sam goes to Delacroix to see Sarah and the boys. They’re both floundering around a bit without the other, making progress in some ways and not at all in others. Sam is in love and wants to give Bucky whatever space he needs to feel in control of himself and get the help he needs and he’s happy that he is-- they’re friends before anything else-- so he still messages him but the messages begin to change a little, due to both of them. Maybe calling a lot turns into texts and maybe the texts get a little less frequent as Bucky responds a little less.

All of this is self-fulfilling prophecy: Bucky is trying to push Sam away because he doesn’t think he can have Sam and he’s got enough suffering going on to deal with, as far as he’s concerned. He’s still strong enough that he’s trying to live a life even without Sam or to figure out what that would look like-- what he needs to do to get to that point, even if he’s running in place with it a little. He even tries to get over Sam a bit, dips his toes into the online dating pool. (He never says to Leah that he actually went out on any dates, just that he seemed to get caught up at the browsing stage. He could have but it’s pretty clear that he didn’t get anywhere of any real note with them.) He can’t help but compare all of them to Sam and he really doesn’t want (even if he thinks he might want for a bit) something casual and ultimately meaningless. He’s probably considering the idea of sleeping with someone just to sleep with someone, which is a fairly common thing for a lot of people who have been victims of sexual violence-- and the show basically says this in the Shelby scene-- to try. Ultimately, though, Bucky seems to have bailed at the idea because what he really wants is the trust and intimacy he has built with Sam.

Bucky eventually stops responding to Sam’s texts entirely because he doesn’t know how to handle them. Sam is consistently kind towards him and respectful of the fact that he needs space and it’s driving Bucky mad-- all this sweetness from this man he can’t have and isn’t sure he deserves anyway. Then, he sees Sam retire the shield and it feels like an ending, maybe one that Bucky pushed into being unwillingly by not responding to the texts and so not knowing where Sam was with his decisions and not being there to help him. Bucky isn’t meaning to be self-involved so much as he’s so caught up in his trauma and trying to get through it that he sometimes can’t see past the pain he’s in enough to see Sam’s own. Sam, for his part, sometimes fails to consider just how afraid Bucky is of letting himself trust someone again and at the idea of being happy and just assumes space and time will be enough but they aren’t.

This is also why they fall back into a rhythm pretty easily when they meet up again in Episode 2. While it probably hurt that Bucky stopped responding to his texts, Sam isn’t seeing it as a deal breaker. He’s back flirting with Bucky from the get-go and Bucky is following him to protect him. John Walker is an excuse that they have now-- a Captain America mutual problem to solve that can replace the ‘who are we now without Steve here and with this shield issue’ problems between them. The way they touch one another and seek to protect one another-- and show off for one another a bit-- is reassurance. Bucky wants to prove he’ll be there for Sam after not answering the texts so he jumps out of a plane to show he’s committed to the mission-- and to Sam-- by showing he’s working on getting over his fears and *can* get over some of them or at least deal with them. Sam is more important than his fear of heights. Bucky is more important to Sam than Sam’s fear of another Riley moment and as Riley moment of losing a partner mixes with Bucky’s trauma of the train car, Sam then steps up and saves Bucky from the side of the truck-- proving he can try to get over his own trauma and also be there for Bucky in return.

And, in the midst of it, is all the sexual tension between these two guys who have wanted to go to bed together for years now but stupid battles and trauma and Captain Americas kept getting in the way. Sam admits he likes Bucky’s stealthy cat moves and is floored and encouraged when Bucky flirts back. They’re all over one another in the grass-- Bucky sure to land so that he’s between Sam’s legs and Sam just grabbing his jacket lapels to keep him close. It’s a blatant invitation for Bucky to top him anytime, a little tongue-in-cheek, barely hidden under their whole begrudging one another’s presence vibe as even when Bucky grumbles and Sam tosses him off (after having pulled him closer by his jacket), they both know the truth under it. Sam reaches over to touch Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky is dazed from the pleasure of being so close to Sam, who not only just saved him and pulled him to him without a thought but who did so *at the expense of the mission*. Sam continuously proves throughout TFATWS that Bucky is of a higher priority to him than the actual mission is. He almost blows their undercover operation in Madripoor by coming close to breaking his cover to make sure that Bucky was okay and he lets the Flag Smashers escape when he saves Bucky from the truck. He very much wants Bucky to notice that this is how he feels-- that whether or not he winds up trying to take the shield back from Walker, whether or not he winds up Captain America, how he feels about Bucky isn’t dependent upon their roles as Steve’s mutual friends-- that they themselves have something independent of that and Sam wants as much of it as Bucky wants to take.

The whole cyborg wheels turning scene on the walk after the field is Sam wanting to talk more about it, even in the midst of the mission. Bucky’s quiet response of “it’s processing” when asked by a (nervous so teasing) Sam what his mind is thinking is about them, about what Sam confessed without words by saving Bucky from the truck. Bucky is telling Sam he understands what Sam is saying and is overwhelmed and Sam is already starting to let him mull it over when Walker and Lemar pull up in the truck and it has to be tabled discussion for awhile.

What is holding Bucky back, even if he is still flirting, still protective of Sam, is that he’s still never had to fully test himself in terms of getting over his trauma enough to really pursue something new in his life. He was about to in Endgame-- he felt ready to try to take this shot with Sam-- but that was before the shield and Steve’s plan entered the picture. Alone in New York to do nothing but try to deal with his past, he was having trouble seeing a future that looked appealing and regressed pretty badly in his trauma recovery to a point of lots of nightmares and not really great self-care. When he reconnects with Sam in Ep 2 and sees that he hasn’t really been successful in pushing Sam away-- that Sam cares that much, is interested that much-- it gives Bucky a boost to try to see if maybe he can find a way forward. Madripoor is the big test he gives himself.

In Madripoor, Bucky gets something very important for his recovery, which is a situation that allows him to own his own experiences. This is actually along the same lines of his attempts at online dating earlier in the series, even though it looks to be totally different-- the idea is that Bucky needs to prove to himself, in essence, that he’s in control of himself and have experiences where he’s in control of what happens. When Bucky is forced to play The Winter Soldier it’s not particularly fun for him and he’s bothered by it a lot-- but he emerges from it because he was able to do it. He was in control of himself throughout it. Sam being there absolutely helped, even if part of Bucky doesn’t want him to be because there’s a part of him that’s still ashamed of who he had become, even if he’s slowly accepting that it wasn’t really entirely his fault. (The amends thing shows he still thinks it is but not entirely & how he ultimately handles it shows he’s getting better at accepting he’s not to blame.)

Madripoor also brings about another challenge in the Selby scene, when Zemo makes it clear that The Winter Soldier was used for more than missions in the past and this happens in front of Sam. I actually don’t think that this was the first time Sam had this thought-- I saw him looking away from Bucky playing that role undercover as not just because he was pained at the reminder of this but because he wanted to try to give Bucky some space with it, some privacy, because this was another violation and Sam didn’t want to make it worse. Sam absolutely knows that Bucky faced different kinds of violence when he was tortured, even if it could go either way as to whether or not they’ve ever really talked much about it. Sam though continually keeps trying to show Bucky that underscoring their sexual tension there is Sam trying to convey that not only does he want to take things slow, he has no qualms with the idea of Bucky having whatever sense of control he needs to feel comfortable.

Telling Bucky he likes the whole “White Panther” vibe is a way of telling Bucky that he can see *him* there, even when he’s doing things that Sam had previously seen him do as The Winter Soldier-- it’s showing he knows the difference and he thinks Bucky looks plenty hot being all stealthy as himself. Later, in the grass, Sam just as easily could have used his momentum to roll them just a little more and landed on top of Bucky in the grass but he didn’t-- he let Bucky wind up on top and just pulled him closer, saying without saying that he’s not only fine with this in bed because he gets that Bucky needs this but because he just straight up *likes* this. He wants the White Wolf to come at him a bit and he’s showing Bucky that in the same moments that he’s also just scooped Bucky up from a flashback to one of the worst moments of his life and took him safely to a peaceful field of flowers like... he’s offering up some romance here, ya know? It’s heart eyes as a series of actions.

Then, there’s the therapy scene. Both of them are breaking a little with patience, snapping a bit, feeling brittle and like the other one isn’t totally seeing them. *Even in the midst of that*, they’re also still sending out the same messages. The way they look at one another before they let the soul gazing de-evolve into a staring contest to cover up the real emotion there. The way that they both scoot closer in the chairs without any real direction and then Bucky thinks he’s already gotten a bit scandalously close with the bumping knees, is nervous about pushing it any further and especially in front of the therapist he’s not entirely honest about anything with and who works for the government and there’s Sam again with his ‘you know what? I don’t even care about any of this except for you’ attitude. It’s Sam who takes Bucky’s chair and pulls him over closer and slips his thigh between Bucky’s legs and when Bucky splutters in surprise that it’s “a little close”, Sam’s patience is a little thin and he does snap “well, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” because he’s been trying. really. hard. to tell Bucky. that he just wants to be with him. regardless of all the other captain america or battling big threes or whatever nonsense the world is throwing at them now. Maybe the most telling part here is how he lets his fingers run lightly over Bucky’s thigh during this. It’s both very tender/sweet and very sexy at once-- a message that says okay, hey, maybe you didn’t totally go for the field or maybe it’s not all you want. Maybe sometimes you want me to be the one more in control and you’re terrified of that, understandably. Well, here’s how it’d be: see this whole thigh thing? It’s a nod towards basically mutually-controlled sex. It’s a way of saying what I also like, what I also want, if you want it, too, is to just be with you as we are-- a couple of pretty equally matched guys just having fun, no real power games, no need to define who’s topping or bottoming or any of this. That brush of Bucky’s thigh? It’s a reminder. It’s saying whatever you want, however you want it, this is how you’re going to get treated by me: not like you’re fragile but like you’re *precious*. It’s saying I don’t want to hurt you, I want to love you but you have to trust me enough to let me and I don’t know what else to do to prove that to you.

Maybe the sweetest part is outside after the session, when Sam goes back to their default barbing and quips that he feels better when he clearly does not and Bucky, devastated that he is making this hard for Sam and didn’t see how much he was hurting him, just says “I feel awful”. It’s basically an apology and it’s also saying that he’s getting the messages that Sam has been putting out.

So, it’s something that by the time Bucky gets through a series of challenges to himself in Madripoor-- playing the Winter Soldier and having his history of being raped brought up in front of Sam-- he gets through the biggest one yet, courtesy of John Walker, when he is electrocuted. Bucky had been programmed to respond and echoes of that would have still been happening to him when he woke up. We can see actually the flashbacks almost happening in front of his eyes when he gives Sam the shield at the end of the scene. He fought it all, every step of the way, for Sam. When he woke up, he pushed through memories of every painful moment of it from before and the pain of the electrocution he was really feeling in that moment to get up and remember where he was, to stay in the moment and present through a PTSD flashback and save Sam’s life in the process. He leaves the shield with Sam and goes outside without a word but Sam sees it all on his face-- he knows just how much that took out of Bucky and that Bucky forced himself to get through it not just for his own healing process but to protect Sam. It’s an answer, one Bucky has been giving all along, to Sam’s silent questions. Every time Bucky protects him, he is saying to Sam that he wants to be with him and wants to work towards figuring that out.

Bucky still isn’t over the flashback by the time he gets to the scene with Sam and Torres and Torres-- a nice, normal, sweet guy with a crush on Sam whom Bucky privately thinks would be a better match for Sam and so is jealous of him-- triggers some annoyance just with his presence there. He can’t talk to Sam alone with Torres there. There’s still work to be done. He’s got to clean up the Zemo mess. By the time he is not killing Zemo in Slovakia-- exhibiting control over himself, making decisions about how he will react that he can be proud of, all in the face of a past torturer and abuser of his-- Bucky is at a new stage of free. He feels ready or almost ready, anyway. He wants to show Sam that he wants to try. Maybe this isn’t all over yet after all, no matter what Sam decides to do about the shield, even if Bucky thinks he ultimately will decide to take it up.

It’s clear that by this point, Bucky is going to support whatever Sam chooses to do about it but what’s also equally clear is that Bucky is hearing Sam when Sam has been sending messages that he wants to be with Bucky no matter what happens with the shield. He sees them before anything else and no one has ever loved Bucky this much and for once, he’s in love with someone who can love him back and does love him back. He’s free from the worst of his trauma, free from the trigger words, free from the sense that his past-- hydra, steve, any and all of it-- have to define him going forward. He’s free and ready and in love and decides to go to Delacroix and show Sam that he has noticed a thing or two about what *Sam* might need as well.

Maybe Sam needs a man who is strong, as strong as Bucky is-- physically and emotionally-- who can be there to listen or even just be silently companionable with him. Maybe Sam’s been alone for a long time and isn’t used to having someone close enough to notice or care about or be able to help with his problems. Maybe Sam is the kind who gets overwhelmed trying to help everyone around him and gets anxious about failing or when he fails and needs someone there to help get him over the last steps of it. Maybe he’s a good surrogate dad but it overwhelms him at times and he needs someone else to support him and help care for the boys. Maybe he doesn’t always hear what Sarah is trying to tell him or put her in the driver’s seat with decisions so it helps that Bucky can and does.

Maybe it’s been a long time since someone romanced Sam Wilson and maybe they never got it right or as right as it could be and maybe it just so happens that Bucky Barnes knows a thing or two about romancing. Maybe no one’s ever charmed his friends and family to win him over or showed up unannounced with an extravagant and intimate gift (and note that it’s really a leap from the Bucky that can’t bear to look at a shirtless Sam because he’s so attracted to him in Madripoor to showing up with a custom-made super suit)... especially not one he needed right in the moment, that showed how he was seen by someone who loved him, just when Sam needed to see himself that way, too. Maybe no one’s ever liked Sam’s hometown as much as he has, maybe Sam has never felt more at home than when Bucky is now there, too, saying with every action and look that he loves him-- something else that maybe Sam’s never had like this before. Bucky knows he’s not the only one who can get nervous. He sends out some messages of his own. His hands keep going to Sam’s waist. It’s flirty with the broken pipe but it’s also intimate inside the boat in the morning scene-- Bucky almost does it automatically and Sam sees it, sees his hands move as he’s looking down at the moment when Bucky pulls back and moves out of Sam’s space. He lets Sam see that, even if he doesn’t actually do it as they aren’t quite there yet. He is intentionally showing Sam that Sam isn’t the only one who notices needs and that Bucky sees in Sam a want for that quiet intimacy. He sees how badly Sam needs to be held close and just loved into oblivion and Bucky is happy to oblige. It makes Sam nervous, being that seen, but he also really likes it. He has his own fears the way that Bucky does but they dance towards one another. There’s a dance to these things, as Bucky says, and he and Sam have been engaged in that dance their whole story and especially in TFATWS.

By the time we get to melting ice cream cake and a stage of public hugging, we’re seeing them having finally gotten to a place where they can allow themselves to be with one another and that’s really the implications of the end scene. It could go either way as to whether or not they actually have sex after Sam’s first night as Captain America in New York or whether it’s after the last scene in the finale but the way they look at one another on the docks before they walk off together is with an indication that they’re on the same page now and they’re becoming physically more intimate. Bucky taps Sam’s shoulder when he approaches and Sam is there, still with the party lingering in the background, needing a moment of quiet but Bucky is welcome in that quiet and knows it. Sam likes him checking up on him. The shoulder tap is a nod towards their multitude of shoulder touches before and Sam turns, their expressions acknowledge their history of doing that to show affection and when they pull away to leave, Sam’s returning touch moves from Bucky’s shoulder-- further up to start with and then over more-- to the back of his neck, a traditionally much more intimate touch and more overtly in line with people who are sleeping together (or interested in doing so) than not. It’s not the first time, either, as Bucky seems comfortable with it and they walk off together as the sun sets, indicating that they’re going to spend the night together. Sam’s expression when they leave the dock is a happy kind of smug, like he knows he’s about to have some serious fun and not from playing penuckle. Bucky’s smile when there with him at the docks is happy and relaxed and comfortable. Put together, they’ve either started sleeping together or are about to and feel good about it. The nervousness they had around one another has evaporated. Consider Sam on the boat when Bucky gets close to holding his hips to Sam on the docks at the end of Episode 6-- it’s a higher degree of confidence in his ability to handle being this close to someone he cares so much about. The same is true for Bucky.

But, yeah, 800 paragraphs later... Bucky stopped answering Sam’s texts for, among other reasons, out of pain over what he felt was the shield-induced reasons they couldn’t try any longer to be together and couldn’t stand not being able to be around him so he cut off communication to try to move on. Also? For what it’s worth? Had there been a specific incident that triggered Bucky to stop texting Sam, they could have shown us that flashback if it wasn’t gayer than gay. We got a Wakanda flashback. They could have shown us the moment Sam and Bucky stopped talking. They didn’t. So it was for romance-related reasons.

#sambucky #winterfalcon #tfatws #sam wilson #bucky barnes #captain america #the falcon #the winter soldier #the white wolf

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mearcatsreturns · 3 years

Note

15 for Abby/Luka

For reasons ;)

Under a cut because it's long.

July 2003

To: Luka Kovac <“[email protected]”>

From: Abby Lockhart <“[email protected]”>

Subject: I’m drowning and praying ghosts are real

Dear Luka,

Something about knowing that I’ll never talk to you again is just unbearable. I’ll never laugh at your malapropisms, look into your beautiful eyes, feel your strong hands holding mine, or make love to you again. There won’t be any more jokes about jam and cheese on toast, or you teasing me for my weak but constant supply of coffee. I’ll never hear your amazing, deranged laughter after you prank someone again. No more of your hugs—which are somehow the best hugs in the world. Because you’re gone.

It’s been three days since we got the call telling us you died thousands of miles from home, whether that’s here in Chicago or in Croatia. I didn’t know your dad’s name, Luka. We needed to call him, and I didn’t know. How did I not know? And now I can’t. I mean, L’Alliance told us his name, but the fact that I’ll never learn pieces of your history, of the wonderful man you are, FROM you...how am I supposed to go on and live my life?

For years, I’ve thought medicine was my great thwarted love. I’ve wanted to be a doctor for so long, and I thought I was bitter about having to let go of that dream. Now I wonder. I let obstacles get in the way of pursuing medicine, and it’s made me...well, it’s part of why I was so unhappy. But that makes me think about how I also let obstacles get in the way of us. I was happy with you, you know, until I let fear and my mother and Carter get in the way. God, I wish I could do that over again. We could have had everything, and if I hadn’t gotten in my own way, I’d be happy. I think maybe I could have made you happy, too.

It’s funny. I knew things with Carter weren’t working, and he implied you were part of it. I said it wasn’t, but then five minutes later, I found out you were—are—dead. And I realized you were the reason, or one of the big ones. As soon as Chuny told me, I knew I loved you and had loved you for years. Yeah. Great timing, isn’t it? I keep thinking that maybe I could have kept you from going if I had known or if I had told you. I didn’t want you to go when I thought you were my very attractive friend and ex that I still was fond of. Knowing that I love you—how do I move past that? Knowing that I lost you, first to my stupidity and then to death?

I just...I miss you, and I don’t when I’ll stop, or how to. Susan caught me crying on my last shift, and I didn’t even know what to say. I feel like I’ve been crying or standing still, brittle and stuck in time, since I heard the news. I can’t, Luka. I know I have to keep on moving, and I thought maybe writing you would help. I know you’ll never see this, never have a chance to respond. But the idea that some fragments of your soul linger and can maybe sense...I don’t know. That I’m writing? What I’m feeling? Jesus, this is crazy.

All my love,

Abby

Abby angrily swipes the tears from her eyes. God, what’s the point of writing this? He’ll never see hsi email or her again. Just...without Luka, how can the world be anything but grim and sad and pointless?

She laughs mirthlessly. Maybe it doesn’t matter. No, she knows it doesn’t. Because Abby knows the futility of it, aches with the meaninglessness, she presses send without another thought.

&&&

Three days after that, a miracle occurs. Luka, the Lazarus of this new millennium, comes back from the dead. He’s never been dead, and maybe, Abby thinks, there’s a God above after all. So many people wish for this exact boon, and she—they, the world—gets it. Some higher power believes this planet is a better place with Luka Kovac in it, and Abby is ecstatic.

Until she remembers the email and that they can’t be unsent.

It’s fine. She’ll be fine. Luka is coming back, apparently with a French nurse. Maybe he’ll just delete it without reading it. Maybe it didn’t go through—how does email work for the dead, and how quickly is all that processed?

Abby shakes her head. It doesn’t matter; Luka is alive and returning to them. She can handle a little awkwardness in the face of the sheer joy of knowing the world is a brighter, kinder place. He’s coming back, and that’s what’s important.

&&&

August 2003

It takes Luka almost a week after returning to Chicago to convince Kerry and the other staff to let him go back to his apartment. Even so, they only agree when Gillian assures them she’ll see to his every need.

Abby winces when she hears that, and it makes something flutter in Luka’s chest. Which probably isn’t good for his malaria, but the hope...that is.

It’s another two days of lying in bed before he has the energy to ask Gillian to bring him his laptop. At this point, it’s been months since he’s checked his email, and Luka grimaces at the undoubtedly horrible state of his inbox. He briefly considers never checking again and just getting a new one, but he knows his father struggled to add him to his contacts once already. To expect it of him again would be absurd.

With a sigh, Luka opens his email. It’s just as bad as he feared. He snorts at the myriad messages about Viagra, Nigerian princes, and Russian brides, deleting them without thought. He saves a couple from his dad. He slowly whittles down his inbox, but he freezes when he gets to one email in particular, sent about a month ago.

It’s from Abby, during the time everyone thought he was dead.

Luka considers calling and asking her if someone hacked her email or is sending spam from her account, but the subject line...it looks real. And Abby’s been odd around him lately, seeming both deliriously happy to see him and awkwardly nervous.

His heart pounds, and he clicks to open it. If this is a spammer, they’re probably about to get whatever they want.

&&&

Abby pours herself another coffee, internally swearing as she prepares for the last two hours of her shift. Deciding to go back to school is great; having to coordinate all the details is less thrilling and leaves her tired and cranky.

Frank ducks his head into the lounge, beady eyes narrowing on her. “Hey, Abby. The Croat is on the phone for you. Line 2. Try to get back out there as fast as you can, Weaver’s yelling at the med students about IVs.”

“Okay, Frank,” Abby says, though she flushes and her palms start to sweat. It’s fine. She can always hide the panic and butterflies in her stomach with sarcasm. It has yet to fail her.

Frank gives her one last suspicious look, then nods and heads back to Admit.

Abby takes a deep breath, then picks up the phone. “Hey, Luka?”

“It’s me. Glad I could reach you. How are you?” He sounds...ugh. So good. And eager and happy, and her heart could leap right out of her chest.

“Doing all right. I just have a couple hours left on this shift, and it hasn’t been too awful today. Only one MVA. How about you? You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Recovering. Listen, did you want to come over for dinner?”

“Please tell me you’re not trying to cook.”

“What? I’m a good cook, even if you don’t appreciate wonderful, traditional Croatian dishes,” he says with a chuckle.

“Luka, you just got out of the hospital five days ago. You still need to be resting.”

“Abby, don’t worry so much. I was just kidding. I have some sandwiches from Manny’s, and Anna sent me home with lots of matzo ball soup too.”

Abby bites her lip. Of course she wants to go. But the prospect of spending the evening with Gillian cooing over Luka, knowing that she shares a bed with him, is decidedly less appealing. And there’s the email she sent, which Luka hasn’t acknowledged. He might well have deleted it, or he’s giving her a gracious out.

Her conscience twinges as soon as she thinks about bailing, though. Didn’t she promise herself she wouldn’t take life for granted anymore? She’ll go back to med school, she’ll have dinner with Luka when he asks.

“Abby?”

She starts, realizing she needs to respond. “Yeah, sorry. Yeah, I can do that. I can be there an hour after my shift, if that’s okay.”

“Sounds great. Looking forward to seeing you.”

“Me too.” He has no idea how much, even if she wishes she knew for sure that he’d deleted the email.

&&&

Abby rings Luka’s doorbell three and a half hours later. She’d meant to come straight from work, but after a patient vomited on her, she decided to head home, shower, and splurge on a taxi to Luka’s. The poor man is recovering from being deathly ill and doesn’t need County’s fumes making things worse.

There’s the sound of the deadbolt sliding, and Luka answers the door, grinning happily at her. “Good, you made it! Come on in!”

“I did. Sorry it took me longer than expected.” Abby steps into his apartment, looking around. It’s been such a long time since she’s been here, and she notes the subtle changes in the art and decor.

“No worries. I know how it goes.” He places a hand at the small of her back, guiding her inside.

Abby stiffens for a second at how his touch burns even through the layers of her shirt and light jacket, but she relaxes, enjoying the feel while she waits for Gillian to appear and end the fleeting joy.

Luka is unfazed. “Now, of course we can just eat the sandwiches, but if you want to heat up the matzo ball soup, you can. Since you don’t want me standing,” he says with a wink.

Abby smiles back, shaking her head. “Oh, I see how it is. Make the woman who worked all day do more household work when she gets ho—wait, where’s Gillian? Isn’t she supposed to be taking care of you?”

“She’s not here,” he says simply.

Going to the fridge and taking out the containers of soup, Abby places them in the microwave. Is Gillian out for the evening, or is she gone gone? “Shouldn’t you be with her? Or her here with you, whatever.”

Luka is quiet for a long minute, and Abby wonders if he intends to answer. Finally, he breaks the silence. “I asked her to leave.”

Abby’s pulse speeds up. “What? Why?”

Luka takes a deep breath, clearly ready to respond, and—

The microwave dings, and they both jump. Exchanging a sheepish look, they laugh.

“Look, let’s get some food, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Abby dishes up their soup and sandwiches, preparing trays so they can sit on the couch. Luka turns on the television, and Abby’s heart rate comes back under control. They sit together in companionable silence while they eat and watch Thom and Jai and the rest of the Fab 5 whip some hapless lawyer’s life into order. When they finish their meal, Abby cleans up, taking the trays back to the kitchen.

She heads back to the couch at the opposite end from Luka, not daring to get closer when she really has no idea what’s going on.

Luka clears his throat and mutes the TV. “So, yeah. I asked Gillian to leave.”

“Oh. So, um, did you break up?”

“She was never my girlfriend, really. She has a boyfriend back in Montreal, they just…” Luka shrugs and runs a hand through his hair.

Abby is more lost than ever. “Ah.”

Taking a deep breath, Luka continues, finally looking over at her. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful she helped me get here and took care of me, but we were never serious.”

Something starts to tug at Abby’s heart, squeezing and twisting and kicking to get free. Is it...hope? “Well, I’m glad she got you here safe, but you should have someone staying with you while you recover, Luka. Malaria is dangerous.”

He gives her a look. “I know how dangerous malaria is. I’m getting better. And besides, it wouldn’t have been fair for me to ask her to stay when things are over because I’m in love with someone else.”

Her heart leaps into her throat. “Someone else?” she squeaks.

Luka nods, swallowing. “Yeah. And I have a reason to think she might be in love with me too.” He slides over to her side of the couch, reaching for her hand.

Abby meets his eyes—those beautiful green eyes that are the best color in the world—and squeezes his hand, incapable of words. Does he mean…?

With his other hand, Luka reaches up and cups her cheek, running his thumb along the subtle arch of her cheekbone. “Abby, if you’ve changed your mind since you sent that email, please tell me to shut up.”

That stupid, ridiculous email might be the best thing she’s ever done in her life. She leans into his hand, licking her lips as she shakes her head slightly. “I haven’t changed my mind. I didn’t mean for you to see it and hoped I could learn how to hack computers and delete it but—”

Luka cuts her off. “I would never forgive you if you managed to delete it. You wouldn’t believe how much faster I healed after that.”

Abby leans forward, sliding into Luka’s waiting arms. “Then maybe I’ll write you some more emails.”

“Emails aren’t what I want right now,” Luka says.

Funny, Abby doesn’t either. Then his lips brush hers, and all her worries and fears fade away. She knows she has to tell him about med school and he needs to finish recuperating, but when Luka deepens their kiss and pulls her closer, Abby ceases to think at all.

She has Luka back, and now they have each other again.

#er #nbc er #er ff #luby #luby ff #abby lockhart #luka kovac #<3 #my fanfic

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thepetulantpen · 3 years

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Two Librarians in Armageddon

(Day 5 of @shadowgastweek! Only had time for one fic this week, but after I read this prompt my brain said Pacific Rim AU and would not leave me alone until I wrote this. It’s pretty long, so here’s the ao3 link.)

(Pacific Rim AU, featuring the wizards as scientists!)

Caleb would not say he’s fond of working with others, let alone sharing his lab.

Solitary work is more in his nature, but after years of sharing close-quarters with Veth- and after getting adjusted to Jester, in general- he’s learned to tolerate, even enjoy, having company while he’s working. His friends have more than prepared him for anyone else he’ll have to work with; they’ve ensured that he’ll be hanging onto his habits of keeping anything important secured, in the event of an unexpected explosion, and of guarding his coffee with his life, in the event of poorly-timed pranks.

He does not think his new lab partner will be bringing any unstable explosives, or sugary abominations to replace his coffee with.

From what he’s been told, the new addition to their little pre-apocalypse team is a physicist working on tech for a competing company, someone far outside Caleb’s scope. The fact that they still have competing companies of mech-developers while there are aliens bursting from the sea to eat them is a nightmare all its own, but the writhing horrors of capitalism are a beast that science, and the Kaiju guts strewn across the table before him, has proved ineffective against.

The truce between them, in the interest of allowing powerful Jaegers to work together, is an uneasy and temporary one. Caleb, personally, doesn’t think it’ll last beyond one or two failures. He just hopes they won’t fall back into the slew of sabotages that plagued them at the beginning of their downward spiral, before everyone realized the world may actually be ending.

The rather small detail of imminent Armageddon has made his preference, or lack thereof, for company inconsequential. In the long run- or short, if they don’t manage a major breakthrough soon- his opinions as an introvert are insignificant.

It’s not all bad- as an innately curious person, the opportunity to meet someone just as experienced as him in the field of Kaiju is fascinating. Particularly considering that their specialization is so different; he’s almost looking forward to the new insight. He’d even be excited if it wasn’t for the subject matter.

It can be challenging to be enthusiastic about the driving force of the apocalypse.

He digs deeper into the partially collapsed chunk of Kaiju ribcage in front of him, no longer bothered by his poor choice of distraction. It’s a misnomer to call it a ribcage, given that the Kaiju do not have bones in the classical sense, but it’s close enough in location to approximate. He’d rather have a brain to work with, though he’ll settle for what he can get. Storing Kaiju is difficult, with their accelerated rate of rot once exposed to the air- if he’s not careful, his work could be reduced to ash in an hour.

He needs to catalogue the differences between this corpse and the last, pinpointing patterns in organ placement. The work is dull, while still requiring his full concentration to avoid puncturing any of the many, many inexplicably acidic organs. If he wasn’t already good friends with the base’s medics, he would’ve been taken off this job long ago.

Once he’s elbow-deep in a Kaiju, he stops paying attention to the door. He does not notice the knocking, nor the quiet greeting, nor the faint whir of machinery as his new colleague hovers through the doorway.

“Should you be touching that? It looks toxic.”

Caleb jumps at the voice beside him and the scalpel in his hand jerks, cutting into the mystery organ he’d been considering removing. Something vaguely liquid hits his wrist above the glove and he waits two seconds to see if it’ll burn, before deciding he probably doesn’t need to run screaming to the nearest med station.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, partially in response and partially to himself. “I know what I’m doing.”

He looks down, towards his new colleague, who, at first glance, is thoroughly unimpressed at that lie.

He sits in a wheelchair- minus the wheels, as it hovers gently off the ground, coming to about the same height the wheels would give it. Clearly a new model- hovering technology aside- it’s a sleek, minimalist white, matching his equally sleek, swept back white hair. The high turtleneck and overly formal coat allow Caleb to immediately peg him as somewhat uptight. Near-apocalypse has made formality rare.

Caleb hurries to wash his hands, finding the nearby sink labelled for nasty, potentially lethal chemical disposal. “I was told you’d arrive today, but,” he glances up at the dingy lab clock, the glass cracked from Veth’s last visit, “I didn’t imagine it’d be so soon. It’s, uh, a bit of a mess.”

“I’ve seen worse,” he says, unconvincingly, and changes track, “That desk is mine, yes?”

There’s only one other desk in the room, moved there sometime yesterday after Caleb, under threat from his superiors, managed to shift away some of the boxes that line the walls. It’s only a small space, but it’s the cleanest part of the room.

The question, he reasons, is rhetorical, but Caleb nods anyway. He considers that answer enough- though the other man doesn’t move, staring at him expectantly. He’s oddly expressive, his attempts to keep a completely straight face only making any slipups, like the annoyed twitch of his eyebrow, more obvious.

It makes it easy to see the exact moment his patience runs out.

“I’m sure you were informed, but,” here, he looks to the side, dodging Caleb’s returning attention, “for the sake of introductions, I am Essek Thelyss.”

Ah, so that’s what he’d forgotten. Caleb thinks it’s unfair that he had to fail miserably at one of the last introductions he will have made before the end of the world- surely, he could’ve had just one go smoothly.

“Oh- I’m Caleb,” he reaches out a hand, meeting Essek’s already extended one for a brief shake- his hands may be clean now, but Essek doesn’t look thrilled at the prospect of touching Kaiju guts, even indirectly, “Caleb Widogast.”

Something unidentifiable passes over Essek’s expression- disappointment or judgement, perhaps, at not recognizing the name. Widogast is not printed on any books, nor is it associated with anything high-profile like Thelyss; strictly, it doesn’t exist at all.

That, or the smell of the rotting Kaiju getting to him.

As he watches Essek pause halfway across the room to clear his path, and again to widen the space around his desk, Caleb is hit with the vivid realization that this isn’t going to be an enlightening, academic experience, nor an uncomfortable few days of socialization. It’s going to be more than a bump in the alien-fueled crisis that is his current existence.

This is going to be a disaster.

…

“Widogast, do you have any idea where my notebook’s gone?”

It has only taken Caleb three days to be able to identify the various tones for annoyed in Essek’s voice. There’s this is a minor inconvenience and this is a major inconvenience and this is one of many annoying things I haven’t pointed out yet today, including, but not limited to, the ever-present stench of Kaiju flesh.

He can say, with relative confidence, that this falls into the latest category.

“Have you tried all your desk drawers?” he calls over his shoulder, knowing the question is unnecessary but stalling for time as he heaves the last of the Kaiju parts- partially burned and fragmented limbs, today- onto his work table.

Essek, unlike Caleb, is meticulously organized, never misplaces anything and files according to system that escapes Caleb, no matter how many times he tries to decode it. From Essek’s perspective, the rest of the lab is a dangerous no man’s land of abject chaos- though Caleb has never lost anything. He knows, precisely, where everything is, no piece of preserved alien fading from his memory. An organization system is pointless, when one has a photographic memory.

That is, until one has to share a lab with someone who bothers to keep track of their belongings.

He doesn’t wait for a response, already able to picture Essek behind him, sitting with his arms crossed and looking deeply disappointed by Caleb’s suggestion, which amounts to did you turn it on and off again? Leaving the still sealed Kaiju parts where they are, he turns back to his own desk.

After exonerating himself and Essek, the list of suspects for meddling with their desks is very short. The base, these days, is not the hub of activity it used to be, back when there were far more Jaeger pilots alive and far better morale. Their lab is typically empty, aside from Caleb and Essek, as few people are inclined towards the smell of dead Kaiju. Even the corporals, some of the rare higher-ups with clearance, can’t be bothered to visit more frequently than their mandatory check-ins.

He can only think of two people who clearance would not be an issue for.

“Is he handsome, Caleb?”

“I don’t think it would be professional—”

“He definitely is, Jessie.”

Before today, he’d thought that Jester and Veth hadn’t gotten around to the visit they’d been threatening; clearly, they’d taken the liberty while he wasn’t in. Veth knows better than to steal notebooks- she wouldn’t be interested in them, anyway- and Jester isn’t in the habit of taking things, only misplacing them.

Caleb hardly ever uses his own desk, preferring to leave his notebooks scattered over the lab tables, in easier reach. Only the older ones are still perched on his desk, in a precariously tall pile- but one notebook stands out from the rest, not quite as ratty and overstuffed as his own.

“Ah, here it is,” he holds it up, gesturing Essek over and trying not to look too sheepish- it is not, after all, his fault. As he hands it over, and quickly turns back to his work, he can only hope that Jester hasn’t doodled anything too embarrassing inside. “Jester must have misplaced it, while exploring the lab.”

“Jester?” Essek asks, eyebrows furrowing in something that would be irritation, if his expression wasn’t trained to be so stoic, “Is she supposed to have clearance here?”

“The medical staff have free reign, in case of incidents with hazardous material.” He glances back at Essek, who still looks confused, and remembers that not everyone is on a first-name basis with the medics. “Jester Lavorre. You might know Caduceus- that is, Mr. Clay- better. He’s the more… healing inclined, of the two.”

“Jester Lavorre,” Essek starts, slowly as he unpacks his own question, “regularly comes here to… explore? What, she just, rifles through your things?”

He is not sure how to explain the idea of Jester to someone who doesn’t know her.

Essek already looks delightfully confounded- a considerable a departure from his typical stern concentration. Caleb almost wants to thank Jester for pulling Essek away from the handheld chalkboards he spends his days bent over, lines of nearly indecipherable equations appearing and disappearing with only the smudge of chalk on Essek’s hands as evidence of their existence. Distracting Essek has proved to be a challenge- even the sounds of saws and the number of other unpleasant devices involved in Kaiju dissection don’t get Caleb so much as a glance.

He does not try to explain Jester, opting to shrug, instead. “She knows she can find me here, so she stays until I show up. Sometimes she gets bored.” It occurs to him that other people haven’t been prepped for company in the same way he has. It occurs to him that it is abnormal to brace for a scavenger hunt every time he enters the lab. “I suggest you leave your important documents in a locked drawer.”

He refrains from telling Essek that Veth can pick locks and that Jester has broken open desk drawers before (there was an incident involving a prank war, smuggling, and increasingly desperate hiding places). None of it seems particularly reassuring.

Essek gives him a strange look, but nods. “I will keep that in mind.”

“You might also find things that aren’t yours by your desk.” Caleb looks over his shoulder to see Essek still watching him. “Consider them gifts.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Caleb pauses, realizing that none of the things he was about to list are work-appropriate, “Well, it could be anything.”

Caleb’s starting to worry that he might end up causing the rift between companies that leads to the end of the world- with his terrible first impression, and equally bad secondary impressions- but when a parasol shows up at Essek’s desk a day later, he does not ask Caleb where it came from.

He does, however, quietly ask Caleb to send along his thanks to Jester.

…

“I am not imagining that it smells particularly bad today, yes?”

Caleb has acquired, in part thanks to Veth, partial halves of two Kaiju hearts. Partial is the best they could manage, on account of the massive holes blown in the beasts’ chests. Nonetheless, he’s ecstatic- an opportunity like this, for a direct comparison, is rare.

Kaiju barbecue, as it turns out, does not smell very appetizing. It is what he would think a bucket of cleaning supplies set on fire would smell like, though it leaves the air with the unpleasant aftertaste of cheap fruit snacks.

“They’re a little charred,” he says, hiding a smile- they are far more than a little charred, “Veth’s testing out different chemical combinations for the Jaeger ammunition. I don’t think she’s quite nailed it yet.”

Essek scoffs, cautiously approaching the table with one hand over his nose and mouth, the other resting on the chair’s controls. “How many people of wildly different departments are you on a first-name basis with?”

“Just a few.” Thoroughly distracted with cutting away the burnt pieces, Caleb doesn’t look up. “There’s also, uh, Fjord. He captains one of the boats, works on deployment.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.” A soft whir, as Essek hovers a few inches higher, putting him at a better height to peer over the table with Caleb. “Do you need any help?”

Caleb blinks, surprised, and almost drops the scalpel he was sanitizing. “Aren’t you busy?”

Essek, with his old-fashioned chalkboards in the place of far more convenient holograms, never leaves his desk, never so much as turns around to bounce a theory off of Caleb. It seems like there’s a new pack of chalk and fresh notebook on his desk every other day- clearly he’s making progress, but the bubble of focus around Essek is too intimidating for Caleb to investigate.

“I’ve reached a stopping point,” Essek frowns when Caleb looks at him, waiting for him to elaborate, and sighs, “I’m stuck on the particle displacement we’ve detected at the mouth of the rifts, which only seems to effect the Kaiju, not the pilots. It’s- I don’t think you’d be interested. I need something else to do, while I brainstorm.”

Caleb manages to bite back his disappointment at not getting to hear the rest and points towards the sink- the one safe for normal use, that doesn’t currently have corrosion scars from caustic acids. “I can definitely give you that.”

Essek, unsurprisingly, is incredibly helpful. He might not fully understand the process, but he’s precise in following Caleb’s instructions and doesn’t complain when he has to touch the gross, slimy parts. He generously interprets Caleb’s just put them over there to mean place them very carefully in straight lines. It only takes him a few minutes to get the hang of it, effortlessly following Caleb’s lead as they work in parallel on their respective halves of the hearts.

“I can’t say I understand the appeal,” Essek starts, after many minutes of silence, “but there’s certainly something to working with the actual thing, rather than theory.”

Caleb is working at a particularly tough piece- the Kaiju are, if nothing else, heavily armored, inside and out- the exposure to oxygen making everything harder to pull apart, to cut up and catalogue. He doesn’t look up at Essek’s words, but finds his attention easily split.

“It’s all about,” Caleb pushes down, again, and the muscles finally give, “manipulating the body, finding what makes it tick. From there, we can change it.”

“Like,” Essek pauses, hesitating, “change it from living to dead, you mean.”

Caleb huffs, almost under his breath, “In this circumstance, perhaps.”

To his side, he sees Essek’s hands still, briefly, and feels eyes on him as Essek looks up. Essek has this way of looking at him, like he’s waiting for something, until an invisible tell gives him away. He feels both studied and seen through.

Caleb can’t say he hates it.

“You don’t sound as happy about that as I’d expect. Normally, people are thrilled at the thought of dead Kaiju,” Essek gestures, with one gloved hand, over the table, “More for you.”

Caleb looks firmly down at the heart, imagining the many cross-sections and pieces still unmapped, in the burned away absence. “I just think that more can be done.”

“I suppose that’s one thing we can agree on.” Essek is already looking at him when Caleb looks up, so their eyes meet, “The other side of the rifts are far more interesting. There’s no telling what we could find, how we could progress- but we need those doors closed, if we’re going to be alive to enjoy that progress.”

“I don’t think it’s as simple as leaving them open or closed.”

Essek leans back over the heart, having found what he was looking for in Caleb’s expression, and mutters, almost to himself, “You might be right about that.”

Caleb doesn’t say anything else, just watches as Essek finishes with his portion of the heart. Essek’s hands, even with the borrowed plastic gloves, do not look like they belong amongst the controlled carnage of the lab table. Made for spinning chalk between fingers, and gliding across the holograms.

He lines up the scalpel again, just a bit off-target, just a bit too close to the arteries. “Ah, don’t—”

Caleb grabs Essek’s hand, stopping him before he pierces something he shouldn’t- the faint burns on his own hands are proof of this lesson learned. Essek freezes, startled by the contact, and grips the scalpel a little tighter before he catches up to what’s happened and pulls back.

Caleb lets him go, with some reluctance. “The blood is, uh, acidic. You have to cut around carefully, or it– you get the picture.”

“It’s good that you were watching, then,” Essek doesn’t smile, but his face suggests that he might have, if he possessed less self-control, “I owe you one, Widogast.”

Caleb does not possess that same control- he’s not sure what Essek hears in his voice as he says, “It’s no trouble.”

He thinks, in the end, he may have been more successful in distracting himself from his work, than he was in distracting Essek.

…

Caleb has reached the point where the crick in his neck from leaning over his work, the pages and pages of pieced together neural pathways and conflicting experiments, is threatening to make the hunch of his shoulders permanent. Essek cannot be in a much better place- Caleb glances over to catch him with his head in his hands, again, a half-filled chalkboard laying forlornly on his desk.

Caleb stands with no warning, letting his pen clatter on the table and pushing his chair away with more force than necessary. Essek looks up, alarmed and- unless Caleb’s imagining it- intrigued.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Which is how they’ve found themselves on the steel catwalk above the Jaegers, high up in the hanger and out of sight of people who know they shouldn’t be here. Neither of them are stealthy enough to pull this off for long- the equivalent of two librarians, tiny amongst the massive machines that represent their only hope against Armageddon.

“It’s always weird to see them from up here.” The giant, unpiloted mechs seem to stare back at Caleb as they’re shifted into place. Empty eyes, visors with no life behind them. “Feels like we shouldn’t be looking at them eye-to-eye.”

Essek hums, and leans forward slightly, as close to the rails as he dares. “I’m more used to seeing them in diagrams.”

Caleb had known, in theory, that there must be a tangled web of physics behind the engineering of the Jaegers, but it’s different to know that Essek holds those secrets. He’d love nothing more than to pick his brain about it, even if it’s far outside his field. It’s a shame the hanger feels like an inappropriate place to host a high-detail physics lecture.

“It must be interesting, working with us. Thelyss has been, uh,” he hesitates, unsure if this is rude to point out, “forgive me for saying, rather at odds with Dwendalian interests.”

Essek is quiet for a moment, almost long enough for Caleb to pull the ripcord and apologize, before responding, “It has been interesting. It is… an opportunity, for me, to work for something greater than I have in the past.”

“In the past?”

“We have not been as,” he pauses, searching for the word, “kind as we should have, in sharing our designs. Many have failed to consider the state of the world in our quest for progress.”

Corporate sabotage in the race for mechs is something of a well-known secret. The extent of it is hidden, mostly, behind the veil of the destruction that it coincided with. Trading the right secrets to the wrong person could take you far- it just might mean leaving burning cities in your wake.

Essek, overlooking the last of the Jaegers, the vestiges of hope for the world, suddenly looks so tired, older than Caleb had seen him before now. It reminds of Caleb of his own reflection, at night when the manic layer of end of the world is wiped away to reveal exhaustion. Essek’s formality, the organized face he presents, functions as just another mask.

“I have made many mistakes. I am hoping-” Essek shakes his head, correcting himself, “All I can do is try again. To be better.”

Caleb cannot absolve him, cannot lift the weight of things unsaid, guilt anchored deeply. He can only stand there, at Essek’s side, and carry his own guilt.

“Leave it to the end of the world to show us that we can only move forward, until we run out of road.” Caleb tries for a smile, one Essek doesn’t match. “Sometimes, I’m not sure there’s still road. Feel like I’m drifting over the dirt, these days.”

Essek’s response, agreement or disagreement, is drowned out as they start shifting another of the Jaegers, the dragging of metal and old supports strained to their limits forming a din that has passerby covering their ears. Caleb watches its pilots stare up at it, unflinching in the noise.

He finds himself talking as the noise stops, filling the vacuum of silence, “I was almost one of them, you know.”

After he says it, he immediately regrets it. In one moment, it feels like the thing to do- share something personal, after Essek had taken the first step- and in the next, it feels like an entirely unnecessary can of worms. Because, of course, the next question is-

“Under who?”

Caleb swallows and considers lying. He could do it. He could keep it vague- he should, it should stay buried like his name. He’s not entirely sure why he doesn’t want to.

“Ikithon.”

He sees it, the second he says it. He sees the recognition, the surprise, the fear. Essek knows that name, more than anyone in passing knows that name. To Essek, he is not simply an unpleasant teacher.

He doesn’t want to see Essek as someone who worked with Ikithon- he doesn’t want to know what it means that he would forgive Essek, in a heartbeat, but can’t do same for himself.

“I wasn’t able to drift,” Caleb continues, and almost believes that’s the whole truth, the entire, uncomplicated reason, “Dropped out of the Academy.” Not before the damage was done.

Essek looks down, studying the grimy floor beneath them. “Probably for the best.”

“I’m starting to think we should’ve put our funding into time machines, instead of Jaegers.” Caleb sighs, and feels a part of himself leave with his breath. He looks to his side, where Essek remains silent. “Should’ve gone into physics, I guess.”

People rush around below them, preparing for another Jaeger to enter. The gate is cleared, the runway lights up, and various maintenance teams stand at the ready. Caleb wonders how they can stand this, how they can keep going through the motions every day, even as less and less pilots return.

He supposes he could say the same about himself, about anyone still coming to work on this base. For the first time in a long time, they’re all working towards the same thing. They’re all looking to the pilots, spending what’s left of their lives to stack the deck in their favor.

“I know a few of them,” Caleb pauses, and clarifies, “The pilots, I mean.”

“You failed to mention that, in your list of people you know.” Essek tries to laugh, though it doesn’t quite come out right, and looks back up at Caleb, “Which ones?”

“I’m not sure you know them.” People in their position don’t generally interact with the pilots, directly. Caleb would say it’s strange for him to have friends in the Academy, but it’s not the weirdest connection he’s made recently. “Yasha and Beau on the Cobalt line. They’re only just out of the Academy.”

Only just out and making a formidable reputation for themselves. He’s only skimmed the statistics, but if there was a leaderboard, he’d say they’re pulling ahead. Knowing Beau, that’s greater motivation than the potential for saving the world.

Essek’s façade falls away completely, showing his surprise. “The two terrifying women in the Expositor?”

“Those are the ones,” Caleb leans against the railing, out of the shadows. A little more bold, now that most of the people below are distracted. A massive Jaeger, with chipping blue paint and massive jets affixed to its back, steps in through the gate, tracking in water around its heels. “Speak of the devil.”

He can imagine Beau and Yasha working in tandem, seamlessly, to bring the mech into the hanger, ducking its head slightly to make it under the doorway. One hand is occupied, clenched around a scaly leg, metal fingers dug into the fallen Kaiju’s flesh. It’s oddly small, not the fully grown beasts Caleb is used to seeing them drag through.

“Is that-“ Essek doesn’t finish his question, perhaps because he can see the answer in Caleb’s expression.

The Kaiju’s head is entirely intact, its skull spared at the expense of a hole in its chest. A full brain, no shrapnel or missing pieces. Exactly what Caleb has been waiting for, exactly what he’s been trying to piece together.

Essek follows at his heels as Caleb dashes for the stairs, stealth forgotten altogether.

…

The whirring of saws and grim, grinding sounds of bone being cut come to an end, at long last. There’s a tube prepped, filled with foul-smelling chemicals intended to preserve and suspend alien flesh. The sound, as the brain is deposited, is somehow worse than the grinding noise.

Essek looks at him, watching silently for a long moment. It is difficult, to feel his eyes on him and not look back, but Caleb manages it, keeping his gaze focused on the mass of nerves before him.

“I understand the temptation.”

Caleb laughs, with no humor. “Do you?”

The headset is light, almost flimsy, in his hands. He passes it between them, running his hands over the familiar metal and wires. It looks like it might fall apart any second now, not at all like it’s made of expensive, stolen equipment. Not all like Caleb’s been thinking about it for months, like it could save them all- if he can pull this off.

The Kaiju’s brain floats in the container in front of him, wires trailing off of it. Essek sits beside it, the filtered green light through the tube casting harsh shadows over his face. He’s not supposed to be here, but Caleb should’ve known that Essek wouldn’t stick to his scheduled breaks.

“I know more about temptation than you, Caleb.”

It’s rare to hear Essek angry- figures that he chooses a time like this to finally call Caleb by his first name.

“Then you should know that I can’t pass up this opportunity.” Caleb clicks the final pieces into place, watching the lights on the headset start to glow. He loses the fight against another temptation and glances over to Essek, who looks to be fighting fiercely not for a neutral expression, but to keep back tears. “I will not have more lives on my conscience. If this could win us the fight, I have to do it.”

He reaches for the control panel, lifting the headset with his other hand. He has to get this over with before he loses his nerve, before Essek decides to find someone who might actually be able to stop him, before Jester or Veth or anyone else stumble upon him

Essek grabs his wrist, stopping him. His eyes are wide, a little surprised at himself, but he meets Caleb’s stare dead-on.

“I don’t want to lose you to this,” he clears his throat, and looks down, away, “We all still need you.”

Even now, they can’t help but lie to themselves.

“I have to do this.”

Essek looks back at him and for once, seems frustrated to be unable to peer behind Caleb’s eyes, to get the answers he always does. He looks to the side with a heavy sigh, and Caleb thinks for a moment that he’s given up, that he’s going to agree, when Essek lets go of his hand to reach behind them, to the lab table still covered in wires and abandoned tech.

Many drafts of the headset sit amongst the wreckage, the results of late nights spent working with a collection born of Veth’s sticky fingers and Caleb’s hoarding. Essek grabs one, easily picking out the most functional of the bunch, and presses it into Caleb’s free hand.

“Fine,” his face sets, not in the neutral that Caleb’s come to expect, but in a determination that feels almost dangerous, “Then I’m coming with you.”

Essek’s eyes are a dare, waiting for Caleb to find a reason to deny him. He knows, as well as Caleb, that two of them would increase their chances of surviving this. He also knows, maybe better than Caleb, that none of that matters. Caleb would always rather take the brunt of it, than allow his friends to hurt.

This feels, distinctly, like an argument Caleb can’t win. Essek looks a few seconds away from hooking it up himself.

Caleb sighs, a faint smile escaping him. “Didn’t think you’d be repaying that favor so soon.”

Essek only pushes the headset more firmly into his hands, though it’s hard to tell whether he’s safe-guarding against Caleb losing his nerve, or losing his own nerve.

Caleb puts Essek’s headset on first, taking longer than necessary to adjust its fit, before putting on his own. They sit across from each other, in the distorted shadow of the brain. Essek’s gaze, fixed on Caleb, doesn’t waver and just before Caleb hits the switch, he holds out his hand.

Caleb takes it and turns on the machine.

The drift hits him immediately, like a weight falling on his brain as something too big climbs into his skull and pushes his mind out to the edges, pressed against bone. Everything else, outside of his mind and Essek’s mind and this new intrusion, disappears entirely. Sensation, apart from a terrible, sourceless pain, leaves him.

Essek’s mind bursts into focus like a searing light in the abyss, a star far above him. Caleb reaches for it, as the mind of the Kaiju, oppressive and all-consuming, threatens to swallow him up.

He feels their connection like entwined hands, before they collapse into each other, blurring into one. Warm and cool colors mix together in threads that wind and wind around until they are one inseparable string. Shared pain is conducted through it, a wire of strange electricity.

He is hearing a city on fire, screaming, and imagines he can pick out familiar voices in the chaos.

He is shaking a hand like a corpse, bony and terrible as its fingernails dig into his skin.

He is on a cold tile floor, aware that he is alone, alone, alone—

Somewhere, outside of himself, he squeezes Essek’s hand.

The Kaiju bears down on both of them and he finds himself standing beside Essek on a destroyed city street, its features a mashed together version of Caleb and Essek’s childhoods. It is too much for either of them, even standing together, but when he looks down at Essek, he sees only his smile, sharp and confident.

Everything begins to dissolve as the mind- the many minds- of the Kaiju falls over them.

…

Waking up is not fun.

Once, in grad school, Caleb stayed up for 52 hours, subsisting on diabolical combinations of energy drinks and pure spite for his professors. After turning in his last assignments, including a paper that served as a major breakthrough in his field but was so manic it was incomprehensible to anyone except Caleb, he crashed hard and did not wake for another day, when Veth checked to see if he was still alive.

He could’ve sworn, at the time, that the headache he felt upon seeing light for the first time that day was the worst he’d ever experience.

This headache easily doubles it.

The lights are, mercifully, left completely off, with only the dim sunlight leaking out from under the blinds turning the infirmary room a dull grey. He’s sat, partially upright, on the thin mattress of the hospital bed, a place he knows well. Outside the room, he can just make out the quiet, constant noise of their busy med station, conversation and machines overlapping.

To his right, similarly propped up, is Essek.

He wakes at the same moment as Caleb and they both turn, surprise mirrored in their faces. At seeing each other, at being alive at all- it’s anybody’s guess.

Objectively, Caleb is sure they both look absolutely terrible, but he can only see the light in Essek’s eyes and his tired smile. There’s a drowsy kind of comfort between the two of them, relief of tension being let go. They lived- they both lived.

“This is not the warm welcome to the land of the living I was hoping for.”

Caleb laughs, even if it hurts, a little. “This feels less like a welcome party, and more like breaking a window and climbing back in.”

There’s no connection between them anymore, no wires or drifts, but he still feels it faintly, a buzzing at the back of his head. Essek’s pain feels like an echo of his own, and his warmth is still there, as if he’s still holding his hand. It’s stable, an anchor to new wakefulness.

“They should’ve known better than to put two of us in the same lab.” Essek shakes his head, and winces at the movement. “It could only ever have ended in disaster.”

Caleb grins and is pleased to see Essek do the same, just as unguarded as he was in the drift.

They only have a few minutes before Jester comes in to yell at him for being stupid- possibly, the whole crew is lined up somewhere outside, lists of grievances in hand. Shortly following that, he assumes there will be a small battalion of military personnel waiting to hear what they’ve discovered.

Until then, he has time to do more stupid things, mostly unsupervised.

He drags himself out of the bed, pretending that he doesn’t nearly collapse as soon as his feet hit the floor, and wheels the bed closer to Essek’s, carefully maneuvering the wires still attached to his chest and arms. Once they’re an arm’s length away, Caleb stops and climbs back in.

This time, he holds his hand out first and knows, without a doubt, that Essek will take it.

#shadowgast week 2021 #caleb widogast #essek #shadowgast #critical role #ahhh this so long #do not have time to edit tonight #but i swear itll be up on ao3 tomorrow #ignore the many times i misspelled physics #im very tired

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aspenflower17 · 3 years

Text

Finding You (Part 12 of ??)

Hi hi! I’m hoping this update finds you all well and happy. I have a lot more time this coming week to write, so I hope I can get on top of my WIPs and get the next chapter out not late on a Sunday.

Anyways, for his chapter itself, I wanted to try something a bit different. When Mc was composing her song, I had a very particular one in mind, and so when the song comes up, I’m going to put a YouTube link there that you can click on and listen to the song while you’re reading. For people that have problems reading while listening to music, it is all instrumental and you definitely do not have to click the link. I’m just trying to get more across in my fics than I would otherwise :) I will also have a link at the end of the update that will link you to the original scenes where the two parts of the song are from.

I should also note, there might be spoilers in this for people who haven’t read very far in the main story in game.

For anyone who hasn’t read the rest of the updates, here is the link to Part One if you would be so inclined to read :)

Tags!: @simpingforsatan @naimena @hachimochi @wrathandgreed @magi-minminxiii @rensphilia @a-dream-at-night @chloelikesobeyme @getbehindme-satan @theuglypugling @oofthelazyweeb (as always, if you would like to be added to the tags list, just comment down below or send me a message about it!)

Satan / F!Mc

Words: 2,404

Trigger warnings: None that I can think of, though if you had a bad experience with the movie the song is from, that could be a problem...

“Sorry to intrude. I just heard your playing and had to find out who was making such gorgeous music,” Satan was leaning against the doorway, a soft smile on his face, “Is that one of your compositions?”

“Oh,” Mc looked down, a little embarrassed, “Yes, but it isn’t finished yet.”

“It’s still beautiful,” Satan said softly, hoping she would allow him to stay.

“Thank you,” Mc answered softly, matching his smile.

Satan cleared this throat and looked down, blushing, “So, how long have you been working on this piece?”

“Honestly, a while now,” Mc sighed slightly, “It’s something I composed in the Celestial Realm, though it never sounded right. It’s only on the piano’s here in the Devildom that it’s sounded… right,” Mc looked up at Satan at that, and he nodded, his hand resting on his chin thoughtfully, “Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to get further in the piece.”

Satan cleared his throat, “Well, if you play it again, I may be able to help. I have done some composing before, though not as much as you… Anyways, only if you want to. I would hate to impose…” he was blushing furiously now, wondering why he’d even offered.

“That would actually be lovely,” Mc admitted, her heart fluttering a bit at the prospect, “A fresh perspective might be just what I need.”

“I’d be happy to assist then,” Satan said, walking over to stand behind her.

Mc looked up and smiled at him, “Thank you.”

Satan’s heart stopped for a moment, fragments of memories flying through his mind of Mc looking up and smiling at him. He swallowed thickly, and gestured for her to play, not trusting his voice.

Mc was a bit confused, watching the sadness well up in his eyes. Despite the sudden emotion, she turned and started playing when he gestured. (This song)

Satan was transfixed by the music from the first note, wondering if this was the loneliness Mc had mentioned to him so long ago, put into the notes ringing through the air. If that was the case, he had to wonder why the Celestial Realm had kept her from him. He would have cured her loneliness, no matter what it took. If she had needed companionship, he would have provided it. If she needed kind words, he would have provided it. Absolutely anything she would have needed would have been provided. She would never have had to know such pain.

In that moment, he wondered what would have happened if Mc had come to the Devildom instead of the Celestial Realm. He knew she would have been grabbed from the upcoming souls, if not by him, then one of his brothers, Diavolo or Barbatos, her ties to the realm more to do with love and friendship, not sin and corruption. Assuming she had still wanted him, he would have followed her in wherever she would have wanted to go and helped her accomplish anything she would have wanted to do. If she had wanted to move out of the House of Lamentation, he would have made it happen, and if she never wanted to leave, he would gladly put up with whatever antics his brothers felt they needed to inflict upon him. He would even have put up with their constant flirting if it made her happy. If she had wanted to become a demon, he would have helped her, making sure any adjustment she would have gone through were as quick and painless as possible.

He imagined they would have been happy together, seeing as how his wrath was more contained and muted with her around. She had shown him what love was, helping him realize not only that he loved her but that he did love his brothers and they him, though they all showed it in very weird ways. She had helped him cut through all his self doubt, making him feel less like a monster on a self inflicted leash, a shadow of the power and man that had created him, and more like an individual with his own thoughts and feelings, valid and special in his own right. No one had ever been able to do that for him, and he doubted anyone ever would again.

When the music changed, calm and desolate, he knew this was her loneliness without a doubt. Some part of his brain also recognized she was nearing where she hadn’t composed yet. Without thinking, he sat on her right, watching her practiced hands play. He felt the inspiration for the rest of the song start to well up inside him. He also felt his anger at the situation they now found themselves in burning behind it all as well. They had been happy together before her mortality had ripped them apart. The angels knew this, and yet they had kept her from him, even though she had obviously been suffering. She hid and dealt with it well, her art a testament to that, but she had suffered needlessly. He wanted to let Mc know she was not alone and he would help her. Even if she never fell in love with him again, this was her plea for help and he would not allow it to go unanswered.

The first couple lines he played were just repeats of hers, an attempt at solidarity.

Mc was surprised by his actions, though they spurred her on, the song actually continuing past the point she had composed. She had never actively composed with someone else, and she found the action calming in a way. It was if he could read her mind on what needed to happen in the song.

Satan suddenly started playing furiously, a bit of a call back to earlier in the song, though with more gusto. Mc couldn’t help but watch as he glared a bit at the keys as if they would provide the answers to the rest of the song. She felt inspired, playing the bottom hand as he played the top. She felt more connected to him than she ever had with anyone, the composition coming together better than she would have thought possible. Their hands even touched a couple times, as they fought for use of the keys they knew would help express the magic that was happening.

Mc started a chromatic scale, lost in the moment, adding flair as she went up. She didn’t realize what she was doing until she was at the top of the keyboard, trilling between two notes. She was leaning a bit into Satan, their legs and shoulders touching as she had scooted over on the bench to reach the notes. He was watching her, their faces extremely close. He was smiling softly again.

She pulled back into her own space, a blush dusting her cheeks though she felt happy, “Pardon my enthusiasm.”

Her blush and smile made him feel like he had accomplished something, “I like your enthusiasm,” he said, his voice only coming out in a whisper.

She smiled at him, “Well, I’m glad,” then, “Oh, I almost forgot. This is for you,” she pulled a letter from the air, Satan’s eyebrows raising in interest, “It’s a reply to the one you gave me.”

He took the letter and tucked it into his jacket pocket, “Thank you. That was an interesting trick you just did.”

“Oh, I’ve known it for ages now. I left a particularly embarrassing poem out once, and another angel read it out loud in front of a lot of other angels. It’s safe to say I keep all important things hidden now.”

“Glad to know you think this is important,” Satan half teased, making Mc flush slightly.

“I didn’t realize you were such an accomplished piano player,” Mc said, trying to move the conversation in a direction that wouldn’t make her heart race.

“Oh, well, music has been fundamental in helping to develop and understand new emotions,” Satan admitted, knowing Mc was the only person he’d ever openly admit this to.

“New… emotions?” Mc, remembering the conversation between Michael and Diavolo, she tried to keep the intense curiosity from her voice in an effort not to upset Satan or scare him away from the topic.

“Yes. I… How much do you know about my birth?”

“I… I’ve learned more about it since coming here, but I still don’t know a lot,” Mc admitted, trying to keep her voice as nice but neutral as possible.

“Well, I was born from Lucifer’s wrath. In the beginning, all I could feel was anger, though it wasn’t really directed at anyone. I knew why Lucifer was angry but most of that didn’t seem to matter much. Those acts had not been directed at me; why should I care? I was just angry, because that’s all I was. The first time I think I remember feeling anything besides rage was at Lilith’s memorial.

Huh? Who’s Lilith?

“I remember Lucifer sitting at the piano, pouring his grief into the song he was playing. Though I remember music from Lucifer’s memories, it was my first time experiencing it as an individual. The song had been Lilith’s favorite, though the piano’s of the Devildom and the slow tempo Lucifer played it had made what was usually a very happy song into a funeral march. In that moment, watching all my brothers with tears in their eyes, many openly weeping when the song started, I felt a twinge in my heart, and I teared up. I remember wiping them, staring at the liquid on my finger,” he looked down at his hands at that, completely caught up in the memory.

“I thought about that moment a lot. I rolled it around over and over in my head trying to figure out what it was I had experienced. It was at this time that I asked Lucifer to teach me how to play the piano. I thought the key was in the music itself, and I practiced a lot. Lucifer is not a forgiving teacher, so I was constantly striving for perfection, but from my own expectations of myself and his. Still, even as I became a better piano player, I still couldn’t get the emotion I wanted from the instrument, though I didn’t know that’s what I was looking for. It was the most wooden playing you could imagine.

“One day, I was very angry at my inability to play the way I wanted to. I was throwing things around in my room because Lucifer made it very clear I was never to destroy the piano just because I was upset, when Beel decided to look in on me. Most of my brothers, Asmo aside, give me a very wide berth when I’m upset, though I think they do it now more out of respect for my privacy than fear. Anyways, Beel came in and asked me what was wrong. I ended up screaming about how frustrated I was at not being able to play like Lucifer did at Lilith’s memorial. He was a bit confused as to why, and I explained to him that I needed to explore the strange sensation that had made me cry. After a bit more explanation, he smiled sadly and explained that what I had felt was probably either sadness or grief. He then went on to explain the emotion in the most blunt, truthful way I’ve ever heard out of anyone, and I’ve read a lot. It wasn’t flowery or dramatic. It was someone honestly and truthfully expressing how they felt. It was a lot like when someone puts so much emotion into their music and you can’t help but understand them. His words did the same thing for me that Lucifer’s playing had done, and that twinge came back. Experiencing it in the moment allowed me to be able to ask his confirmation on what I was feeling.

“Looking back on the whole encounter, I’m ashamed of how I acted, but I’m glad Beel came in and helped me when he did. It helped me understand myself a bit more, and recognize I can feel things that aren’t anger. Without his help, who knows how long I would’ve been floundering around in the dark. Ah, but you didn’t ask for my personal history. You were just asking about my piano playing,” Satan rubbed the back of his head, looking sheepish, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“Oh, no, it’s quite alright!” Mc answered, louder and more forcefully than she intended. He looked at her in shock, and it was her turn to act sheepishly, “I just… I’m glad you told me. I feel like I understand you a lot better now.”

“I’m glad,” Satan said, smiling.

“You’re at the piano huh? We were wondering where you’d gone off to,” a voice interrupted, making them both look over, “Lucifer wants you to come back because dinner’s almost done. I’m guessing you should probably head back with us,” the strawberry blonde smiled at Mc.

“Oh, you’re Asmodeus right?” Mc asked, proud of herself for recognizing him.

“Oh, you know who I am darling? Oh, who am I kidding? How could you have not heard about me by now?”

“Right…” Mc laughed a bit uncomfortably, “I also remember you from when you dropped off Satan’s letter to me as a child.”

Asmo’s eyes widened a bit, “Oh, I thought it might be you. I wasn’t sure though.”

“You weren’t sure? You had an idea though,” Satan’s voice was flat as was his expression.

“Oh, Satan, calm down. I didn’t want to say anything in case I was wrong. You can understand why, right?”

Satan sighed, “I suppose so. I guess it doesn’t really affect anything in the long run.”

“Glad you understand. Now, we really should get back. Are you coming with?” Asmo directed the last part at Mc.

“Sure. I should be joining Luke and Michael anyway,” Mc said, sliding off the left side of the bench, walking towards Asmo. Satan pushed the bench back when she was clear of it, and walked over to Asmo too.

Asmo grinned mischievously, “You know, you two make a cute couple!”

Mc flushed at the comment and looked down.

“Oh no need to be so bashful Satan. I’m only stating the obvious. If you have a problem with it though, I’d be more than happy to steal her away.”

Steal me away? What’s all that about?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hi! So, the song I linked above is actually two different songs combined into one. It is from Corpse Bride a claymation film from Tim Burton. From that, you should be able to decide if it’s something you’d like to watch. I do think it was pretty well done and would recommend it.

The beginning is called Victor’s Piano Solo (Scene here) and the second part is The Piano Duet (scene here)

Part Thirteen

#obey me!#OBEY ME #obey me! swd #obey me swd #obey me satan #obey me! satan #obey me mc #obey me! mc #obey me! f!mc #obey me asmo #obey me asmodeus #corpse bride #the duet scene is just so romantic!#i couldn't help myself #my writing #aspenflower17 #finding you

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believerindaydreams · 3 years

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Like the last one but with more Benny/Arcade fucking :) Arcade POV.

You have to admit, Benny Gecko's greed rubs off.

Before the Legion camp, before the courier, you wouldn't have dreamed of anything like this home for yourself. Pushing forty and still helping out at the Mormon Fort, when most doctors stay a few years before fleeing back to the security of the NCR, their conviction ebbed away in the face of frontier realities.

You'd stayed, because you hadn't had anywhere else to go; and because you thought you hadn't deserved better.

Marilyn had certainly done her best to prove that one.

But saving another life meant saving your own; and Benny is securely self-confident in ways that defy belief, smart enough to upend the Mojave, too stupid to be afraid of you. Somehow. For everything that you are, or could be.

Right now he's snoring with his head against your breastbone, as though he dreams you're safe.

"Benny, wake up. It isn't getting any warmer out here."

He keeps right on sleeping, and you shiver some in the twilight- no way of telling how late it is, even in North Vegas the light of the Strip will drown out the stars all night. There's a moon, but vague childhood memory doesn't help much there.

(Orion tried to drill that info into you, in case you ever needed it. Judah had been the one to catch the leather belt, leaving you afraid but untouched.)

You hug your lover closer, and the memory trickles away again.

It's not so bad being out here, at that. Cold makes your lover all the sweeter to hold, and the deprivation of hunger is muted by the knowledge that there's more than enough if you wanted, inside. Indulging in sentiment is a wildly different beast than real deprivation. The lab coat you wear so proudly will cover two, applied properly-

"Mmfth? Arcade, where the hell are we?"

"Besides your new swimming pool."

Benny grunts, stands up to stretch a kink out of his back. "Ugh. Wake me up next time, willya? Cool cats may sleep in alleys, but I'll settle for a bed."

So you go inside, where the rocket stove has built up a delicious warmth, going straight to the bone marrow; and that's good too.

Benny heads straight for the liquor cabinet, chuckles at the selection, settles for a beer- maybe that means something, maybe in forty years time you'll know all the tells like that. Desire quivering in your blood like drunkenness. The prospect of having a future to grow old in.

"I'll stock that up. The upstairs bartender at the Gomorrah keeps a few bottles of pre-war wines to grease the skids."

"Are they really?"

"I mean, I wouldn't lay money on that. But it isn't your average NCR two-buck rotgut at least."

He grins and twists the bottle cap off with practiced delicacy, pockets it and drinks while looking around with sharp practiced eyes. Assessing, appreciating, but something more mellow there too, a look that hasn't been his since the Tops turned into New Vegas' bureaucratic ground zero. He's spent too long protecting it, imaging ways it could be taken away, for him to be entirely comfortable there again.

You take an ice-cold Nuka from the fridge, and a rum, and start downing a sweet mixer. Here, maybe, it'll be different. Outside it's just Fiend territory, and the two of you know how to handle those. Even without the power armor left fragmented in the Divide.

Thoughts fragmenting a little, the liquor hitting fast. If you'd come to rely on that armor, believed in it as part of your identity, maybe the loss would have come harder; but you're not the same as your tools. It kept you safe when it mattered.

Benny is still hunting around the place, quick avid eyes hunting for secrets- he switches lights on and off, opens all the cupboard doors, chortles at the secret passage to the cellar workshop. "Finally, a place with enough storage space. Not bad."

He raises the beer to his lips, drinks; you succumb to temptation and kiss foam off his lips extemporaneously.

Lovers make poor confidants, you can hear yourself saying to the courier. This is harder than it looks. It's like playacting a romance, a performance soap bubble guaranteed to vanish with the sunrise.

And people are so very fragile in the Mojave. You press against the thin fabric of that ridiculous lucky suit, hoping that physical evidence will assuage you where sense and sensibility haven't.

"If you're going to be like that," Benny says, between applications of the bottle. "Let's find the bed. A place like this, I imagine it's a good one."

"Up the stairs to the left." Too much practice in disaster, to lose your tongue just because of a firm fondle around your rear.

Benny laughs again, and guides you up the stairs as if he's the one who knows the place.

Bed is a luxurious queen size, done up in bedding that was washed this week and not last century, courtesy of the last functioning laundromat in Freeside. Abraxo's strong scent a trifle mollified, by the confounding mystery of an electric fireplace that tastes of woodsmoke.

"...sweet rads, Arcade, you really pulled out all the stops."

"There are shutters, if you want to see the Strip." Bulletproof security gives way to the neon splurge of distant light. Benny exclaims in pleasure, sticks his head out the window to drop cigarette ash onto a corrugated iron awning.

"Sorry. Dying for a smoke, I figure it's better now than interrupting us later."

"No worries." It still smells wrong, but after the Legion camp, soldiers glaring at Benny for defiling their measured sanctity with irreverent chems, it's the kind of wrong that brings comfort in its wake.

"Any ideas on how you want to- ah- christen the bed?"

"Take me down and roll me out, cupcake, I don't mind how this swings. Your picnic, baby, your show."

Wow, offers the part of your brain that's rapidly succumbing to the effect of alcohol on an empty stomach. What a remarkably unhelpful statement.

Benny has one foot poised on a priceless rifle cabinet and his greased hair is fluttering slightly from the window breeze, and the whole picture does things to your circulatory system that under normal circumstances would have you reaching for a stimpak. "In that case, I'll just...start by undressing."

"Oh, a stripping routine?" Benny puffs out effortlessly, classier than anyone with his attire and general disposition should be allowed to look. "Right on, sugarlips."

For the love of water, he's taking a simple mechanical prelude to the actual fucking as if it's the sexiest thing in the Wasteland.

Only, the way his eyes follow you as you strip off the familiar filthy coat and undo shirt cuffs suggests it is. Off with the belt and packs, away with the shirt-

He rests two fingers on your shoulder, so lightly you wouldn't feel him if it wasn't bare. "You sure this is something you want to do right now, cupcake? All that booze?"

"Get in bed and find out." In as close an imitation of his incomprehensible slang as you can manage. It's not very good.

He stubs the cigarette out against the shutter, falls dramatically against the bed. "Go ahead and strip me then."

It's part and parcel of being a doctor that you can't do this simply, without a radio station in your head tuned to medical evaluation even as you slide off jacket and trousers, every inch of that lucky suit laid neatly on a chair. Scars here, unexplained tattoo there, the marks of a hard life in the Mojave laid out in history made flesh. It is very susceptible and very beautiful at once, heart-wringing for the wounds scabbed over and soothing for its persistence. Sex is always the balance between the purifying and the ludicrous, your busy mind likes to sate itself on diagnostic while the rest of you is caught up in passion. Just the way you're built. It doesn't hurt any.

Benny's a goddamn pillow princess and lazy in bed, but he helps remove your trousers this time, the two of you stripping each other to bare skin. His hands find your cock, already growing interested; you find his and find it to be disappointingly inert.

"Something wrong?"

" Hell, I'm probably just done in after that batch in the garden. Tell you what, a little Buffout, a little juicer, I should be right with you."

"...not like that." You will, possibly, never be able to tell when he lies, but this doesn't stack up to prior experience. Experiences. "What's wrong? Am I rushing you?"

"No, I don't think- maybe," Benny admits, chagrin written over his face. "This house, everything- it's too much. Fuck, this'll take some getting used to. Seven years running the Tops and I still think of a place like this as a luxury for my betters, you dig?" He squeezes lightly with one hand, strokes along your ribcage with the other.

"You don't have any betters." Sensation be damned when there's a philosophical point to be made. Difficult as that may be in his practiced grasp. "You deserve this as much as- ah- any one in the Mojave-"

"Whoa, kitten, you'll be bad for my limitless ego. It's just a matter of getting used to it, okay? We have time, we'll get there. But meanwhile I have a bottlecap says you need a special delivery even if I don't."

It takes a moment to disentangle thoughts of Marilyn from standard Vegas slang, and then another to try to muster a functional argument, and then there aren't any more moments, because your chronic patience does not carry through to the bedchamber and Benny knows that, hurrying you along until you're blacking out to bliss-

how long it is before you're cognizant again, you aren't sure. Long enough that Benny has had time to clean you off, that's thoughtful.

"I can't possibly let that go unreciprocated."

"Don't worry about it, cupcake. Keeping score is for teenagers."

"...if you can't get it up in the house, why not outside?" That has to be the alcohol talking. Or Benny's boyfriend. Or both.

"You mean a rematch by the pool? Not a bad idea from the fertile delta of Arcade's idea garden, I'll drink to that."

...whatever that means. Too many stairs to negotiate going back down. "I mean right here. On the bedroom awning."

"The one made of cast iron? With a clear line of sight for anyone prancing down the street? Two feet across to a hard fall on concrete?"

"...um."

Benny grins, grabs a fluffy pillow. "Baby, you know how to activate my danger kink like nothing else. Lead on, Macbeth."

He means Macduff, but never mind, the thought's there.

Intellectual quibbling can take a back seat to some extremely serious fucking, for once in a way.

#fallout new vegas #orange

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gasp-iwrotesomething · 4 years

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Four Minutes Too Late (SFW)

Summary: MC had four minutes to bring him back; what she thought to be enough time. She was horrifically wrong. Now, after returning home numb from her failure, MC’s heart chips at the last note he left for her... and she wishes she could sock him one last time.

Word Count: 1,928

Genre: Angst (SFW)

Warning(s): MAJOR SPOILERS FOR CAL S2, EPS 10-12, mentions of death, a bunch of angst

A/N: Here’s an alternate version of the finale of Cal North’s season 2 where the resurrection fails and MC reads the note he wrote to her. The idea of this is right up my alley for severe angst so enjoy this heartbreaking fic as much as you can.

Also inspired by the this post by @official-alex-cyprin.

MC couldn’t keep still.

Despite the numbness infecting her body, MC’s legs continued to carry around the room as she paces restlessly. How could she rest? Cal was dead. He was gone and he would never come back. MC had repeated that a thousand times over in her head at this point but somehow, after stating this in the space and comfort of her room, it still rattles her from the inside out. First with her heart shuddering and crying with the truth at hand, then the tears that prick her eyes goading her to actually cry. I failed. I failed him. And he had to suffer the consequences. She shuts her eyes against the intense waves of guilt and frustration and sadness that all lap at her, tugging and knotting her heartstrings sordidly. As morbid as it sounded, it was true; no one could convince her otherwise. Cal had sought her out specifically--asked for her assistance and utter trust--and relied on her to do her part. Bring him back to life. But she didn’t. MC tried with every ounce of her being to focus on breathing life back into him, conduct CPR until his chest moved, stab the adrenaline shot into his heart until she could feel the dull thump of it against her fingertips... But nothing happened. Thirty seconds passed--nothing. Then a minute--nothing--then two, then three, then four until Wrath had to pull her away--drag her back into reality and relay the message that it was too late. Cal was gone.

MC collapses backwards onto her bed as more guilt swamps her. What about Avi? The little boy had no idea what Cal had been planning and now that the plan failed, how in the hell would the troupe be able to break the news to him? He was so small and pure and spared from the hard travesties of life; with Cal there to raise and monitor him, Avi never had to experience loss or true grief. And now he had to face all of those inevitable feelings with the loss of his legal guardian--the person who he saw everyday and who he loved most of all. Avi would experience grief from the person who had gone through hell and back to assure that Avi never went through the past he had lived through. That shred of happiness was gone; stolen right from under his feet like it was nothing--like Cal was nothing. That, more than any other revelation MC experienced, is what tears her heart into ribbons. She couldn’t wash her mind clean of the last moments of Cal’s life--the look of regret and longing. The feeling that there was something that should’ve been said--something that should’ve been shared between the two of them. It was almost a physical thing wedged between them, thickening the air and wrapping around them like a blanket of urgency. MC recalled how she wondered if they’d ever break that silence between the two of them; wondered if this was the last fragment of regret she’d have to tote for the rest of her life if she failed.

And she did, and now the blanket was hopeless around her shoulders.

MC heaved a quavering sigh. How was she supposed to live with that? Live with the fact that she never got to tell him how she felt? That she never gave him the chance to speak his heart? Was that even a possible thing to do? The answer is turbid, unable to be fruitful to her aching chest, and she palms the tears gathering in her brown eyes. Was Cal’s death really her fault? Of course it was--she had been in charge of resuscitating him after all. And that wasn’t even the most morbid cluster of the guilt buzzing within her rib cage. MC had seen him take his last breath, felt the last essence of life leave his body; she had seen the blue of his eyes dull as they closed for the final time. She watched him sip the venom and she felt his heart slow and then stop against her hand. MC had felt his blood on her fingers, felt the lively warmth of it as Cal stilled and passed on to wherever he was destined to go. She had been the last thing Cal saw right before he died. The thought sickens her. Though it should be beneficial to her consolation process, it just made her want to bend the rules of reality and rewind time. I shouldn’t have been the last person Cal saw: it should’ve been Avi. It should’ve been Avi, for god’s sake!

Cal loved Avi more than anything and to pass without seeing him again--for the last time? MC couldn’t even fathom the prospect of it, her pulse twittering in her chest painfully. But Avi watching Cal die wasn’t something that should’ve happened; he’s a kid, he doesn’t deserve to have that mental image ingrained in his head for the rest of his life. MC retracts her wishes almost as fast as she forms them. Cal wanted Avi to live a life devoid of the sinister life of being a demon hunter--he wanted him to grow up a way that Cal didn’t get to. Avi seeing Cal dead didn’t align with Cal’s moral compass or even his goals for Avi. The least MC and the troupe could do was carry on his intentions and raise Avi just the way he did; to be a kid without a care in the world. MC presses the heel of her hand against her closed eyes. If only I had enough time... I could’ve prevented this whole fiasco. I could’ve saved Cal and he could be with Avi right now, happy and safe. We could break the wall between him and I and spread our feelings out on the table--be truthful with one another. MC descends into a spiral of ‘what if’s’, picturing a life--a reality--where Cal and her could be together. Where everyone was happy--where no grief or loss or Cal-lessness existed.

Then she bolts upward as she remembers the note Cal had left for her.

MC’s heart races and trips and stumbles in her chest. For an earth-shattering moment, MC isn’t weakened by her everlasting grief; there’s just anticipation and giddiness, a storm of butterflies whisking around her belly. The note! How could I have forgotten about the note?! She mentally slaps herself for her idiocy and then rummages through her pocket, producing the envelope with the tiny, pleading writing scrawled on the outside. He had been so adamant that I don’t open this if it does work... what did he want me to see? The curiosity fluttering through her heart becomes more belligerent as her fingernail shimmies under the flap of the envelope, sliding to the left and summoning a gentle ripping sound to fill the air. It’s most tense during the long and surprisingly robust sound; as if mirroring the rhapsody of patter her heart sings. The flap flutters loose, gifting MC with access to the contents within. A note with a yellow tinge peeks at her from over the ‘v’ of the envelope. There it is. The note Cal wants me to read now that he’s... MC’s internal monologue fades off as the knot in her throat tightens--how was she supposed to read the note and not break down? Just thinking about the deceased gunslinger has her heart aching like it did when he had passed--more specifically, when the four minutes passed on.

She slips the note from its bed of ivory white paper and carefully unfolds it, her heart beating so fast as if it was about to break free from her chest. She had no idea what would be inside--what Cal would’ve wrote--and what exactly would it change? Unless it was some voodoo spell that could resurrect Cal if she recited aloud, MC doubted that the contents would do anything to heal the tear that still scathed her. The paper unfurls in her hands, inviting her eyes in, giving passage to the few words that were scrawled in big yet careful letters.

I want to kiss you.

MC doesn’t move. In fact, she stills, her brown eyes traveling over every curve and line like it would all disperse into something else--something she didn’t even know. The realization thwacks her once it comes and as soon as it does, MC’s mind whirls with the implications--the possibilities. Cal wanted to... kiss me? A roll of warm emotions uncurl within her--like a long elegant carpet stitched in the classic style of a quilt--and her hand instinctively rises to her chest. So he had feelings for her too. All along, Cal had-! MC wanted to punch something, preferably the gunslinger himself, for leaving her with a dream that would never be. A dream that died along with him that night. With a shaking sigh, MC laughs--first lightly, then louder, hoping that letting it out would alleviate the pain that crowded her rib cage. It doesn’t, to say the least; all it does is heighten the urge to cry to the point where she’s laughing and vigorously scrubbing the tears gathering in her tear ducts. Now she looked like some kind of lunatic from a generic horror film--laughing and crying like she’d never known what a normal emotion felt like. Of course Cal would leave me hanging like this; why did I expect any sort of relief? But there was relief--relief that the connection between them wasn’t just a thread visible to only MC (and the rest of the troupe), but was also tangible to Cal as well. Maybe she should’ve been content with that; able to melt into a sense of giddiness that they both had feelings for one another. That there was an understatement between them of more. Maybe that was enough. But it’s not enough--god, why can’t it be enough? She was selfish to not be happy with the last thing Cal left for her--that was her first instinct--but how could she? She had been shown a future that she’d never get but had always wanted.

MC slumps. She didn’t know how to feel about this anymore. Should she cry out of joy or cry out of misery--out of grief? MC didn’t even know if there was a right answer to that. For a moment, MC stares at the note, unable to do anything else. Then, tentatively, MC raises the piece of paper up to her lips. She kissed the note gingerly as if it were Cal's mouth, her heart full yet so empty. In her mind, she wonders how the kiss would be between the two of them. How Cal reacted, how he tasted, how his breath smelled, how soft his lips were, how warm her chest would grow... The curse of his absence settles into her fantasies and her heart ripped apart again--torn. She’d never be able to kiss him--never, no matter how much she wished otherwise. All MC could do was hope that wherever Cal was right now, above or below, that he felt the kiss.

Heard her heart's mournful orchestra and knew that it played for him alone.

Knew that she felt the same as he did for her.

That Cal knew that she wanted to kiss him too.

And that she would if she could--a thousand times over until his mouth never knew what it felt like to be unkissed.

“I’m sorry,” She murmurs softly, that hope that he’d hear it a flower flourishing in the ecosystem of her heart.

“I’m so, so, sorry, Cal.”

~FIN~

#cal north #sin with me #lovestruck voltage

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reginaldvonspiffington · 3 years

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The Curse of Creativity by Richard V Kelly Jr

(disclaimer: This piece is edited by the author’s daughter posthumously. No new words were added, only passages deleted or rearranged)

1. The Wrong Kind Of Creativity

At the advanced age of 59 I found myself in a hospital psychiatric ward full of dejected people. I had reached the point of near catatonia, almost unable to interact with the world, unable to sleep, barely able to speak, spending all day in bed staring at the ceiling. My diagnosis was “Major depression with psychotic expressions”.

Before this, I had composed symphonies and film scores. I had written textbooks, short stories, magazine articles, and half a dozen novels. I had sculpted in wood. I had written the code to create educational and artistic Virtual Reality and Artificial Intelligence applications. I had helped design a new school for creative kids. I had made educational films, created animations to teach Chinese, and written courses in every subject from neural networks to cryptography to architecture.

Most of my existence had been spent in a world of ideas and imagination. My mind had been a sparkler, shooting off scintillas in every direction: fragments of music, lines of lyrical poetry, drawings, sculptures, computer programs, virtual worlds. But that life was gone. And here I was lying in bed fixated on the light of a bulb leaking in from an air vent.

I was still inventive at this point, but it was the wrong kind of inventiveness, the frightening unacceptable form. I had broken the membrane that separates playful imagination from gibbering lunacy. I still made up stories in my head, but they were all dark, bleak, lugubrious tales. The vent I was staring at obviously led to a parallel world where “they” were watching my every movement. I could feel the heat emanating from the wall, a form of thermal ray designed to cook my brain and mold my behavior. I had progressed beyond the creative person's liberation-from-the-mundane to the disturbed person's liberation-from-the-real.

There was no sense in moving from the hospital bed. Movement didn't matter. Nothing mattered. There was no future. And all the things I had created in the past seemed like a colossal waste of time. What was I thinking writing books no one would ever read and composing music no one would ever listen to? What was the point of that? Or anything else?

The disease I was suffering from, depression, is astonishingly common. Almost 10% of Americans are taking anti-depressants right now. In fact, anti-depressants are the most prescribed drug in America. Almost 20% of women between the ages of 40 and 60 take them. And one in five people will eventually experience depression. So, pretty much everyone knows someone who has suffered from this illness.

But there is a level even deeper than the bottomless well of depression. 20% of people diagnosed with major depression (“major” in this case signifies acute, rather than chronic) also develop paranoia or other symptoms of psychosis including delusions and hallucinations. I was one of those people. I was terrified by my diagnosis, not because of the word “depression” – I knew there were treatments available - but because of the word “psychotic”. This was a term I had often used to describe crazy violent people for whom there was no cure. I pondered my possible future life as a babbling derelict.

The new psychiatric resident assured me that the psychosis of depression and the psychosis of schizophrenia “are completely different disease processes originating in different parts of the brain”. And I knew intellectually that paranoia was misuse of my imagination. It was the dark side of the creativity that had sustained me my entire life. It was creativity as self-torture. But, even though I understood that my internal chemistry was creating false stories to misguide my thinking, I still felt hopeless, dejected, and persecuted.

Staring through the fog of delusion, I realized that I had finally reached my secret goal of living in a world entirely of my own creation, but not in the way I had intended. I had hoped to spend every day reading my own novels, watching my own movies, laughing at my own animations, and listening to my own music, comforted by a sensible lyrical self-made universe. Instead, I was enwrapt in a vivid nightmare. My own creative thoughts were tormenting me. I couldn't wake up to escape them, and I couldn't sleep to avoid them.

The onset of depression is a slow process. One day I stopped reading. The flavor had gone from my favorite activity, so I dropped it. Then I stopped listening to music; it no longer provoked any feelings. I couldn't write anymore; creating worlds had lost its joy. I stopped watching TV and movies; they were pointless and unfulfilling. Everything I loved doing slipped away. I felt like crying all the time. The future turned black. I stopped working. And I hardly slept, so I became sleepy enough at the wheel of the car that I stopped driving for fear of hurting someone. This led to a shut-in's existence. I became what the Japanese call hikikomori – someone so tired of the world or sensitive to its vileness that they have pulled themselves inward and withdrawn from all contact, often never leaving their room.

Paranoia crept in. I thought the backyard garden was somehow being tended at night by persons unknown who were fertilizing and weeding it while I slept. I thought the morning bird calls were synthetically generated. I thought black and white cars were following me. I avoided my computer because I assumed it had been hacked by a malevolent villain who presented bad news to me in order to blame me for something I didn't entirely understand. And I all but stopped eating because I imagined that each food had a particular meaning, incriminating me in some crime. After 3 months I'd lost 30 pounds.

As the disease progressed, I spent hours at a time in a swimmy somnambulance, as if I'd been drugged. Think of this predicament for a moment. Imagine being unable to read, write, exercise, work, garden, fix things around the house, chat with spouse or friends, eat, sleep, play cards, surf the net, or watch TV or movies. What would you do? Try it for a day. Eventually, I was reduced to pacing the living room, sitting for hours lost in rumination, or trying to sleep and being unable to. I had always thought of a person's mind as their only defense against a hostile world. Now that my mind had abandoned me, the hostile world came pouring in.

I began to develop severe cramps in my abdomen that curled me up like a baby at night. I felt as if I was giving birth. I developed headaches – a malady I'd never been bothered with before. And I became preoccupied with delusions. I imagined my wife had somehow been divided into different people: a 54 year old, a 40 year old, a 30 year old, and a 20 year old. I spent many nights awake, staring at her as she slept, waiting to see if she would switch to a different version of herself.

By summer's end, my existence consisted of getting out of bed, passing like a weary ghost through each day, void of joy or even interest, enveloped in rumination, miserable at the prospect of another excruciating night featuring nothing but heat, pain, and wakefulness. And it all felt as if it was being done to me. Eventually, I ended up just lying in bed staring at the ceiling.

I knew what was in store for me because my wife's brother had died by his own hand after a similar bout of depression. But, through the miasma of pain and woe, I insisted all was well. My family tried intervening to get me to a doctor, but I refused. And, eventually, my wife, conspiring with my doctor, cried as she urged me to go to the hospital for “just an evaluation”, which I assumed consisted of a casual chat in the emergency room followed by a prescription. I ended up in a locked ward in a hospital bed for a week having horrific nightmares as the medicine kicked in while listening to patients cry out at night for help.

I learned that there are three different psych wards in a large hospital: one for schizophrenics, one for depressives, and one for Alzheimer's/dementia patients. Because there were no spots open in the depression ward, they put me in the dementia ward with people twenty years my senior who had much bigger problems than I had. One woman had no family to look after her outside the hospital: no husband, no siblings, no kids, no living relatives, only a friend. Many people had lost all that was important to them in their lives, and were now losing the memories of their own life stories. The place was frightening, humbling, fascinating, and one enormous eye-opening lesson in appreciation for the wife, family, and friends who came to visit me every day or called me on the phone.

By studying the subject of depression, I learned that the trigger can be many years ahead of the expression, so I may never find out what provoked my downward spiral. Genetics probably had something to do with it. A difficult childhood was certainly a factor. But my guess is that trying to be a creative person in a world that consistently crushes or exploits creative people had the most to do with it.

Depression is like being anesthetized then dropped into a bathtub that slowly fills. The water rises to your back, then your sides, then your chin, then your eyes, then over your head, until all you can do is look at the surface above and blink.

Depression is like having life peeled away from you layer by layer until nothing is left. Wake up one day and there is no literature. The next day music is gone. Then movies disappear, then working, then moving, then talking, until only breathing remains, slow, mechanical breathing.

Depression is like being overcome by an illness, as if a degenerative virus has taken control and sapped the strength of your muscles, then infected your bones, then infiltrated your nerves, and finally seeped into your head so that every part of you is diseased.

Depression is like becoming a statue. A running animated active body slows down and finally stops. Arms, legs, and mind freeze up. The inner armature stiffens. Movement ceases. A shell forms and hardens until only an effigy remains that is gradually overgrown by vines and bramble. It starts with a slow numbing to the world, a withdrawal, a closing off to pleasure until the mind turns to marble, motion stops, the last spark of optimism is snuffed out, reason is suspended, rigid misery sets in.

Depression is like being a sun that slowly burns itself out, gradually losing the coronal fires, the heat diminishing, the plasma churning less and less every day, cooling to a smoldering ember, the flames snuffing themselves into smoke, and becoming quiet until all that is left is a burnt brown rock that gives no light or warmth, a cold stone floating in limitless space.

It took time to recover. After the hospital, I went to a two-week out-patient group with other folks also recovering from anxiety or depression. And, a few months after the hospital visit, I was feeling much better. The two drugs they gave me – one for depression, one for psychosis - worked miraculously. The medicine and the realization that I was actually surrounded by people who cared about my welfare set me back on the road to health. The paranoia dissipated. I gained 14 pounds in two weeks. I started reading again.

I came away with the impression that this could happen to anyone. There's nothing that separates me from the homeless people in the street except a simple exceeded threshold of neurochemicals.

And I received two great gifts from the experience. The obvious one was the realization that I had a wonderful wife, family, and friends who would help me, people I had formerly taken for granted. But the unexpected gift was the experience – because of the anti-psychosis medicine - of becoming a non-creative person for the first time in my life. That encounter with the non-creative worldview was as interesting an experience as the depression and paranoia had been.

2. My Non-Creative Life

Within a month after starting treatment I had risen from a waking death. I was talking to people, reading, and watching movies again. But the chemical I was ingesting to stave off paranoia had the effect of preventing me from writing stories, composing music, scrawling art, scribbling computer code, building animations, or even thinking creatively. I could ingest the world again while taking the medicine – through books, movies, music, podcasts – but I could not actually produce anything. The portcullis gate had come crashing down. Access to the creative part of my mind had been blocked.

The disease of depression was about closing off inputs. I couldn't read, watch, or listen when depressed. The cure was about re-opening inputs, but closing off outputs. I could take in the world again, but I couldn't write, film, draw, program, or compose. Under the depression, I couldn't take in anything new, but I could still confabulate. Under the cure, I could absorb the world, but I couldn't create any new worlds in my head.

The mechanisms of the brain that allow someone to make up stories in order to become paranoid are the same mechanisms that allow someone to make up stories to write fiction. So, the medicament I took, designed to eliminate the alarming connections of paranoia inside my skull, also eliminated the lyrical connections of story-telling. For the first time in my life I got to feel what it was like to be non-creative.

No more five-new-ideas-before-breakfast. No need to keep a pen and an adding machine scroll of paper beside the bed to jot down nocturnal inspirations. No more getting up in the middle of the night to write a paragraph that had evolved during the murky half-asleep state. No more days spent in animation development. No more running to the keyboard with a new melody in mind. I stopped composing music. I put aside my novels. I stopped thinking in the way a creator thinks. It was as if half of my mind had been carved away. It was as if I were grounded in the material world for the first time. I began to adopt what I imagine the life experience of most people to be. It was fascinating.

I've heard people say, “I don't have a creative bone in my body.” My response to that statement had always been mystification and a shocked wonder at what that must feel like. I thought turning off creativity would be like turning off hunger, joy, or reason. I had experienced exactly that - turning off hunger, joy, and reason - during the depression. But I was still creative then. With depression, I couldn't take in anything new, but I could still confabulate. With treatment, I could absorb the world again, but I couldn't create any new worlds in my head.

This was rather astonishing to me. Ordinarily, I'm only thinly connected to the palpable realm. I live so much inside my own head that the physical world is all but meaningless to me. I eat when I'm hungry. I get cold in the winter. It hurts when I step on sharp rocks in bare feet. But, beyond those links to the realm of atoms and sensation, I don't have much of a relationship to the tangible plain. All of my time is spent with ideas, words, interpretations, interconnections, the embrace of novelty, the prosody of life, everything that is above “the stuff” of existence. I usually live a sort of meta life – in the world, but not of it. For the first time, because of the medicine, I could experience only existence, only “the stuff”.

For a year, I woke up, washed, ate, evacuated, watched movies, chatted with people, watched more movies, poked around in the garden, and slept. Then I got up again the next day and did the same. I had no original thoughts. I wrote nothing. I composed nothing. I invented nothing. I began to wonder if I ever would again. I just walked through life, taking it in, but not putting the pieces together to produce anything new. I responded to the world around me as life happened, but I did nothing more than respond. I thought, “So, this is how other people feel? This is what it's like to not have a creative bone in your body?”

I figured my brain needed time to heal, so I let it heal. And I appreciated experiencing the mental life of an ordinary person. I would not want to live that way forever. But it was restful to live without layers of meaning. Everything was only what it was. I could pick up an orange and think only “orange”. There were no associations, no mental rambling, no blaze of connections, no desire to interpret experience, no wish to create something new, only the requirement to react to what already existed.

Before I knew it, a year had gone by. I began to taper off the paranoia medicine. And then, one day, I stopped it altogether. The day after stopping, my creative mind switched back on. I returned to my usual state of entertaining 40 ideas at once, all jostling for space in a crowded little wet bone box.

I'd pick up an orange and review in my head the discovery of sweet oranges in the New World as opposed to the sour oranges from India that Europeans had always known. I'd ponder the differences in the etymology of the word “orange” across all the European languages (many countries refer to it as a Chinese Apple). I'd consider the place the color orange fills on the visible light spectrum, the fact that cats and dogs don't eat the fruit – and don't see the color - because their bodies make their own vitamin C, the use of the peel in cleaning products, the vesicles holding liquid in pouches divided into segments to encourage sloths and mammoths to eat them in Pleistocene America. I'd dwell on the toxic coloring sprayed on the rind by growers who want all the fruit to appear ripe, the carnauba wax coating to seal out air and preserve freshness, our past family experiments with planting the seeds to grow indoor orange trees. And then thoughts would flow to kumquats and other indoor citrus plants we'd grown that were invaded by rancher ants that carried in aphids to suck the sap so the ants could drink their sweet excrement, to the plum curculios attacking the Asian pear trees outside, to the use of chickens to clean the ground of curculios, to ...

It was no longer just “orange” in my head. It was endless layer upon layer of simultaneous meaning. The word itself led in a hundred directions. The idea of the fruit led in a hundred more. The color led to yet another hundred. Everything intertwined. And I could see all the interlacing between the items. It was like looking at fabric that stretched to the horizon: the tapestry of past experiences, the rococo filigree of facts, the warp and woof of book learning, ideas knitted together by other languages, the mesh of mental images, braided databases filled with concepts. And there were countless sheets of this fabric, one of top of the other, each one interwoven with all the others.

With the medicine, an orange was a unitary experience. A thing was only a thing. An idea referred only to itself. A word had one meaning and no connection to any other words. Life was stark and simple.

Without the medicine, it was all a multi-colored rain of associations that poured, spat, gushed, spurt, surged, and inundated the landscape, tumbled, turned into braided streams, cascaded off cliffs, fed tributaries, swelled into rivers, and emptied into an ocean of sensation, memory, abstraction, fact, and imagination. And each raindrop was itself a kaleidoscope, a shifting hologram that held its own image in its separate pieces and recursed back onto itself and then out into the vastness.

Sooner or later, I'm going to long for the simplicity of “orange”. But when the medicine stopped, I leapt aboard ship and began sailing again on a sea of associations. The waves splashed me. I linked together the drops and began inventing things again, spinning stories, tying together melodies, inventing characters and worlds, re-immersing myself in the act of creation.

Being non-creative meant holding only one thought in my head at a time. Being creative meant having an uncountable number of thoughts and tying them all together to make new thoughts that no one had ever come up with before.

Being non-creative was like listening to one radio station all day. Being creative was like listening to sixty radios at once and making up new songs by dipping into the individual songs being played and selecting out pieces that went together in new compositions.

Being non-creative was like being a lumberjack. I would wake up, see the trees, and cut them down. Being creative was like being both the gardener who plants the acorns and the furniture maker who uses the harvested wood.

Being non-creative meant engaging with the quotidian world on its terms. Being creative meant devising a new world on my own terms.

Being non-creative was like eating and sleeping. Being creative was like having children.

3. The Creative Life

Ride the bus to school and watch the kid drawing manga characters in his notebook. Visit a grandmother's house and watch her sew a dress for her granddaughter. Observe the people who write stories their whole lives – for no other reason than to write stories. Watch the musicians alone in their rooms experimenting with new guitar riffs, new violins arpeggios, new piano chords, new vocal arrangements. Study the people who, unwilling to wait for a real-world teacher, learn from the internet how to make films, video games, and electronic art.

There are people who dance in their rooms at night, trying out new moves in the mirror. There are people who practice story-telling among friends. There are media artists who can't keep their hands off a new technology, who need to twist it to some artistic purpose as soon as they get their hands on it. There are people who make their own furniture to feel the lines of something that came from their own hands. There are people who blow and spin enough glass ornaments to fill the houses of their relatives. There are people who write the screenplays for the movies they want to act in. Creative people are everywhere. But most of us are invisible to the rest of the world.

I am one of millions of people who insert their art forms into the cracks of their daily life. They design and sew their own clothing at night. They compose songs to express their feelings. They draw comics and animations to make the mundane fantastical or the fantastical ordinary. They write books without any audience in mind just to create new worlds. They manipulate photographs because they have the urge to bend reality in a different direction. They fill their closets with water colors because no one will take any more of their paintings. They write fan fiction, invent electronic gadgets, build miniatures, construct robots, act in community theatres, slave over computer programs, and carve decoys, not because they see their obsession as the surest way to get rich, become famous, or entice sexual partners, but because they find a kind of joy and satisfaction in the act of creating that nothing else provides.

I am one of these people – someone who has sat at his sequencer, composing music on a Friday night after work, watching the sun set, dabbling at the keyboard, feeling joy, concentrating, and then looking up to see the sun rising again – so focused on the ecstasy of creation that no memory of time passing remains.

I am one of the people who, while getting paid to write software for financial applications at the state treasury, wrote miniature novels in the comments sections of the computer programs. I would adopt different voices – the cowboy, the cheerleader, the astronaut, the 1940s gangster – and write instructions to fellow programmers in those personae.

I am one of the people who made up stories for his kids every night – a different story each night, composed on the fly, weaving details of ordinary life into tales of talking animals and villains who always got their come-uppance.

I am one of the people who carved a wooden Christmas creche using penguins as models instead of people. I am one of the people who made enough money in the stock market one year to quit work and then spent his free time making animations, writing stories, and composing nocturnal jazz until the money ran out. I am one of the people who spent a lifetime choosing jobs, not for the money they brought in, but because they featured a creative element that could be explored. I'm also one of the people who got fired from jobs for being creative instead of political.

I am not famous. You have never heard of me. To the world at large I am invisible. But I am creative. In fact, the vast majority of creative people are invisible. And it's not because they are less talented or less dedicated to their craft than the famous people.

The famous people will certainly claim that talent, hard work, and persistence got them where they are, but there is an enormous amount of serendipity involved in becoming famous that no one talks about. For every famous creative person there are thousands of others with more talent and more dedication who are invisible. They are less pretty than the famous people. They are the wrong color, gender, persuasion, size, age. They live in the wrong place, in cultures that don't value their art, or among non-creatives who are mystified by anyone who spends their time having ideas or perfecting skills that do not lead to money, power, or sexual partners. Does that stop the no-names from being creative? Of course not.

These people are creative in ways that society does not value. But so what? Creativity is its own reward.

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nadziejastar · 5 years

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You know, I really wouldn't have cared if this girl had her own adjacent subplot dealing with her memories and the age of fairy tales. It doesn’t sound very interesting to me personally, but whatever. I wouldn’t have even cared if she was an acquaintance of Lea and Isa because they were ALL test subjects (not besties, though). So, yeah I guess I think it was possible that they both could have been “Subject X”. Of course, in KH “X” is not a random letter. It is associated with the Recusant’s Sigil and creating vessels. It means “death” and “endings”. Since this random chick has nothing to do with any of that, she shouldn’t be named “X”. She should be Subject Z or something.

I think all the these characters time-travelling to the present is kinda dumb, but that’s not even my main gripe. No, what really bugs me is that her subplot has totally replaced everything about the original story in the most heavy-handed manner possible. Axel never mentioned this girl before. I had a previous anon tell me that Nomura probably wasn’t that invested in the idea of Isa and Lea being test subjects, and that he left it open on purpose. It’s just my personal bias that they were test subjects. My response to that is: Bullshit. The story was not left open for Lea and Isa to be apprentices just because it was never outright stated. KH3 is just treating the fandom like we’re stupid.

KH3D was setting up one very specific story, then KH3 started following an entirely new one with no warning. It was an incredibly jarring and unconvincing shift. Yes, I find Lea and Isa being test subjects a million times more interesting than them being apprentices. Who wouldn’t? But it is not my personal bias that is fueling my criticism. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together, who took an honest look at the story, could see that it was drastically changed from how it was originally envisioned.

Ansem's Report 2

It is my duty to expose what this darkness really is. I shall conduct the following experiments:

Extract the darkness from a person's heart.

Cultivate darkness in a pure heart.

Both suppress and amplify the darkness within.

The experiments caused the test subject's heart to collapse, including those of the most stalwart. How fragile our hearts are! My treatment produced no signs of recovery. I confined those who had completely lost their hearts beneath the castle.

Some time later, I went below and was greeted by the strangest sight. Creatures that seemed born of darkness...What are they? Are they truly sentient beings? Could they be the shadows of those who lost their hearts in my experiments?

Originally, the focus of the unethical experiments was the darkness of the heart. Yes, Ansem was experimenting on Xehanort to get his memory back.

Unbeknownst to me, my six apprentices then began collecting a large number of subjects on which to perform dangerous experiments into the "darkness of the heart." As soon as I found out, I called my apprentices together and ordered them not only to cease their studies, but to destroy the results of their research thus far.

But the apprentices then went on to do far worse things. There is no mention EVER that there were more than six apprentices. But there was mention of the apprentices kidnapping people and performing dangerous experiments on them. Now it seems like these experiments have been retconned to be about memory only. All the focus now is on this one single Union X girl and her super duper special important secret memories.

Xemnas: Our experiments creating Heartless were attempts to control the mind, and convince it to renounce its sense of self.

But originally Xehanort was not concerned with the subjects’ memories. The purpose of the original experiments was to create vessels. Empty puppets who have no self-awareness.

Xemnas: You feel nothing. Nothing is real. I can give you purpose.

Roxas: Roxas.

Xemnas: That is right--the new you.

The definition of a vessel is a hollow container. That’s what Xehanort needed so he could have 13 copies of himself—they’d all have the exact same heart and mind. Nomura said Seekers of Darkness were “raw material” for the X-blade. The point was he needed just their BODIES.

Xehanort: Roxas... Now, there was a worthy candidate. But, unfortunately, he became too aware of himself, and returned to Sora. Organization XIII's true goal is to divide Xehanort's heart among thirteen vessels.

The less self-aware the person is, the less able they are to reject Xehanort from taking over their mind, body, and heart completely. It’s heavily tied into the Recusant’s Sigil, which now seems to have vanished from Kingdom Hearts lore entirely. I guess they are hoping we just forgot about it, since it got so little attention anyway.

Day 7: Meaning

A name defines an object. Describes the span of it. Gives it purpose. We embarked upon the Replica Program to ensure our new power stays ours. Now, our shadow puppet, "No. i," lives. It needs a name. Something to define it. To give the hollow vessel purpose.

But Xehanort put the “X” into all the original members’ names because he planned to make vessels out of them once Kingdom Hearts was completed. Now suddenly we have a Subject X in the spotlight, but she has absolutely nothing to do with making vessels?

The Ultimania said that Xemnas was using the Chamber of Repose to communicate with Aqua, and looking for Ventus because he was trying to complete the new Organization XIII. Now suddenly he was doing all of that because Ven was from the age of fairy tales? I’m sorry, but this is bullshit. I don’t think I’m being an unreasonable or petty fan by saying this is EXTREMELY bad storytelling. KH has had a lot of retcons, but this is far worse than anything I’ve seen in this series before. It’d be like if Sora, Donald, and Goofy just randomly stopped looking for Riku and the King in the middle of KH2 and started looking for a random Union X girl instead. That’s how Lea and Isa in KH3 felt to me.

Secret Report 4: Experiments of the Heart – Notes on Subject X, Excerpt 2

Secret Report 4 is obtained after clearing Battlegate 4 at Toy Box: Galaxy Toys / Kid Corral.

Subject's memories have not returned, and our conversations remain less than lucid. What fragments can be gleaned evoke a bygone world, like one out of fairy tales. As improbable as it seems, the question may not be where she has come from, but when. If she truly has crossed through time, the prospect of probing her heart is all the more compelling.

My pilot studies used a handful of subjects, but none possessed the fortitude to endure them. Ultimately, all suffered mental collapse. I knew it would be a heavy blow to lose a subject as unique as she. Upon discovering the tests I've been conducting, my master demanded that I cease my work immediately and destroy what research I have compiled. Worse still, he ordered the release of my remaining subjects. She is gone.

Where is Subject X now? Has "wise" Master Ansem hidden her away? Whatever the case, I will not be deterred. I will take her place as the first subject in the grand experiment to come.

You can see how similar the wording in this report is to the original Ansem reports. Even the part where Ansem ordered them to destroy their research. But now it’s that the subjects experienced mental collapse. Not that their hearts collapsed. The victims of these experiments were supposed to have lost their hearts and become Heartless. This was the precursor to everything that happened. They were supposed to be absolutely horrifying and dangerous experiments. Vexen wouldn't go down into the basement, and even Xigbar said he didn’t like going there. He even called it a “graveyard”.

Braig’s dealings with Master Xehanort in Birth by Sleep make sense now, as he was to become a vessel.

Nomura: There is a certain reason for Braig to proudly exclaim, “I’m already half Xehanort.” Isa (Saïx) is included too. I think you’ll understand the details about their circumstances eventually.

We were clearly supposed to learn about these experiments in great detail. And it’s obviously why BBS teased us by showing Lea and Isa trying to sneak into the castle while these experiments just happened to be taking place. Isa just happens to be a vessel. He just happens to have the Recusant’s Sigil in the middle of his face. Axel just happens to say that his personality completely changed from how it used to be. Saïx just happens to be the most unfeeling and heartless Nobody of them all, and can't "see" Xion.

Secret Report 5: Memoirs, Excerpt 1

Secret Report 5 is obtained after clearing Battlegate 5 at Toy Box: Galaxy Toys / Main Floor: 1F.

The castle was a wonderland to us children. Within its walls, Ansem the Wise conducted his research, and the fruits it bore allowed everyone outside to live in peace and happiness. That alone was enough to stoke our interest, though not all of the rumors that escaped its walls were so benevolent. By night, the muffled sounds of human wails emerged. There was talk of dangerous human experimentation. Lea and I couldn't help but hatch a plot to steal inside and sate our curiosity.

The two who stood guard at the gates were researchers themselves, though you wouldn't think it to see them, massive and barrel-chested as they were. And slipping past that duo was only the first hurdle. It proved one not easily cleared; we were found and tossed out on our ears, time and again. On the day we finally secured our entry, we descended the long spiral stair at the heart of the castle to find a dark space below it, lined with cages. There wasn't light enough to see if they were inhabited, and we were in no position to call out to any occupants within. Yet we could feel it. A definite presence, there in the black. Terror washed over us, and we immediately regretted coming. But just as we turned to flee, we heard the faintest of voices. The urge to run was nigh overpowering, but someone or something beckoned us on. There, framed by a tenuous sliver of light, we found her.—Saïx

This report about Lea and Isa sneaking into the castle just happens to be found at Galaxy Toys, where Xehanort discovered he could create vessels after experimenting on the toys. Galaxy Toys was a good fit. The castle looked like a fun place for kids to play on the outside, but on the inside horrible experiments were being conducted. It seems like these experiments aren't even going to get much (if any) attention going forward. It's all about this random girl’s memories now.

What happens to the hearts of those who have had Master Xehanort’s heart planted within them?

Nomura: They’ll gradually be swallowed by it. As for Master Xehanort, he plans to control them completely. The planted parts of the heart are captured rather than disappear.

In KH3D, Saïx acted exactly like you would imagine a so-called vessel to act. Unlike Xigbar, he was completely still, completely mute, completely blank and expressionless, and didn’t act until Master Xehanort looked over at him (which he would have had no way of knowing unless they were telepathically linked). We know Master Xehanort had the power to transfer his consciousness into his vessels. That’s what makes them vessels, after all. Gee, I wonder if Saïx awakening to a new purpose over time had aaaanything to do with his heart being gradually swallowed by Xehanort?

I’m sorry, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that Saïx was set up to have a backstory as a test subject. Nothing about his character was left open to be an apprentice. Nothing. Subject X could have had any other role in the experiments if they really needed to introduce her to this timeline that badly. But no, she stole Isa’s backstory. That’s how ill-conceived this sudden shift to Union X was. It appears to have happened on relatively short notice. If that’s the best way Nomura could think of to introduce “Subject X”, she has no business existing in the story.

#kingdom hearts #anti-kh3 #kh saïx #kh isa

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bountyofbeads · 4 years

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Bernie Sanders Wins Nevada Caucuses, Strengthening His Primary Lead https://nyti.ms/2HJdnAW

This is not just a presidential election, it is a referendum of Corporations vs. People. I vote for the People. Sanders is the opposite side of the same coin(Trump). MY GREATEST FEAR IS THE RE-ELECTION OF DONALD TRUMP.

Also if there's going to be a REVOLUTION, we MUST FLIP the SENATE otherwise nothing CHANGES.

#VoteBlueNoMatterWho

Bernie Sanders Wins Nevada Caucuses, Strengthening His Primary Lead

His triumph will provide a burst of momentum that may make it difficult for the still-fractured moderate wing of the Democratic Party to slow his march to the nomination.

By Jonathan Martin and Alexander Burns | Published Feb. 22, 2020 Updated Feb. 23, 2020, 1:34 a.m. ET | New York Times | Posted Feb 23, 2020 |

LAS VEGAS — Senator Bernie Sanders claimed a major victory in the Nevada caucuses on Saturday that demonstrated his broad appeal in the first racially diverse state in the presidential primary race and established him as the clear front-runner for the Democratic nomination.

In a significant show of force, Mr. Sanders, a liberal from Vermont, had a lead that was more than double his nearest rivals with 50 percent of the precincts reporting, and The Associated Press named him the winner on Saturday evening.

His triumph in Nevada, after strong performances in Iowa and New Hampshire, will propel him into next Saturday’s primary in South Carolina, and the Super Tuesday contests immediately thereafter, with a burst of momentum that may make it difficult for the still-fractured moderate wing of the party to slow his march.

Mr. Sanders, speaking to jubilant supporters in San Antonio, trumpeted what early results suggested would be a landslide victory.

“We have just put together a multigenerational, multiracial coalition, which is not only going to win in Nevada it’s going to sweep the country,” he said, predicting another victory in Texas next month.

[ NEWS ANALYSIS: How Bernie Sanders dominated in Nevada. SEE BELOW]

While Mr. Sanders boasted that “no campaign has a grass-roots movement like we do,” and was bathed in “Bernie, Bernie!” chants, he otherwise ignored his Democratic opponents.

Mr. Sanders’s success, and the continued uncertainty over who his strongest would-be rival is, makes it less clear than ever how centrist forces in the party can organize themselves for a potentially monthslong nomination fight. The moderate wing is still grappling with an unusually crowded field for this late in the race, the lack of an obvious single alternative to Mr. Sanders and no sign that any of those vying for that role will soon drop out to hasten a coalescence.

As results were being counted on Saturday night, former Vice President Joseph R. Biden Jr., former Mayor Pete Buttigieg of South Bend, Ind., Senator Elizabeth Warren of Massachusetts, the billionaire investor Tom Steyer and Senator Amy Klobuchar of Minnesota were all competing for what would clearly be a distant second-place finish.

With the full order of finish still in doubt, Mr. Buttigieg used his caucus-night speech to deliver a stern warning about the implications of nominating Mr. Sanders, urging Democrats not to “rush” into anointing him as their candidate. In his most pointed critique to date, Mr. Buttigieg said Mr. Sanders’s agenda lacked broad support and asserted that the senator did not give “a damn” about the swing-state Democrats in Congress who are scared of running with him on the same ticket.

“Senator Sanders believes in an inflexible, ideological revolution that leaves out most Democrats, not to mention most Americans,” Mr. Buttigieg said, adding that Mr. Sanders wanted to “reorder the economy in ways most Democrats, not to mention most Americans, don’t support.”

Mr. Biden appeared at a Las Vegas union hall while most votes were still uncounted to claim a comeback and vowed victory in South Carolina. “Y’all did it for me,” he told supporters, trying out a new line aimed at his rivals. “I ain’t a socialist, I ain’t a plutocrat, I’m a Democrat.”

Mr. Biden’s campaign asserted that he would finish in second place here, a claim challenged by Mr. Buttigieg’s aides.

The apparent scale of Mr. Sanders’s victory margin presented an immediate challenge to the rest of the candidates, many of whom had been counting on a drawn-out nomination fight to give them time to catch up. But time is plainly running short, and few of Mr. Sanders’s rivals have a clear path to closing his advantage. Among them, only Mr. Biden has a realistic chance of winning South Carolina next week, the sole remaining contest before Super Tuesday on March 3.

That may leave the other Nevada runners-up scrambling to accumulate delegates but with few opportunities to win whole states. Several candidates who were counting on a wave of national momentum coming out of the early states showed no sign of achieving that: Ms. Klobuchar, who claimed a third-place finish in New Hampshire as a major breakthrough, appeared to be near the back of the pack in Nevada. Mr. Buttigieg, who nearly deadlocked Mr. Sanders in Iowa and New Hampshire, did not come close to him on Saturday.

Should Mr. Biden prevail in South Carolina — an outcome that is no longer seen as a near-certainty — there could be enormous pressure on the other moderates in the race to stand down and give him a clean shot at Mr. Sanders.

Ms. Warren, meanwhile, did not appear to have received a significant bump in Nevada after a debate on Wednesday that was widely seen as her strongest of the campaign. The impact of her dramatic confrontation with the billionaire candidate Michael R. Bloomberg may have been muted here, because so many early votes were cast before it. She now faces the ungainly challenge of seeking to capitalize on the energy of that debate without having triumphed, or even fared especially well, in the contest immediately following it.

At a large rally in Seattle on Saturday, Ms. Warren declared there were “a lot of states to go, and right now I can feel the momentum.” Declining to follow other Democrats in taking aim at Mr. Sanders, she continued deriding Mr. Bloomberg and his self-funded candidacy.

The fragmentation of the vote among the other candidates, not only in Nevada but in the coming primaries, is likely to strengthen Mr. Sanders. After the split decision in Iowa, where he shared the lead with Mr. Buttigieg, and a modest victory in New Hampshire, he appeared to prove his ability to win convincingly in a more diverse state, an outcome that often eluded him in his 2016 bid for the Democratic nomination.

With its mix of Hispanic, African-American and Asian-American voters, Nevada offered Mr. Sanders a rejoinder to critics who claim he cannot broaden his appeal beyond his base of white liberals.

Mr. Sanders’s steady progress in the primary contest has come amid widespread grumbling and occasional howls of alarm from the Democratic establishment, which views Mr. Sanders — a 78-year-old democratic socialist who has never joined the party — and his movement with a combination of fear and distrust. The anxiety deepened this weekend in the aftermath of reports that government intelligence officials believe the Russian government is aiding his candidacy, and after Mr. Sanders acknowledged that he was briefed on the Russians’ apparent intervention a month ago.

Yet his coalition in Nevada — where 35 percent of the voters were not white, according to entrance polls — bodes well for his prospects in the 15 states and territories that will vote on the most important day of the race in just over a week. The Super Tuesday contests include large, diverse states such as California, Colorado and Texas, and the delegate lode is so hefty that if Mr. Sanders performs well, it will be difficult for one of his rivals to catch up given the unflagging dedication of his supporters.

Making that task more difficult is that the more moderate candidates continue to split votes and, more important, they all seem determined to forge ahead either by using their own fortunes or by raising enough money from donations to proceed. That was evident on Saturday, as candidates like Ms. Warren, Mr. Buttigieg and Ms. Klobuchar, as well as Mr. Sanders, traveled to rallies in states that will cast ballots soon.

Further complicating matters for those hoping to stop Mr. Sanders is the diminished standing of Mr. Bloomberg, the candidate some moderates hope can defeat Mr. Sanders. Mr. Bloomberg, the former mayor of New York, is reeling after a poor debate performance here, and some who were counting on him to become the moderate standard-bearer have been left to wonder whether he has what it takes.

Mr. Bloomberg’s campaign manager, Kevin Sheekey, warned in a statement on Saturday that “the Nevada results reinforce the reality that this fragmented field is putting Bernie Sanders on pace to amass an insurmountable delegate lead.” He added that nominating Mr. Sanders would be a “fatal error.”

Even as many of the candidates left the state on Saturday, Nevada retained the political spotlight as the caucuses appeared to run relatively smoothly after the debacle in Iowa this month.

Democrats in this state made drastic changes to their own caucus procedures after Iowa, scrapping the software they had been planning to use and intensively training thousands of people to pre-empt problems. There were scattered reports of volunteer shortfalls at some precincts, though not on a scale that seemed to alter the contest in any appreciable way, and some precincts had problems getting through on the telephone hotline to report caucus results, prompting the state party to add phone lines.

More revealing than the caucus process was who voted — and the coalition that Mr. Sanders built in a state that derailed his then-promising candidacy four years ago.

He performed well across a range of voters, winning men and women, union members and nonunion workers, and those who attended college and those who did not, according to entrance polls of caucusgoers.

Mr. Sanders not only won among self-described liberal voters, but also made inroads with moderates for the first time. Among self-described moderate or conservative caucusgoers, Mr. Sanders was the top vote-getter, albeit narrowly: He captured 25 percent of such voters, while Mr. Biden won 23 percent, according to entrance polls.

That was in part because many black and Hispanic voters described themselves as moderates, and because Mr. Sanders outpaced the field with Hispanics, taking 53 percent, and was second only to Mr. Biden among African-Americans. Mr. Biden captured 36 percent of black voters, while Mr. Sanders won 27 percent, the entrance polls showed.

Mr. Sanders made less progress with older voters, whom he has repeatedly struggled with, but claimed new evidence that his calls for “a political revolution” were motivating new voters. He won an extraordinary 66 percent of voters under 30, and dominated among the broader universe of voters who said they were attending their first caucuses, a demographic that made up just over half of the electorate.

Mr. Sanders’s performance will echo beyond Nevada and surely focus the minds of his rivals.

Asked before the results were announced how he would slow Mr. Sanders’s march should the Vermont senator triumph here, Mr. Biden, stopping at a caucus site in North Las Vegas, said: “I beat him by going to — just moving on. People want to know who’s the most likely to beat Donald Trump.”

Mr. Biden emphasized the importance of keeping the Democratic majority in the House of Representatives and taking back seats in the Republican-controlled Senate, and noted that he had raised “over a million bucks” since the debate on Wednesday.

Ms. Warren has raised considerably more than that since her standout performance, and on Saturday her campaign said it had taken in $21 million so far this month — a huge sum by any standard, and one likely to allow her to compete seriously at least through Super Tuesday. Her campaign manager, Roger Lau, said on Saturday that he believed the debate would ultimately “have more impact on the structure of the race than the Nevada result.”

______

Reid J. Epstein and Shane Goldmacher contributed reporting.

_____

"I believe the Democratic party elites are underestimating the discontent with the moderate, centrist status quo. I think a huge slice of the electorate wants radical change, just as they did four years ago." CHARLES, ARIZONA

"Why is it so difficult for people (particularly the media) to believe that some of us actually like, support, and believe in Bernie? Am I some extreme left wing liberal? No. I'm a middle class, single, 40-something educated female that happens to believe our country has enough imagination left in itself that we can invest in education, the environment, health care, and equality. Do I believe Bernie can accomplish everything he promises? No, but I'm okay with that. He is fostering a vision of hope, and if he even accomplishes one-tenth of that vision, we'll be far better off than the current path we're on. Unfortunately the alternative democratic candidates (the "safe bets") do no inspire the same level of hope in our future."MOMO, COLORADO

"Hundreds of million of US voters are fed up with the unfairness built in to our political system and our economy. They are tired of financial manipulation, health insurance profiteering, military waste, high cost of education, and low wages. These people know that talk of a really great economy is blather because they know their own financial situations and how many hours they have to work to squeak by. And they know how close to the edge they are because they see friends and neighbors falling into bankruptcy. The difference now is that they are getting organized through the Sanders campaign structure. They are talking to relatives, friends, and acquaintances. This face-to-face organizing has more power than TV ads, political talking heads, or social media."

CHARLIE COOP, BALTIMORE

" NY Times,,,you just don't get it. You don't understand what it mean to have a $30 prescription jump to $1,000 per month! You don't understand what it means to have the purchasing power of your pension decline by 33%. Its all good for you. But for the rest of us.....we are DROWNING!!!!!!!!!!!" ANN, DENVER CO

"Sanders is genuine, dedicated, and has amazing grass roots support; but I like my health insurance, my 401k balance, my job, low taxes, and I am just about 4,000 dollars away from paying for my own college and have saved considerable amounts for my children's education. No way am I going to give that up and pay for someone else's college too - so hello to four more years of Trump." RONAN IS COMING FOR YOU, LOS ANGELES

"If you listened to Sanders Nevada victory speech, he covered it all, what he is for. It's a sea change from where we are, but we have gone so far off the rails; we are so out of balance. Corporations and GOP hollowed out corrupt government have forgotten the people who buy their goods and pay taxes. It's become all about their profits and their power. Sanders comes along as the Un-Trump at this moment and the fear-mongering gets louder. Not once did Sanders mention socialism last night. Nor was that was he was talking about. The work is to rebalance this country for the people, not to eliminate capitalism. The work is to save the planet. "We are in this together" he said ( not us vs. them,"America first"). If Sanders becomes president and spends his first 100 days undoing Trump's destruction via executive orders and hiring and firing, that will be momentous. The rest will of course be a push. I'm with him." POTTER, MA

"Trump or Sanders. Trump or Sanders. One wants to take from the rich and give to the poor. The other wants to take from the poor and give to the rich. Do we have third party candidates yet. Are there any." VINCENT PAPA,

BOCA RATON FL

"As a two-time voter for President Obama, I will proudly vote for Democratic nominee Bernie Sanders in the November election. I will also vote for Warren if it is her. Otherwise I will vote Green. My one issue is non-profit, universal healthcare. God Bless Bernie."

OBSERVER, WASHINGTON DC

"It's becoming quite confusing trying to understand all these voices saying "Bernie can't win" when the election results are showing that not only can Bernie win, but he's killing it in the field -- across age, race, income bracket, gender. What in the world is motivating all these people to say "Bernie can't win?" The data shows otherwise: 54% of the democratic vote in Nevada means Bernie is heading towards the nomination. The only people who are going to lose big time here are the old stick in the mud party centrists, who are on the way out to irrelevance. We are watching in real time, over half a dozen election cycles, the Democratic Party being taken over by the progressives. It doesn't matter if Bernie is elected in 2020 or not. The progressive movement is here to stay. If not Bernie in 2020 as president, then likely Elizabeth Warren in 2024. I don't see how any facts on the ground can change this. I'm registering young, first time voters in Pennsylvania. They're all going Bernie. If everyone who said "Bernie can't win" will just register one young voter, we will crush Trump in the national." KIP LEITNER, PHILADELPHIA

"This is the story of NOT ME, US. By building a diverse coalition based around policies to help the working class and poor, Sanders has tapped a segment of voters long overlooked by the Democratic Party. As we get closer to Super Tuesday it looks more likely Sanders will come out on top. There is no situation where the moderate candidates can come out on top through their own merits. The Democratic Party is finally being realigned to the working class coalition that propelled FDR to the White House and ushered in a new era in America."

COMMENTER, NORTHEAST

"Why did he win? Because Bernie is the OG. I supported him early in 2016 but voted for Hillary in the VA primary because I thought the only way to beat the GOP was with a safe centrist. We all see how that worked out. Bernie 2020!"

NATHAN HANSFORD, BUCHANAN VA

"Bernie is like a former PM we had in Aus. He tried for years to become PM, his party was out of power for decades as our version of the GOP ruled and then something miraculous happened, the unthinkable, the NO WAY!! I don't believe it happened. He won and our very first social democrat won and we got universal healthcare, we got free college education, we got Family Law Courts, we got laws for our indigenous population, we got environmental laws, the list is very long of the things that happened and were changed. Over the decades since that win in 1972 the Aus version of GOP and the Aus version of the DNC have slowly eaten into some of these reforms but some of them like our Medicare and our Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme that is recognised around the world as one of the best(we subsidise the prescription drugs your doctor gives to you) remain and they are sacrosanct now, no government would ever tamper with them. So Americans...if Bernie wins the nomination don't be afraid but get out there and vote Blue and usher in a new era, a new broom and send Trump to the dustbin of history." LEE H, AUSTRALIA

*********

How Bernie Sanders Dominated in Nevada

A multiracial coalition brought the senator’s long-promised political revolution to vivid life, for perhaps the first time in the 2020 race.

By Jennifer Medina and Astead W. Herndon | Published Feb. 22, 2020 | New York Times | Posted Feb 23, 2020 |

LAS VEGAS — They showed up to Desert Pines High School in Tío Bernie T-shirts to caucus on Saturday morning, motivated by the idea of free college tuition, “Medicare for all” and the man making those promises: a 78-year-old white senator from Vermont. To dozens of mostly working-class Latinos, Bernie Sanders seemed like one of their own, a child of immigrants who understands what it means to be seen as a perpetual outsider.

For at least one day, in one state, the long-promised political revolution of Mr. Sanders came to vivid life, a multiracial coalition of immigrants, college students, Latina mothers, younger black voters, white liberals and even some moderates who embraced his idea of radical change and lifted him to victory in the Nevada caucuses on Saturday.

By harnessing such a broad cross-section of voters, Mr. Sanders offered a preview of the path that he hopes to take to the Democratic presidential nomination: uniting an array of voting blocs in racially diverse states in the West and the South and in economically strapped parts of the Midwest and the Southwest, all behind the message of social and economic justice that he has preached for years.

His advisers argue that he has a singular ability to energize voters who have felt secondary in the Democratic Party, like Latinos and younger people, and that Nevada proved as much — and could set the stage for strong performances in the Super Tuesday contests on March 3. The Sanders campaign is looking in particular to the delegate-rich states of California and Texas, whose diverse Democratic electorates include a high percentage of voters from immigrant backgrounds.

Mr. Sanders’s chances also depend in part on the field of moderate candidates remaining crowded and divided, which is not a guarantee, especially if voters seeking an alternative to the right of Mr. Sanders align behind one candidate. To earn enough delegates to be the Democratic nominee, Mr. Sanders will also have to win big in other large states, including California and Texas, where his coalition remains untested. And his brand of democratic socialism could prove to be a hard sell, including among Latinos elsewhere in the country.

Mr. Sanders delivered his victory speech Saturday evening not in Nevada, but in Texas, one of the diverse powerhouses on the Super Tuesday calendar.

“They think they are going to win this election by dividing our people up based on the color of their skin or where they were born or their religion or their sexual orientation,” he said in San Antonio, speaking of President Trump and his allies. “We are going to win because we are doing exactly the opposite, we’re bringing our people together.”

In the entrance polls on Saturday, Mr. Sanders led the field across many demographic groups: men and women, whites and Latinos, union and nonunion households, and across education levels.

The breadth of his appeal amounts to a warning shot at those in the moderate Democratic establishment he often rails against, many of whom have staked their hopes for a “Stop Sanders” effort on the idea that he has a political ceiling within the party and could not grow his base of supporters.

Instead, as the primary shifted to Nevada from the racially homogeneous electorates of Iowa and New Hampshire, it was Mr. Sanders who grew more formidable, while other candidates have struggled.

Strong showings in the first two states have not significantly helped former Mayor Pete Buttigieg and Senator Amy Klobuchar break through with nonwhite voters. Former Vice President Joseph R. Biden Jr. has called himself the one candidate who can build a diverse coalition, but he finished in second place in Nevada, the most diverse nominating contest so far.

Only Mr. Sanders, with his uncompromising message that working-class Americans affected by injustice can unite across ethnic identity, has shown traction in both predominantly white Iowa and New Hampshire and the more black and brown Nevada.

“He’s been saying the same thing for 40 years — I trust him,” said Cristhian Ramirez, a 31-year-old technology support specialist who began volunteering for the Sanders campaign in November. Mr. Ramirez brought several friends with him Saturday and scoffed at the idea that Mr. Sanders would face challenges in the general election. Like many supporters, Mr. Ramirez was first drawn to Mr. Sanders during the senator’s 2016 presidential bid. “Why should we vote for a moderate? We already tried that last time and we lost.”

The strong showing in the first-in-the-West caucus state seemed to be a payoff for Mr. Sanders’s unique political philosophy and his campaign team’s electoral strategy, which bet big on grass-roots outreach to Latinos and immigrant populations. It’s a model the campaign is looking to take across the country, working to reach people across racial and ethnic groups who have traditionally been less likely to vote.

“We’ve been saying for a while, candidates and the Democratic Party need to engage Latino communities sooner and substantively,” said Marisa Franco, the executive director of Mijente, a community organization that has backed Mr. Sanders. “If you do that, they respond accordingly.”

While ideologically liberal voters and young people powered Mr. Sanders toward popular vote victories in Iowa and New Hampshire, Nevada showed the candidate’s brand of authenticity could have cross-cultural appeal, even as the campaign sparred over “Medicare for all” with the culinary workers’ union, the state’s largest union and one of the most powerful organizations in Nevada Democratic politics.

Activists and leaders who have endorsed Mr. Sanders, particularly people who work with immigrant populations, argue that a focus on “Bernie Bros” — a caricature of his supporters as predominantly white and male — misses the scope of the campaign’s outreach to historically marginalized groups.

They praised Mr. Sanders for articulating a global frame of injustice that has led him to uncharted places among the Democratic field: He was the first to support a moratorium on deportations, has consistently spoken of the plight of the Palestinian people during debates, and has talked about his own family’s immigrant experience as a way to connect with voters, something he rarely did during his 2016 run.

No demographic is a monolith, of course, and Mr. Sanders’s support comes with fissures along fault lines of age and educational attainment. But, if Nevada is any measure, he is well positioned to galvanize a cross-section of Latino voters in a way that earlier candidates have done with black voters in the Democratic Party, amassing an advantage that could help create a path to the nomination.

“If you have focused intention and ongoing support for Latinos and other voters of color you can win,” said Sonja Diaz, the executive director of the Latino Policy & Politics Initiative at the University of California, Los Angeles. “They did not take the Latino vote for granted.”

When early voting began last week, the Sanders campaign sent a neon truck blasting local Spanish radio out onto the Las Vegas streets, urging people to show up at dozens of early caucus sites. They attracted hundreds of people to a soccer tournament, then offered rides to caucus sites to anyone who showed up.

After months of knocking on doors in largely Latino neighborhoods in Las Vegas, on Saturday morning, the Sanders campaign said it sent text messages and phone calls to every Latino registered as a Democrat or independent in the state.

For months, the Sanders campaign has boasted that it was the first to organize and advertise in largely Latino neighborhoods, not just in Las Vegas, but in Des Moines and east Los Angeles. Many people who showed up at the caucuses wearing Sanders buttons and stickers said his campaign was the only one they ever heard from. Latino political activists — including those backing other candidates — routinely applaud the Sanders campaign for doing the kind of expensive, labor intensive outreach they have been trying to convince other candidates to do for years.

Former Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg, who has virtually unlimited resources, is also investing in Latino outreach and competing aggressively in Super Tuesday states, which could cut into support for Mr. Sanders. He has already spent more than $10 million on Spanish-language advertising.

Mr. Sanders’s appeal seems particularly strong in the West, where his ability to harness not just Latinos, but also liberal black and Asian-American voters could portend a strong showing in California, which will award more delegates than the four early voting states combined.

The Sanders team has long said that California, where early voting is already underway, is a cornerstone of its campaign. It has invested roughly $6.5 million in advertising there so far, including more than $1 million for Spanish language advertising. A poll from the Public Policy Institute of California released last week showed Mr. Sanders with 30 percent of the vote, and Mr. Biden in second, trailing by nearly 20 percentage points.

The support for Mr. Sanders in Nevada was particularly notable given the intense fight with the Culinary Union, which represents 60,000 housekeepers, bartenders, cooks and others who work in casinos here. Leadership for the union, whose membership is more than 50 percent Latino, declined to back any one candidate, but spent the weeks leading up to the caucus criticizing Mr. Sanders’s “Medicare for all” plan, because it would effectively eliminate the union’s prized private health insurance.

But in interviews in recent days, many rank-and-file union members said they supported Mr. Sanders precisely because of his health care proposal, explaining that they wanted their friends and relatives to have the same kind of access to care that they have.

On Saturday, Mr. Sanders won at five of the seven caucus sites on the Strip, losing one to Mr. Biden and tying with him at another — a clear sign that the messages from union leadership had largely been ignored.

Ana Maria Archila, co-executive director of Center for Popular Democracy, a national collective of progressive groups, said she heard all day about people voting for the first time. She also said that she expected states like California and Texas could turn out even better.

At a recent event in Las Vegas geared toward Latino voters, Ms. Archila said she asked the audience to “close your eyes and imagine a country where we are not a target,” citing Mr. Sanders’s support for a moratorium on deportations.

“People started to cry,” she said. “We have never known what it feels like to be in this country and not be under threat.”

_____

Jennifer Medina reported from Las Vegas and Astead W. Herndon from Charleston, S.C. Nick Corasaniti contributed reporting from Minneapolis.

*********

5 Takeaways From the Nevada Caucuses (The Big One: Sanders Takes Control)

Mr. Sanders has now won the most votes in each of the first three states and has more momentum than all his rivals and more money than everyone besides two self-funding billionaires.

By Shane Goldmacher | Published Feb. 23, 2020 Updated 8:41 a.m. ET | New York Times | Posted February 23, 2020 |

LAS VEGAS — Senator Bernie Sanders won big on Saturday and is now the clear front-runner. Former Vice President Joseph R. Biden Jr. saved enough face to march on to his must-win in South Carolina a week from now. Pete Buttigieg finished in the top tier again and embraced the urgency of knocking down a rising Mr. Sanders, though it is not clear where he wins next. And Senator Elizabeth Warren is awash in cash after her debate dismantling of Michael R. Bloomberg — $9 million in three days — but the performance did not nudge her up in the standings in Nevada.

Here are five takeaways of what Saturday’s results mean for the rest of the Democratic primary:

BERNIE SANDERS HAS TAKEN COMMAND OF THE RACE

Mr. Sanders did not just win Nevada. Entrance polls show that he dominated.

Those polls showed Mr. Sanders winning men and women; whites and Latinos; voters in all but the oldest age group (17-29, 30-44 and 45-64); those with college degrees and those without. He was carrying union households and nonunion households, self-identified liberal Democrats (by a wide margin) and moderate and conservative ones (narrowly).

“Welcome to the revolution,” said Waleed Shahid, a spokesman for Justice Democrats, a progressive group.

The Sanders victory was built upon three distinct and yet overlapping bases of support: young people (56 percent support among those 44 and under), very liberal voters (49 percent) and a majority of Hispanic voters. The latter was a new factor in Nevada after two heavily white opening states, Iowa and New Hampshire, and particularly important as the race expands to big and diverse states on Super Tuesday with large Latino populations, none more significant than California and Texas.

Mr. Sanders has now won the most votes in each of the first three states (Mr. Buttigieg appears to have edged him in delegates in the still-disputed Iowa results) and has more momentum than all his rivals and more money than everyone besides the two self-funding billionaires, Tom Steyer and Mr. Bloomberg.

It was no accident that Mr. Sanders spent much of the day before the Nevada caucuses in California and had two rallies in Texas on Saturday: He campaign is looking ahead to Super Tuesday March 3 as the day he breaks away from the rest of the Democratic field.

Speaking of which …

THE REST OF THE FIELD ISN’T SHRINKING

Not long after the first results began rolling in, a super PAC supporting Mr. Buttigieg announced it was buying TV ads on Super Tuesday states. Mr. Biden’s campaign manager declared that “the Biden comeback” had just begun. Senator Amy Klobuchar dropped from her New Hampshire showing yet claimed to have “exceeded expectations.” And Ms. Warren’s campaign manager said her performance at last week’s debate would prove more important than the actual election.

Translation: No one is about to quit this race.

And the longer all the alternative candidates remain, the longer Mr. Sanders can keep carrying states and consolidating his own coalition without a singular rival.

“The Nevada results reinforce the reality that this fragmented field is putting Bernie Sanders on pace to amass an insurmountable delegate lead,” said Kevin Sheekey, the campaign manager for Mr. Bloomberg.

Each has their own arguments for staying.

Mr. Biden, who carried black voters in Nevada, is the best positioned to beat Mr. Sanders in an upcoming state (South Carolina). Mr. Buttigieg has had the strongest showings overall besides Mr. Sanders. Ms. Warren, whose campaign announced a $21 million haul for February, argues she has the money and organization to compete. Mr. Bloomberg has his billions. Ms. Klobuchar’s path — which is taking her to Fargo, North Dakota, on Sunday — seems less clear and may be more about grabbing spare delegates than the nomination.

The collective impact is clear. A remarkable six candidates all had at least 12 percent of the vote among voters over 45 in Nevada, an almost impossibly even level of fracture.

JOE BIDEN’S BEST FINISH YET IS STILL SECOND PLACE

The Biden case for the nomination has been straightforward: He’s the guy to beat President Trump. Yet for the third time in three races, Mr. Biden did not win. He did improve from his bad fourth-place finish in Iowa and his disastrous fifth place in New Hampshire (as of late Saturday both Mr. Buttigieg and Mr. Biden were claiming second as Nevada sloooowly processed results).

But throughout February, Mr. Biden had said that his fortunes would be reversed now that more diverse states were voting. Except it was Mr. Sanders who soundly defeated Mr. Biden among Latino voters, according to entrance polls, while Mr. Biden’s lead among African Americans — his strongest base — continued to shrink to 12 percentage points.

“Y’all did it for me. Y’all did it,” Mr. Biden nonetheless told his supporter in Las Vegas.

He notably sharpened his contrast with Mr. Sanders and Mr. Bloomberg, who has vied to take over the moderate lane the former vice president occupied for virtually all of 2019.

“I ain’t a socialist. I ain’t a plutocrat. I’m a Democrat,” he said. “And proud of it!”

Mr. Biden could well still win in South Carolina where he has consistently led in the polls, and that could be a springboard to Super Tuesday. But his schedule has him locked down in the must-win state for much of the week as rivals cross the nation.

And don’t forget: Mr. Biden led in the Nevada polling averages for much of the last year.

Until he didn’t.

BUTTIGIEG WANTS TO BE THE ANTI-BERNIE

Of all the victory and concession speeches on Saturday, Mr. Buttigieg’s was the most revealing. He used the big platform not just to make the case for himself but to slash at Mr. Sanders, whom he accused of pushing an “inflexible, ideological revolution that leaves out most Democrats, not to mention most Americans.”

He talked about the urgency of beating Mr. Trump and the importance of nominating a Democrat who “actually gives a damn” about down-ballot races. Speaking on MSNBC, one of the campaign’s national chairs, Representative Anthony Brown, called Mr. Buttigieg the leader in the “non-revolutionary lane” of the primary, though the extent to which such a lane exists, it is more a tangled mess.

Going forward, the problem is that all of Mr. Buttigieg’s early successes in Iowa, New Hampshire and, to a lesser extent, Nevada has not yet lifted him nationally.

Among black voters, the Nevada entrance polls had him carrying a meager 2 percent. Advisers to his rivals and Democratic strategists who want to see Mr. Sanders stopped have been frustrated with Mr. Buttigieg’s campaign, arguing that while he has been relatively successful so far, he is now in a demographic cul-de-sac.

But Mr. Buttigieg has a compelling counterpoint, as he said pointedly in his speech: “Ours is the only campaign that has beaten Senator Sanders anywhere in the country this whole campaign cycle.”

AFTER SIZZLING DEBATE, Warren doesn’t GET NEVADA BUMP

If Wednesday’s debate performance was going to turn Ms. Warren’s political fortunes, it did not do so fast enough for the Nevada caucuses.

The results trickling in delivered another round of frustration for a candidate who fell below expectations in both Iowa and New Hampshire and had her campaign manager, Roger Lau, arguing on Saturday that the days-old debate would prove more significant than the actual election.

“We believe the Nevada debate will have more impact on the structure of the race,” Mr. Lau wrote on Twitter. He called the actual results a “lagging indicator” because so many votes — true — were cast before the debate.

The problem is that election results create their own new gravitational reality in politics and the race itself will be reset with the next debate on Tuesday. Then comes South Carolina, which was long seen as her weakest of the four early states. Then, suddenly, Super Tuesday, where Mr. Sanders seems to be making a play for Ms. Warren’s home state of Massachusetts.

Ms. Warren still has fans. Before one of the largest crowds of her campaign in Seattle on Saturday, she told supporters that she had raised $9 million in the last three days, a huge sum. That gives a financial cushion to a campaign that was so close to running out of money in January it took out a $3 million line of credit.

But on a day that Mr. Sanders won and was building momentum, Ms. Warren was still focused on her preferred target: Mr. Bloomberg, reliving some of the greatest hits from the debate.

And she added some new, off-brand material for a candidate who rose in the polls last year on the strength of her myriad plans and reputation as a wonkish fighter.

She cracked a height joke.

Mr. Bloomberg, she said, posed “a big threat, not a tall threat, but a big one.”

Her rivals had not even mentioned her in their assessments.

*********

#trump scandals #trumpism #trump administration #president donald trump #against trump #news today trump #2020 candidates #2020 election #2020 presidential election #democratic party #democracy #democrats #nevada caucuses #bernie sanders #bernie sander for president #bernie 2020

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literallyjustanerd · 5 years

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Hurts to Try, Hurts to Stop (Nightangel)

Ay, whatup, it’s ya boy, an obsessed fan who writes angsty fanfiction to deal with her own emotional issues. At this point I think Kurt and Warren are officially my emotional support mutants.

Genre: Romance, angst and daddy issues Word count: 1603 Pairing: Nightcrawler/Angel Rating: T+

The air in Warren’s room is stale, and his lungs fill with a thick, stifling mustiness when he inhales. Head swimming through last night’s beer, he is dragged unwilling from the comforting emptiness of sleep, thrust back into the dull, thudding roar of reality, groaning and reeling and squinting his eyes shut. He has little more than a moment to try and think before he feels something ungodly bubbling up from deep within him, and when he leans forward over the side of his bed, he manages to choke up a good deal of second-hand, second-rate booze. Still woozy, he is only dimly able to wonder how the waste bin that catches most of the putrid mixture got there. A clumsy hand fumbles for his nightstand, catching wood after a few attempts. Vague memories return, a leaky faucet drip-feeding him disordered, nonsensical fragments one or two at a time. The clink of shot glasses. A giddy laugh that fills him with dizzying contentment. A chord struck on an electric guitar. Lips against his, warm and graceless and desperate. Quickly finding the prospect of standing an insurmountable task, Warren allows himself to fall back onto the bed, his head sending him a fresh wave of agony as it hits the pillow, wings crushed uncomfortably at odd angles underneath him. More shards of memory circle him, enveloping him as he sinks back into the void.

When he next wakes, he finds the world a little easier to bear. The scents of citrus and chemicals fill his nostrils, eyes opening to see that the waste basket of the unspeakable has been removed, the carpet underneath damp and scrubbed vigorously, the majority of the stain scraped away. Presently, as he frowns down at the faint splotch, a glass of cool liquid finds its way into one hand, the other pried open by steady fingers and a pair of pills placed on his clammy palm. The same fingers then move slowly up to his face, sweeping stringy, sweaty blond curls to the side and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Drink. You need water.” He obeys without hesitation, downing half the glass before heaving his head up to meet his rescuer’s eye. Kurt is looking worse for wear himself, hair a mess, yellow eyes missing their usual gleam, still clothed in last night’s shirt and jeans. Warren catches the man’s hand as it retracts from his cheek, pressing his lips to the blue skin and smiling weakly. He still feels, to put it most simply, like absolute shit, but the sight of that tired face smiling back at him makes everything alright, if just for a moment before his throbbing head interrupts.

Hours pass in silence, slow and sluggish and sleepy. Kurt has found his place beside Warren, lying on his back, chest-to-chest with Warren. Idle fingers trace abstract shapes into the small of Warren’s back, while his tail curves up from beneath him, straightening the feathers of his wings one by one. It takes Kurt a moment to gather himself when Warren speaks, pulled out of his stagnant thoughts. “How did you… when I woke up,” he mumbles, unable to find the words to finish his question. Nonetheless, Kurt seems to get the message. “Knew you’d need to throw up sometime in the night,” Kurt answers simply. “Figured I should be ready for it. Save some awful cleanup.” “But you still had to—” “It was nothing. I couldn’t get all of it, but I think it’ll dry up okay.” He shifts his weight on the bed, groaning softly. “How are you feeling? Any better?” “I’ll be fine,” Warren dismisses. “Back to normal by tonight. You?” “Just tired more than anything. It was a late one.” Warren makes a noncommittal humming noise, letting his arms tighten around the man beneath him, comforted to find lean, supple muscle under his fingers.

“Shouldn’t’ve gone out,” he mutters, not to Kurt, nor to himself in particular. “Shouldn’t’ve dragged you with me. Shouldn’t’ve left the house at all…” “It’s alright,” Kurt soothes. “It wasn’t all bad. You weren’t feeling good last night, you just wanted a good time.” “I wanted a distraction,” comes Warren’s steadfast correction. “I wanted to forget.” A long pause, muscles instinctively tensing, holding Kurt even closer. “Wanted everything to go away.” “I know,” the voice below him whispers, chest rumbling with the words. Warren finds himself suspended in Kurt’s silence, leaning into his breath as it leaves his lungs. “I suppose I should have seen it, stopped you before it got too bad. I’m sorry I didn’t.” Warren shakes his head against the cloth of Kurt’s shirt. “Not your fault. You just thought we were going out for fun.” “…Some of it was fun, at least. We had some laughs.” “Yeah? Good. Glad my breakdown had an upside.” “I didn’t mean—” “I know. Came out harsher than I meant it. Sorry.”

*****

“Are you going to tell me what your dad said this time?” It’s dark outside now, crickets chirruping in the grassy fields outside the mansion. The air is fresher, feels better with the window open, a crisp evening breeze streaming in like light into a darkened room. The couple are working through a pizza, and Warren pauses mid-bite to contemplate Kurt’s question, finally nodding his head as he swallows. “Yeah, I guess. If you want to know.” “Of course I do. You know you feel better when you share.” He sighs heavily, reluctantly, but he can’t deny that Kurt is right. He hates it when Kurt is right, especially when it means having to spill his innermost thoughts and feelings like some corny after-school special. As much as he loves Kurt for helping him, for forcing him up and prying him out of bed and drawing blood from a stone by making Warren open up, it still doesn’t come as easy to him as he wished it would.

“The basic gist was the same as always,” he says, his tone almost bored but for the slightest hint of bitterness. “Nobody was ready to see a mutant Worthington, you should have just hid them forever and pretended to be a pretty little Homo Sapiens. And—” He freezes, lifting his eyes from his slice of pepperoni to meet Kurt’s gaze. “And there was some stuff about you.” “About me? But—” “Someone posted a photo of us online. Got back to him somehow.” “Oh…” The sound of Kurt’s voice, heavy with guilt and shame, fills Warren with a seething, white-hot rage. “Hey,” he says roughly. “Hey. Don’t you dare feel bad about this. He’s the only asshole here, okay? It’s all him. The homophobia, the mutophobia, all of it.” Kurt nods vaguely, stiffly, eyes glazed over. He knows he shouldn’t feel this way, feel responsible for the tumultuous and deeply unhealthy relationship Warren has with his family, but some small part of him always persists, whispers keenly to him that things might be easier for his Angel if he’d never come along to complicate matters even more than they already were. “Are you still working on trying to cut ties?” he asks, instead of dealing with his own roiling emotions. Warren senses the need to change the subject and obliges. “Yeah. It’s just… hard. Accepting that he’s never gonna be satisfied.” He sniffs derisively, eyes cloudy as he reaches for another slice from the box between them. Suddenly restless, he stands, shaking out his wings with a flutter like a peacock preening. In the back of Kurt’s mind echoes the same thought he has whenever he sees Warren’s wings in their full radiant, elegant beauty: how could anyone hate something so amazing? Warren’s feet move without a destination until he finds himself perching on the windowsill, drawing in a lungful of clean night air. “Part of you always hopes there’s something you can do to just… I dunno, ¬force him to change.” The formless colours in the distance out the window slowly shift to form a line of trees as his eyes adjust, then blur again just as quickly with an unexpected wave of tears. “I know he never will. It’s never going to make sense to him to just love me more than he fears what people think.”

A heaving breath shudders past his lips. He tries to piece together another sentence, but the knot in his throat has choked him off. Mercifully, Kurt’s voice rises to fill the cavernous silence. “I know how you feel,” he murmurs. “I know what that’s like. Wanting so desperately for everything to be like it should be. Wishing you could even be what they wanted. Even though you know what they want is wrong.” He speaks like a prayer, intoning each word carefully and deliberately. Warren sees the glint in his eye, knows just what the distinctive quirk in Kurt’s lips and catch in his throat means. “Mystique,” Warren breathes, not a question and not an accusation, but Kurt nods his confirmation all the same. “…Family sucks ass, huh?” And suddenly, there it is. The high, twinkling laugh that erases the hurt in Warren’s chest, fills him with warm, soft relief. Kurt’s eyes wrinkle when he shuts them, tears pushed from the corners of his eyes down his cheek. He sniffles, raises his head. His tail sweeps across the carpet and catches the side of Warren’s leg, snaking under the cuff of his sweatpants and gliding up and down the skin of his calf. The smile that graces his lips reaches all the way to his eyes, weak as it is. “Not the family you choose.”

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fromthedeskofelizabeththird · 6 years

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Hi~ Could I request for angst fic for Zen attacked by his antifans? MC finds him while walking on the street (rides her car idk) and saves him and takes him to the hospital. Zen starts thinking again that he is ugly because of his injuries but MC there for him and comforts him?

Sasaengs are genuinely scary! I imagine anti fans are even worse :/

This fic contains references to gore and hospitals

Also I got pretty into this storyline lmao.

His Fortune

His face is his fortune. A long time ago, with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and cigarettes in his pocket, that was all he knew for certain. Whoever made him so beautiful surely had a plan. At the time, it filled him with confidence, though now the memory is bittersweet.

He no longer remembers what he looked like before, only that the bandages itch with something unfamiliar underneath. Every time that he wakes in the middle of the night, nose itching or wounds aching, all he can think about are chrysalises and moths. He has taken the journey in completely the wrong order; a fact that leaves him demanding painkillers in the middle of the night.

It happened at a fan signing, that much he remembers clearly. He posed for photographs with adoring fans, signed every fragment of merchandise laid before him and tired himself out so thoroughly that he completely ignored his manager’s warnings and stepped out to smoke a cigarette. Only the day before he had promised to quit, for fear that the habit might tarnish his vocals. He wishes now that he had not succumbed to the addiction quite as quickly.

He wasn’t surprised when a strange woman interrupted him, much less when she reached into her purse with shaking hands. He almost feels ashamed now at how quickly he believed her to be a fan in search of her phone camera; the past few hours eroding any awareness of himself or his surroundings.

He doesn’t remember very much of what happened afterwards, which the doctors reassure him is common in victims of traumatic experiences. Zen knows that he should feel better, but instead he feels pathetic. He cannot even bring himself to face the RFA or his manager, instead refusing visitors and drawing the curtain shut.

They tell him that with a number of skin grafts, the scarring will be minimal, though it comes as no comfort. No matter how skilled the surgeon, he will never look the same. It almost seems ridiculous to him now how much money he spent on face masks and lotions for fear of damage to his skin.

Before he realises it, he is changing the topic at the prospect of pressing charges. The damage is already done regardless of whether she faces justice and in a way he doesn’t blame her. The more he thinks of his prior arrogance, the more he hates himself as well.

For the first time in his life, he is content to stay in the hospital and away from the outside world. He doesn’t want to see the aftermath; doesn’t want to accept it as anything more than a bad dream. He refuses any mirror they hand to him; the subtle expressions of shock and repulsion on the nurses as they change his bandages enough of a preview.

It’s after the third surgery that a reporter creeps into his room. Zen used to love posing for photographs, but his immediate reaction to their camera is to hide. He spends the rest of the day trembling, imagining how quickly the pictures and headlines will spread. He knows that he will have to leave the hospital eventually and he wonders if he’ll have any fans left by then. Beautiful idols are a dime a dozen and it will be easy to fall through the cracks.

He becomes obsessed with the incident, furious at himself that Lovely Zen died in that alley and even the memory is stolen from him. He remembers how good that last cigarette was on his senses; the shy expression of the girl who attacked. He remembers her shoes and every pin on her purse, but nothing about the moment she advanced with a razor. The fact that it was even a razor to damage his face so terribly is something he had to be told afterwards. Zen scours his memory, desperate for anything that might jog his imagination and cursing every blank.

It’s as a last resort that he asks to speak to the girl who saved him. He has heard about her bravery and desperation to help, though remembers nothing about her intervention. All he knows about her is that she is a fan, overwhelmed by the number of guests at the meet and greet. The police told him that her screams for help saved his life, but her voice is unfamiliar as she speaks through the curtain.

“I already explained everything to the police,” she says. “I’m not sure what more I could possibly tell you.”

“Anything,” he pleads. “Everything. Something to jog my memory.”

“Well…when I got there, you were already…” She says, hesitant to speak of the gorier details. “Well you were on the floor.”

“Go on.”

“And she was standing over you. She,” the girl takes a deep breath, “well she blamed you for getting a movie role. Her favorite actor also auditioned, though never made it through.”

The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense.

“What happened next?”

“I screamed for help. Your manager was already looking for you, so it wasn’t long before you went to the hospital.”

“I see.”

Zen leans back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. He expected to feel some kind of recognition, but she might as well be reading to him from a book.

“Thank you,” he says, meaning to dismiss her, only for her to break him off mid sentence.

“I…um…well…I’m sorry that this happened to you,” she stammers, her chair screeching against the floor as she stands up. He sees her silhouette on the other side of the curtain, bowing her head before turning to leave.

He asks her back several times between operations, always talking behind a curtain and thinking of new questions to ask. It is strangely comforting to know that one fan still exists, regardless of any other. He sings to her once, forgetting half of the words, though earning a round of applause as a result. He learns her name, her job and favourite drama

Only on her fourth visit does he ask about his fan forums. It took her a while to grow used to him and relax in his company, confident enough to speak frankly. She has only ever been brutally honest, if exceedingly polite, and he fears her silence speaks for itself.

“It’s okay,” he says after listening to her stumble over her words for almost a minute. “I understand.”

And he does understand. His fans would almost certainly have been shocked at first-angry and frightened over what had happened to him. It had probably been a popular topic for those first few weeks. But the real world was busy and even his most devoted fans had other interests. It was only natural for the chaos to die out eventually.

“I’m sorry,” she says and he frowns at her silhouette. She always apologises, for the stabbing, for his marred face. She apologises for it all, even when her involvement is minimal or nonexistent.

“If you keep saying sorry like that, I’m going to think you’re insincere,” he jokes, though it leaves her genuinely upset.

“I’m sorry,” she pleads, voice breaking into sobs, “I’m sorry that some of them are shallow like that. But if all they cared about were your looks, then they were never your fan to begin with!”

He considers her words long after she leaves; thinking back to his first fans and those he knows well. Jaehee has praised him on his looks more than once, but his passion far more. He may not be able to remember the attack, but he does remember the first time he was ever recognised by an incredibly nervous fan, who after five minutes and several failed attempts at conversation, begged him to star in more productions.

After the final surgery and his bandages are properly removed, he invites her to his room for one, last time. They’ve developed a strange bond in their multiple meetings and even if he cannot return to the stage, he is happy to have had her there when it mattered most.

He wants her to be the first to see him when he breaks out of the chrysalis, ready to start anew. He doesn’t know who he’s going to be or what will become of Lovely Zen, but he remains hopeful that she will be able to reassure him.

Only after he has refused several hand mirrors does it occur to him that this will not only be the first time she has seen his face after the accident, but it will be his first time seeing her in general. He built her up in his imagination without realising; a girl with a pretty face and worn sneakers.

Only when he finally sees her does he realise how wrong he was. She isn’t pretty; she’s beautiful.

“What do you think?” He says, averting his eyes from her in an attempt to stop staring.

She reaches out her hands and he guides them to his face, smiling as she traces her fingertips over the skin-one of her only ways of seeing the world.

“I don’t have a point of reference,” she says, eyes blindly darting around the room, “but I think you’re going to be fine.”

He doesn’t remember the accident. He doesn’t remember anything beyond the fan reaching into her purse. He doesn’t even remember the moment he was saved.

As she sees him with her fingers, though, he remembers the moment he decided to be an actor; to use every skill at his disposal to make people happy. It was never about his face and, for what seems like the millionth time since his arrival in the hospital, wishes he could only go back in time to speak to his younger self. He’s spent weeks in defeated silence wishing he had only listened to his manager instead of taking a cigarette break; wishing he had been more suspicious of the girl who attacked him. This time, though, he wishes he could speak to the version of himself who scratched at the bandages and closed himself away from the world.

His future is uncertain and there’s every chance that Lovely Zen the Knight died in that alley, but he cannot find it in himself to mourn anymore. Lovely Zen had only ever been a fiction; a persona to embody his ideas about the world. He understands now that ideas never really die; they evolve and mature and become something new, spreading their wings further and further with every renewal.

#beyazsuvari #zen #mystic messenger #mysme #hyun ryu

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feynites · 6 years

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For the Anon who wanted Trans!Lavellan solavellan - I offer a short. I hope you like it!

“You are like me,” Deshanna had told her, once.

After her magic had manifested, but before she had any certainty in herself. Her Keeper trusted her with the history of their people. With what secrets she knew, and with what stories had survived. She taught her magic, but even more important than magic, she taught her how to be Dalish. How to be an elf who lived apart from the expectations of the human world. In Clan Lavellan, that was important. Even with their increased interactions with humans. Maybe because of them.

Clan Lavellan’s knowledge of the ancient world was pieced together by as many fragments and had as many unanswered questions as any other clan’s knowledge. But when she was eleven, and itching under the weight of a name which sat uneasily on her shoulders, Deshanna had showed her one of the clan’s oldest treasures. A necklace, which had been carried by the first Keeper Lavellan. Which was older than that, by reputation. Though how old, really, none of them knew for certain.

Its chain had broken and been repaired many times. But the pendant, the central charm hanging from it, remained bright and beautiful. Like a polished stone, that always felt warm to the touch.

On it was carved a single elven word.

Nanae. In common, it roughly translated to ‘parent’.

“Our ancestors lived immortal lives,” Deshanna had said, as she gave her the necklace to hold. “We might try and emulate them, but in many ways, it is impossible to think of what that must have meant for their sense of self. Their experiences, their skills, and the way they viewed their lives, and even the very nature of living. Yet, we know Tevinter. We know we were laid low by an empire built on cages. All aspects of identity, in the hands of those seeking to control people, become inescapable, and ordained. An elf is made by their ears. A man by his genitals. A mage by her power. Yet, what they write as law, our ancestors knew to be - at best - a suggestion.”

Deshanna had quieted for a moment. She had held the necklace, and felt something in her ache. With hope or fear, comprehension or confusion, it was hard to say.

“I think you know, too. Sometimes, suggestions are wholly off the mark. Because… you are like me.”

Like Deshanna. Raised to be a boy, but… not one. And not just ‘not a boy’, either, but a girl instead. She wasn’t like some, who held the transition as a banner of pride, or even a mark of defiance. She had tried to be a boy. To pretend. To convince herself that if she kept at it for long enough, eventually, it would just… it would feel right. She would get used to it, she would get over herself. She wanted to live up to her clan’s expectations for her. All of them. Even the ones they hadn’t meant to burden her with.

In the end, it had taken Deshanna’s help to change the expectations for her, for her to stop trying to live up to something that had been caging her in more ways than she realized.

I am not brave, she thinks, as she lies in a tent. Her every limb aching, her bones still chilled from the blizzard she somehow managed to push through. It hadn’t taken bravery for her to face Corypheus. Just the knowledge that it was expected of her. Just the burning desire to be enough for the people around her, to fit with what they need, even, it seems, when they’re not her people. But now whoever healed her injuries must know that…

That she doesn’t really live up to what she’s well aware most humans, and even most elves, expect of a woman.

She’s not brave. She might be able to stare down a darkspawn magister and his dragon, but she cannot muster up the will to get out and leave her tent. To see what kind of reaction waits for her. On that prospect, she’s flatly terrified. Cullen had flirted with her, she thinks, at least a little bit. She hadn’t encouraged him, but she knows how some men can get. Is he the type? Maybe. She had flirted with Solas more, and she knows Solas disdains the Dalish. Disdains their ways.

Is this one of their ways that earns ire and disregard from him?

They might accuse her of lying. Of deceiving them. She never has, but she doubts they’ll see it that way. They’re lost in these mountains, now, and even if she might have bought them to the time to escape, how long might it take for them to decide that this situation is her fault all over again anyway? It seems so easy for them to trade between hero-worship and vilification. One minute she’s in chains, and the next she’s leading their expeditions. They pulled her from the snow, but they might still roast her on a pyre, too.

She closes her eyes, and listens to the wind howl. To the Inquisition’s leaders arguing. Mother Giselle sits at the front of her tent.

“You are awake?” the chantry woman asks, in a soft voice.

“...Yes,” she replies, simply.

“It is good that you are resting,” Mother Giselle tells her. “You will need your strength.”

For what?

There are the obvious answers, of course. ‘For hiking through a blizzard’, or ‘for not succumbing to your injuries’, or ‘for dealing with the mad archdemon-commanding darkspawn magister who now has a personal grudge against you’. But she can’t help thinking that there might be something even more immediate and ominous to Mother Giselle’s concerns, for all that her tone is even and soothing. Mother Giselle is generally quite good at maintaining that tone, she has noticed.

But maybe…

“Were you the one who healed me?” she asks, tentatively. She doesn’t remember much after she fell in the snow, to the sounds of Cassandra and Cullen shouting. She thinks she regained consciousness a few times, but only for a questionable notion of ‘conscious’. Dimly, she can recall gentle hands, and a soft glow that might have been magic - or might have been spots dancing around her eyes, lingering from the concussion.

But she knows that her clothes have been changed. Her battle gear traded for a long, cream-coloured tunic, and some loose pants. And her smallclothes are folded neatly onto the pile of salvagable items, next to her bedroll.

The sight makes her stomach roll with anxiety and dread.

Mother Giselle shakes her head, and she’s honestly not sure if that’s better or worse.

“Your injuries were beyond most simple means of attending,” she says. “Solas saw to you. He packed you away and worked magic that gleamed like the stars. Elven magic… I wonder at it, sometimes. It seems so perilous, and yet, it has done the Maker’s work tonight.”

She swallows, ignoring the particulars of Mother Giselle’s bias, and focusing instead on the matter at hand. Solas. Perhaps… could he have been discreet? Would he have been? He may disapprove of her nature, but there is a chance he still would not disclose it. Solas more than anyone seems to understand the danger of their situation. And he is an elf. He has no reason to think that someone like Corypheus would spare him any cruelty. The elven people may be divided, in their cultures, but in the eyes of those who would harm them, they are all the same.

She sits up.

“I would like to speak with him,” she requests.

Outside, the advisors continue their argument. Uncertain of where to go, or what to do next. Haven is destroyed. They are stranded in the mountains. Corypheus’ armies may have been buried, but there may yet be more pursuing them - who knows what red lyrium will have made those templars capable of?

The Inquisition is likely at its end. She doubts that they will remember her successes - and she hopes that no one else had noticed the styling of the orb which Corypheus had used to command his terrible power. If the elves are to be blamed for this…

She has to try to get back to her people. To a clan. To warn them, to call for an Arlathvhen, to seek the guidance of their hahrens and decide what they will do. Their ancient enemy is here. Not the Dread Wolf; but a Tevinter Magister risen from the grave may as well be working at Fen’Harel’s behest, so far as the Dalish are concerned.

Certainly, she can see the hand of chaos in all of this.

“The man needs his own rest,” Mother Giselle tells her. “The camp is in disarray. They argue, because they have seen so many things happen tonight. A hero rise, and then fall - and then rise again.”

Her stomach twists.

“There is-”

“Mother Giselle,” she interrupts. “I hate to disappoint. I do. But if I have been chosen, it was by my clan, when they sent me to Haven to find out what was going on. And whatever happens now, if I survive, I must try and reach them again. I must find out what obstacles stand between myself and that goal.”

Mother Giselle looks thoughtfully towards her.

“Your purpose has become bigger than anything your clan foresaw,” she says. Not unkindly, nor unsympathetically. But still, the sentiment burns. She is in this place of people who operate on such treacherous presumptions. “You cannot simply fight for one people. I think you know that.”

She feels sick.

Sick at the implication that her concern for her own people equals a disregard for all others. Sick at the demand, that she put aside the interests of the Dalish - her home, her people - to defend those who have tried to destroy them in the past. Sick at the tacit assumption that humanity is more of ‘everyone’ than all the great clans that have survived in Thedas since their exile from the Dales, could somehow ever hope to be.

Sick at the thought that even with the Breach closed, there will be no escape for her from this strange place, and these strange people, and the constant fear that the wrong trait will turn them against her.

She goes quiet.

Mother Giselle talks. Even, at some point, sings. The camp joins in, and she does not know what to make of it. Is it a mourning song? Do they believe themselves doomed to die?

The notes are still ringing in the back of her head, when Mother Giselle at last goes to tend some of the other wounded. After a time, she hears footfalls. She looks, and can’t honestly say if she feels more relief or apprehension, when Solas ducks into her shelter. Carrying a bowl of hot broth, and looking thoughtful.

“I think these humans believe you will bring them the dawn, lethallan,” he says.

It probably says something about how overwhelming this all is, that the proper inflection on a Dalish word is nearly enough to break her down. She manages not to embarrass herself too much, though, only swallowing past a thick throat, as she carefully sits up, and accepts the bowl of broth.

“Mother Giselle says you healed me,” she notes.

Solas inclines his head.

“I was the least exhausted among the capable mages whom Cassandra was willing to trust,” he says.

She drinks more of the broth, to avoid looking directly at him, as she contemplates what to say next.

Much as she would prefer not to say anything about it, if she doesn’t say something, she doesn’t think she will be able to stop fearing the axe dangling over her throat.

“You were probably surprised, when… I mean. You changed my clothes…?”

Solas shifts, slightly, and looks confused for several moments. Before understanding seems to dawn upon him.

“You cannot think… humans ascribe to some odd notions of identity. Dwarves may, too - I fear I have not investigated it much. But if you are worried that I found anything off-putting in your form, then I shall allay your concerns at once. I had more than enough time to observe your figure the first time I healed your injuries, as you lay unconscious in Haven. You are a most fetching woman, in all respects.”

She feels her face heat, and she doesn’t think she can manage a response, as her tongue ties itself into knots over the low, intimate way his voice drops. He offers her a smile. And something in her finally unclenches, easing into a dull ache that’s more in-keeping with the sort caused by her injuries, than with the nameless fear that had haunted her ever since she saw her carefully folded underthings.

It may yet be that the humans would disapprove. But Solas does not. And he will not have seen fit to tell them, she thinks.

After a moment, Solas sighs.

“And it seems you are an inspiring woman, as well. The people here look to you now with a reverence that they have not shown one of our own for an age.”

She takes another drink of her broth, and looks away in discomfort.

“I don’t want that,” she says.

There’s a pause. A sort of pregnant silence, and when she finally looks back towards Solas, the contemplative look on his face has been replaced with something harder to describe. Not pity, not even quite sympathy… perhaps empathy, then. An unexpected sort of understanding.

“It could serve you well,” he says, though. “It could serve all of us. The orb Corypheus used was of elvhen origins. I recognized it - it’s like has not been seen for more than an age, but there are old records which still describe such things. Foci. Ancient elvhen magic. Once that becomes known, then…”

She looks back down at her broth.

“Then we will be blamed,” she concludes.

Solas shifts in place.

“Not necessarily,” he tells her. “You are the key to stopping that. Corypheus is no elf. If his chief foe, on the other hand, is… if you can build the opposition that defeats him, that reclaims the orb and restores it to rightful hands, then the story will become one of triumph and renewal. An ancient item, misused by a magister, but given back into elven hands - responsible hands. It may change things. It may change everything.”

Privately, she thinks he might be overestimating the possible impacts. But she can’t bring herself to say as much. If Solas is being optimistic… maybe her own mood is just too dour.

Still…

“What opposition could I build?” she counters. “We’re lost in the blizzarding mountains, far from my clan. Far from any clan. Keeper Lanaya’s people have moved even further south, and they are the only ones I know of who might be within range. Maybe if I could get back to them, we could work on finding a way to counteract Corypheus’ stolen magic… but I… I don’t even know where to begin.”

She wants to ask him to help. To help get her home. She wants, more than anything, to be among her own people again. People she trusts.

As if reading her thoughts, though, Solas settles a hand atop her own.

“You are not alone here,” he tells her. “That is what I mean. These people look to you as a hero. A leader. You need not return to the Dalish to find what you need. Make it here.”

The look she gives him must be somewhat skeptical, because his fervency increases. His hand feels warm over her own. Softer than she would expect from the hand of a mage and explorer.

She wishes she could turn her palm and twine their fingers together. But she fears it would be too bold.

“There is a place in the mountains,” he tells her. “A place of our people. A place that is waiting for you. Take what is freely offered from those you have inspired. Build an army of those who can, and will fight. You have stood before a would-be god and an archdemon. That is the stuff of legends. If you must become a legend to win this battle… then all that remains is to decide if it is a battle worthy of the cost.”

Her stomach is twisting again. Only know she can’t tell if it’s nerves or butterflies, or both. Or if the broth just isn’t settling right. No dignity for the injured, she supposes. She closes her eyes and sets the bowl down, and tries to think past the nervous hammering of her heart.

“You have a lot of faith in me,” she says, uncertainly.

Solas chuckles, just a bit wryly.

“You did just survive what should have been unsurvivable,” he tells her. “But I should confess, I still do not wish to lose this fight. And I still believe you are the best chance of winning it. Truly.”

Another moment, and she lets out a breath; and reluctantly sits up a bit straighter. Outside, the wind howls. It reminds her of the wolves she had followed to the camp grounds. The ice that she can still feel on her bones - even now, sitting next to a warm fire. This may well be the death of her. But…

He may have a point.

“There is a place?” she repeats.

“A place that will, I think, serve you well,” he promises.

#trans lavellan #solavellan

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