#would you rather be beaten to death by a truck with a hundred eyes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stargaze-issei · 4 years

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— "𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞" (𝐛. 𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭; when your father, the head of the japanese mafia, was killed, your childhood friend swore to protect you till his death. now, you're the empress of the underground world, and he doesn't know what's harder, to keep you safe or manage to hide his feelings. what will he do when, for the first time, your life's at risk and he isn't anywhere near?

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞; mafia!au, angst.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; swearing, mentions of blood, guns, murder, kidnap, yk... mafia stuff.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭; 2.7k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; lemme know if u want a part two bc i felt like it was getting too long and i don't know if anyone will read it or like it 👉🏻👈🏻

"where the fuck are you?" bakugou's voice stroke over the phone, noticeably angry. he had told you several times to never go anywhere without him, which you mostly did, if it weren't for him being away a lot of times. nothing less was expected from your right hand, who handled every dirty job, and considering your line of work, it wasn't scarce. but you did had other bodyguards, just as trained as katsuki, willing to give their lifes for you, which was extremely better than having bakugou giving his life.

to his eyes, you were still the little girl from before. he saw you as a someone who needed protection. at first, you agreed. your father was murdered, someone managed to get through all his security and killed him, none of the guns he and his security team carried around could protect him, killing you would be like stealing a sweet from a baby. bakugou had always kept you safe, despite his agressive usual safe, he cared about you more than he cared for himself. so you stuck to his side, believing, hoping, he'd die for you. but that was a long time ago, now, you could defend yourself, and had raised a sense of loyalty in your people by your own. your father's empire was based in fear, yours? by admiration. you didn't see your people as working ants, but as important parts of a whole. still, anyone who was a threat to you, bakugou made sure to erase them forever.

"don't talk to me like that, i'm your boss" you could feel him losing his shit, a smile began to form in your face. even when everyone respected you, he was still the same.

"you can't boss anyone if you're fucking dead, you dumb shit" a laugh came out of your throat, he couldn't avoid smiling at the sound "wait, oh, okay, i know we're you are. stay there, i'll be in three" he hung up before you could reply.

you looked back, at one of your guards who was just putting away his phone. of course they told him. why couldn't you go get your own coffee? being in the office all day was tiring, to be five minutes outside was all you asked for. a few seconds after, they handed you your coffee, obviously, a guard had to try it first, in case that barista wanted to suddenly murder you. of course he didn't.

"who let her go outside without me knowing, huh?" a furious katsuki appeared through the door, making a scene in the place. you gave him a warning look. if there was something you hated, was that. everyone in the area knew who you were, but why make it any more obvious. those people were just living their usual lifes, and people tend to get nervous around you. "the car is waiting outside" he understood, but you knew he was going to scold you anyways.

you walked outside, smiling, and got into the car, followed by katsuki and one of his subordinates, the other one got in the front sit, next to the driver.

"save it, i'm n–"

"the fuck you are" he cut you "your safety is my responsibility, if i say you can't go out without me, then you fucking don't. specially not when there are people after your head" there was no denying he was right, but still, it upset you.

"there's always people after my head, bakugou".

two weeks ago, two men went into your office. they were in charge of some dealing territories, though small, important. most contraband had to pass those places, you controlled those police departments making everything easier to your truck drivers. they were beaten, cover in blood and barely standing.

"our men, all of them... they all..." only one of them could talk, the other being too shocked to even look at you. "kazuhito's men, it was them... they said we had to tell you, they're coming after you" you couldn't show any fear in front of your so called soldiers, and your template remained at ease. a shout was enough to get those men the help they needed, after holding their hands, you promised to go see them once they were checked by doctors. you called bakugou as soon as they left, he was the first who should know and help you decide what to do next.

the kazuhito family had always been rivals, enemies of the worst kind. everyone suspect they were behind your father's assassination, but with no proof, even you knew it would be the biggest mistake to charge against them, despite your personal desires.

"i already told the drivers they had to take rout b for a while, but we can't let them just keep what's our" you explained to katsuki once he arrived. "those drugs have to get in town by us, damnit". it was clear how frustrated you were, those assholes had mess with your and your father's hardwork.

"if we retaliate, a war will unchain. your father tried to avoid that for years"

"and see how he ended up" bakugou didn't know if it was the anger, or you talking. "we will lose everyone's respect if we don't do something, they killed dozens of our people, katsuki".

he was trying hard to stay objective in that situation, but it was near impossible. a war would put you in more danger than ever, your life was at stake, and bakugou wasn't sure if he was willing to risk it. growing up by your side, your father taking him in when his parents died, you were his only family. more than that, he loved you. the only reason he was able to do his job right, was the fear of losing you. your head was already valued in millions, how could he protect you in the middle of a conflict, that would end only with your death or the kazuhito's leader's death? your power was bigger than theirs by little, but they did something that reckless, which meant they thought they had out powered you. had they? or were they just bluffing? had they miscalculated?.

"we're taking action, wether you support me or not" you looked into each other's eyes, you knew him enough to understand his fear, just not the reason behind it. your voice softened "but i'd much rather do it with you by my side".

"you're the boss" he spoke, already regretting it "i'll schedule a meeting so the high charges let everyone else know, i'm staying at your place so we can trace a plan".

and there you were now, being reprimanded by bakugou. he was extremely tired, he decided to stay with you until things were calmer, which could be several months from then. getting up at six a.m, going to sleep past midnight, being always looking for possible threats, it had given him bags under his eyes.

"i'm sorry" you said once you were alone with him, it was only then that you could let your guard down "i'm making this harder for you".

"yeah, you are. but it's my job, after all" that came out wrong, he thought. it wasn't his job, it was his fucking life purpose. he wanted you to live a long, happy life, as hard as it seemed.

"i guess it is" deep down, his response disappointed you.

"hey, look at me" out of nowhere, his body was insanely close to yours, you felt his breath in your face as he lifted your chin with his finger "there's nothing i wouldn't do for you, got that, dumbass?"

for a brief moment, the taste of his lips was all you could think about. i bet they're soft. but as fast as it started, it was over, katsuki pulled away harshly, inventing an excuse to leave. he had flown too close to the sun, so close that it burned his skin.

a few more people went to see you that day, asking for diverse permissions, advice and stuff like that. since it had been slow, compared to other times, you decided to home early. a call to your team, and the car was already outside. bakugou left instructions for your departure, because he had things to do somewhere else, much to his displeasure. you were accompanied by your escorts to the doors of the building, that seemed like a normal office compound. there were waiting two other guards, making a total of six people protecting you. way to go, bakugou.

"how's your wife, ryota?" you asked the driver. of course, not everyone fitted in the same car, so you got into the second one, middle seat, between a built up woman and a big man. you tried to remember everyone's name, but it was difficult.

"she's good, ma'am, sends her regards" he smiled at you over the mirror.

"and the baby? he must be a month old, right?" at the memory of his child, his face lightened "you should take some days off, i bet your wife and son miss you"

"i have a duty with you, m–" a loud impact interrupted him, the front glass had exploded. the car had an abrupt movement back and forward, all you could see was blood, everywhere.

the woman next to you took her gun out, in order to protect you , you thought, completely wrong. before everyone could react to her act, she shot the guard in front of you. you looked at your side, searching for someone alive, the same bullet that had killed ryota was in the guard's at your right forehead. besides you , the only other person was that woman. if she hadn't glasses on, that stare could've seen throughout your soul. then you remembered, katsuki made you bare with a knife under your sleeve. with a weird move, you felt its sharpness against your skin, it was there, but she read you like a book. before you could even pull it out, another shot stroke followed by a intense pain in you thight. the bitch had shot you. you blamed it on the adrenaline, because nothing hurt. what happened after was a couple of blurry images in your memory.

bakugou had called you more than a hundred times, you, the drivers, the guards, everyone in his fucking team, but no one knew anything. the cameras at your house never showed you arriving, your phone's location was off. he was out of his head, if he didn't hear from you in the next five minutes, someone's going to die. he rushed into his car, following your rout at a dangerous speed.

both cars were full of bullet holes, and every guard he had hired was dead. there wasn't a place without blood. tears of pure rage came to his eyes, fuck, it was his fault. he started to look for you, but the whole world was spinning around him. where were you? where was your body? were you alive?, this couldn't be happening. he had left you unprotected, alone, and now you could be dead, because of his uselessness. his phone vibrated in his pocket.

"sir, we– we have– the kazuhito's are here" he left as fast as he came. they had touch you, they had taken you away from him, and he wasn't going to let them get away with it, even if he had to go against a whole army, whoever was behind it all was going to pay.

a man in a suit was sitting in the chair of your office, smoking a cigarette, as calm as a rock. katsuki was so close to rip his head of right there, that somebody had to hold him down. his own people updated him, saying that he had gone into the building alone, with no weapons of any kind, not even a cellphone.

"where the fuck is she?" he crashed his hand against the desk.

"ah, mr. bakugou, please take a se–"

"tell me where she is right now if you want to keep your head, fucking bastard" his hand had wondered to the tip of the gun in his belt, menacing to blow up at any second.

"you won't do that, mr., if i don't return to my people in one hour, she'll be so fucked up that not even you will recognize her" a laugh surge grom bakugou, a dark, cold laugh.

"i don't have to kill you, then" one of the man's hand rested in the desk, like asking for katsuki to rip it off his body. as you did, he also carried knifes under his shirt. in less than a second, one of them was buried into the man's hand. he screamed, both in shock and pain, giving your bodyguard a hatred look. "what do you want, shitface?"

"i-it's quite simple, actually" his face was white as paper, and even though he wanted to talk normally, his voice shivered "we want you to take over the y/l/n's business, under our command of course" he let out a sigh, trying to keep his composure and ignoring his bleeding hand "if you– if you agree, she will have to leave japan and never..."

bakugou won't agree to that. not now and not ever. to give away what you and your father built from scratch, and spent decades keeping safe, was like killing your child, and your father's memory. to send you away, alone, where he most likely won't see you again in years, was also off the table. it wasn't funny anymore. he started walking around the man's chair, picking up his sleeves. he checked the clock in the office, he had forty-five minutes with the man, meaning, forty-five minutes to make him talk. he ressourced to every fast interrogation method he knew. the people outside the door weren't surprised when they heard the man's screams, even wondering what had taken so long for the boss to start acting. katsuki was never a patient man. his senses were blocked, he couldn't hear anything but screams and begging, all his eyes could see was pain through all the man's body, his hands felt nothing but warm blood. but for the first time in a while, he wasn't enjoying it. he was doing it out of need, the need to save you. every minute that went by, was a minute were your life risked. he never felt so close to losing his sanity.

"outside the city! she's in one of our safe houses outside the city! i don't know which, please stop!" ten minutes before the timeline he finally gave up. your intelligence had all their safe houses, storages, garages, every location needed. not a second passed when one of yours men delivered a map with all the points marked. there were five in total.

"throw him outside in ten minutes" he shouted, walking to the armory "two teams, six people each, my fucking people, hear me? now, dammit! we're leaving in a minute, if i have to go by my fucking self, i'll do it"

when he was armed to the teeth, almost a dozen of people followed him outside. they were his most trusted men and women, being trained together, he knew they were as skilled as him, and they were all willing to put their life's at stake for you, their boss. in the car, bakugou barked the instructions. he had narrowed it down to two possible locations with all the information he had. if they had to kill every person in those places, then be it. he's going to get you back.

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ussgallifrey · 4 years

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America's Suitehearts

✦ Summary: Life on the run rarely lived up to the glamour that was portrayed.

✦ Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

✦ Warnings: Minor violence, basic medical procedures

✦ Word Count: 3.5k

The mission went south almost immediately after the doors to the abandoned warehouse were opened. Life on the run rarely afforded the luxuries of such insurance as having readily available back-up. And while one half of the team remained in the public eye - or under house arrest in two cases - you valiantly remained at his side. And that was the Achilles heel of the situation.

Louisiana summer rained down with a vengeance that a New York upbringing left you rather unprepared for. The open windows of the beater truck - with its broken air conditioning, of course - drove over the hazy black-top rivers of backcountry vastness. Kicking up dust and rocks as it sped through empty farmland. Natasha and Sam had dipped over to New Mexico for intel while you remained at his side.

And you certainly hadn't planned on anything happening in their absence - hoping to reclaim a moment of reprieve, if you will, between running and fighting and clawing to survive. But between the diner off the main road and the blatantly out-of-place men congregating in the corner booth, his mind had easily been made up.

Scarfing down the greasy breakfast behind a low baseball cap. Your legs propped up on his lap under the table. Swirling the straw through the ice water - droplets forming on the side of the glass and running down your finger as you glanced up at your companion behind hooded eyes. Sugar-sweet syrup coating the tongue that poked out to swipe your lips.

His demeanor gave nothing away, though he was clearly listening in on their conversation - super-hearing comes in handy more often than not. And with the group abruptly leaving, it only took a moment to throw some crumpled-up dollars down and head to the door.

Under the pretense of looking at travel brochures and carefully displayed pies under the fingerprint-smeared glass case, you were able to follow the car's path. With enough distance put in place, you hopped in the passenger seat and took off after them. The ride was silent outside of the steady thrum of the tires and occasional creak of the engine.

Words, conversations, long heartfelt declarations were rare and far in-between these days. There was no need, let alone time for them. If the split hadn't happened, maybe you would be on a date in the park. Hands looped around his waist as he drove through the streets of the city on his motorcycle. Lounging happily on the plush couch at the compound with the rest of the team.

But that wasn't your life anymore.

And he felt that guilt every day with it. Despite your reassurances those first few weeks, the wall had slowly slipped in place. Now, almost a year into this vagrant nomadic lifestyle, it was rare to see that golden-haired man you had first fallen for. Summer love and cherry-sweet as innocent touches and flirtations grew. Turned to magma, gunpowder, tantalizingly ice-cold bitter love.

His stoicism hides the grief well. The guilt that eats away at him each night, with a burn only you can soothe with feather-light fingers on his brow and lips. Occasionally his gaze will be drawn from the road to you and then you might see the spark in his eyes, but only for a flash of a moment. A hand might dare to squeeze your thigh, but not much else.

Darling, sweetheart, babydoll. Puppy dog love, teasing cautious going steady cupcake baby love. No more.

Before this, he would have demanded a larger team for the mission. But now, now he was reckless. Even where you were concerned, despite his best intentions. And with no shield to his name, it was even more disturbing to witness. The fearless charge of Icarus and Ares. Out for blood and flying too close to the sun, to a death, he seemed to welcome more often than naught.

The sure thing, across all lines of low-level criminals, is their repetitive nature. Barely ready guards at the entrance easily pushed aside. The next, startled shouting and untrained shooting. It doesn't take much to disarm them at this point, not with all the practice you've had lately. Even tiresome in some regards. How boring, only AR-15s? Surely, even these guys could manage something more interesting - something more challenging.

And of course, after wading through a group of guards, there's the split option. Left or right, up or down. Either way will lead to something of value - their boss or their goods. Sometimes illegal arms, sometimes drugs, and the worst of times people.

This is not one of those times, luckily. He takes the upper floor on a hunch of finding the man in charge. And you descend the rickety metal steps to the basement without so much as a spare glance each other's way. There'll be time for that later, in a motel off the beaten path, bandaging each other up, trading long kisses and reassuring caresses.

Under flickering caged lights, you find the cargo. Spilling over, barely contained or organized. Three pallets in total, probably worth a pretty penny to a crime lord higher up on the food chain.

An easy anonymous tip to local authorities will have it cleared up by the weekend as most cases went for you these days.

Barely subtle footsteps have you pivoting and ducking a badly thrown punch. The guard stumbles with the momentum of his swing, at least a hundred and fifty pounds of muscle on you. But you're quick on your feet in comparison, darting around him in such a way as to wear him down. Any punch you deliver will be worthless on his mass anyway.

He lunges forward, trying to sweep you up into his arms. You jump onto his forearm and wrap yourself around his back, arms going tight around his neck as you settle on his broad shoulders. The guard flails, trying to bring you down, but you just hold tight.

This leads to you being pounded into a wall. And somehow, he has enough air left to fumble for a broken off pipe, which he then tries to hit you with but to little avail.

Finally, he succumbs and slowly collapses forward onto the dirty concrete floor with a heavy thud. Standing with a stretch, you feel the bruises already forming and hope to god that that'll be the worst of it. Giving the unconscious man a kick in the head for good measure, you're ready to wrap this up and meet up with your partner when you hear it.

A distant little puff of air. Followed by creaking and groaning and then -

You run for the stairs as the illuminated hallway starts to cave in from the explosion. The walls crumble and break as the dust flies Your heart races with adrenaline as you slide towards the metal staircase, only for it to collapse in a heap of rusted iron. Who the hell has a self-destruct button anyway? It was almost comical. And maybe you'd laugh and scoff if the roof and upper floors weren't starting to fall down.

As sheets of metal and concrete cascade in an ungodly horror, bits of wires and metal and wood coming down on top of you, blinding your sight with clouds of debris. You scramble, coughing and hacking, trying to find your way as quickly as possible. If you can make it to the doorframe, a support beam. If you can just -

"Agh," you gasp, only to struggle to even cough.

You can't see anything and your chest aches, you can't breathe and you're struggling, you can't - oh, it hurts. It hurts so damn bad.

Asses, goddammit, remember your training.

Unable to see, feeling trapped under a heavy blanket of darkness, you reach out, only to immediately come in contact with something solid. You try to push, with your hands, with your chest, and even with your legs - but nothing happens besides a sharp shot of pain. Burning like molten metal as it sears through your arm. Traveling right through your veins, screaming ahead like a locomotive before colliding with your brain as fireworks and shrapnel explode behind your eyes.

You try to call out, but it feels like you have a mouthful of dirt. Spitting furiously, you finally manage to croak out, "St-eve."

Hoping, praying that he's okay, that he can hear you at all.

"Steve!" Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Concrete crumbles and breaks off in the distance, something muffled and far away. A sense of being underwater, at the bottom of the ocean. Drowning, down down down. And then -

"Sweetheart?!"

Your senses flood with relief, head falling back to the ground as you attempt to scream back, "Steve!"

Sheetrock and slabs of concrete are pulled and thrown until a halo of sunlight breaks through the darkness. You shield your eyes from the onslaught as a sigh of relief catches your attention. Carefully squinting against the light, his face comes into view. Bloodied and bruised. Blue eyes shining with something desperate and wide with terror.

"Just a second, baby. Almost got you."

He grunts and heaves until he's down at your side. And from there, he pushes against the slab that has you pinned down. Groan turning to a feral scream as he shoves the broken-off piece of flooring from your aching body.

And then he's kneeling at your side, assessing the damage. Fingers tracing your face with absolute fear.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he crumbles with a drop of broad shoulders, head bowed in anger. But not at you - never at you.

"Hey, Cap," you manage with a weak smile. Your mouth stings with iron - thick and heavy as it coats your tongue.

He resigns himself with a nod, hands moving under your head and legs as he lifts you up - cradling you carefully against his chest.

You hack and wheeze as more debris flies, filling the air with clouds of dust. It stings your senses, blinds your vision even further.

Steve tucks your head in closer to his chest, "Come on, baby. Let's get you out of here."

The journey to the truck is a complete blur. But the wail of sirens in the distance spurs him on as he floors the gas. Your head jostles roughly against the window as the smoldering warehouse disappears in a plume of smoke in the mirror.

And then you notice the hand holding yours. Fingers entwined, resting on your leg. Gaze traveling up the dirty arm, past the open cuts, to the concerned face of your love. Eyes focused on the road, but every ounce of fear still gracing his features.

From there, things get even hazier. There's a voice in your ear. But it's distant and far too insistent. The dark seems welcoming and easier, tugging you down into the depths of unconsciousness. Into the void where even nightmares can't reach you.

"Hnnng."

You feel immediate agitation as you try to snuggle further into the pillow. Another tug on your arm has you groaning, but it's quickly followed by a sudden yelp as your eyes shoot open and you struggle to sit up.

"The fuck was - what are you doing?!"

Steve eyes you carefully before giving a gentle push on your shoulder, forcing you back down onto the bed.

"Stay still," he murmurs. Gathering the rag in his hand as he gently blots at the festering wound on your left arm. One you hadn't really had the chance to notice earlier.

You watch him, methodical in his movements. All of you were, unfortunately, rather used to home-nursing by now. Evac wasn't an option on your table anymore. The best you could do sometimes was a bottle of whiskey and a makeshift tourniquet until a real professional could be sought out. Not that you minded when it was you, of course. But being on the other end, watching the one you love being treated? It was a completely different battlefield.

"What happened?" Your voice comes out sluggish and rough.

Blue eyes briefly meet yours before dabbing the rag in Isopropyl alcohol and continuing on with the deep cut. Hands moving slowly, feather-light as you wince from the sting.

"Homemade bomb."

You grind your teeth before managing, "No shit?"

A sliver of a smirk appears. And then you spot the needle in his hand.

"Oh, come on. How bad is it - "

Sitting up to bring your arm into view - oh, yeah. It was that bad. Without another word, you lie back down.

He's efficient, you'll give him that. Suturing like a pro, tying it off in a small knot before dropping a kiss to the untouched skin right next to the stitches.

As he moves on to other, far smaller cuts and bruises, you're able to take in the room. Another motel, another day. Bright orange walls with grungy white popcorn ceilings. And you swear the picture by the bathroom was in a place you stayed at three weeks back as well.

"Where are we?"

He doesn't even look up from where he's examining your ankle, "Thirteen miles from the Texas border."

Giving a little nod, "You made good time."

Your foot is carefully lowered onto a stack of folded white towels, elevated enough where it isn't uncomfortable. And then he's moving up your body, hovering above you with hands positioned on either side of your head.

"Well," he starts. "I had precious cargo."

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, "Still cheesy. I appreciate it in these trying times."

His eyes flicker with something reminiscent of easier times. "Thought you would."

Warm lips, chapped lips, scabbed over and still holding a hint of blood, meet together. Careful, veering on gentle. Desperation slowly slips in. Fear bubbling up from the mission rears its head as Steve takes the lead in deepening the kiss. Tongue darting out to pull the pain from you. Mingling and twirling with your own. Hands eager and ready to roam and claim. But as you go to reach up to his hair, a sharp inhale has you reeling.

The welcomed weight and warmth of his body is gone in an instant as he sits up, carefully holding your arm in the palm of his calloused hand.

He studies it for a moment, "Wasn't sure if it was - " a slight pull has you wincing with a wave of pain.

Sitting back, Steve rubs at the back of his head, " You, uh, wanna take a shower?"

Strong and demanding gives way to strangely innocent at the mention of you being unclothed. But you take it in stride. Beckoning him back with your good hand.

"Only if you help me, Captain."

In simpler days, it was fun. Something exciting and bold and downright erotic. Now, it's convenience and comfort. Slipping out of torn and bloodied clothes, easing pants down and toeing off boots. Watching each other undress down to the barest of forms. The shapes and grooves never change. The injuries do, spackling the skin in strange new patterns.

Steve, as always, looks worse for wear underneath his civvies. He'll heal by tomorrow, where you'll have a nice limp for a few more days. A sling for much longer.

He gets the water going. The old faucet groans and creaks as a dribble of water trickles out. The shower pressure isn't right, but it's hot and he's there helping you into the tiny white tub. Holding you steady by the waist as he takes the first burst of water.

You let your good hand wander up to ruffle his hair - so much longer than you had ever seen before. It grows dark under the pelt of the showerhead. Droplets cascade along the edges of his face, dripping down his beard, before landing on your nose.

He takes great pleasure in the feel of your hand on his scalp. Working a lather in with the complimentary soap, digging your fingers in to get the remaining dirt and debris from his golden mane.

His head dips back into the stream. Your fingers travel down, following the bulge of shoulder and bicep. The swell of forearm, the broad plain of chest. And then you're spun around and a wave of pleasure falls over you with the spray of water.

A bottle uncaps and then strong fingers are easing their way through your hair. Gently pulling and pushing and digging a lather in. Your head falls to his chest as he holds you against him. Soapy hands press in along your back, easing the aches of the mission from your body. Leaving a trail of kisses along your shoulders.

You linger as long as the water allows. And then Steve's helping you back out onto the cold white tile floor. Carefully drying your body down with the scratchy towels. He does a quick dry for himself before scooping you up and carrying you back into the main room. You feel lightheaded by the action.

Another version of yourself might have blushed. Another version of Steve would have found the entire thing downright scandalous to be walking around like that. Completely naked with his girl in his arms. My how the times had changed. As if this was the most daring thing you'd done together.

He pulls the sheets back on the bed before setting you down. The comforter, which had a few fresh bloodstains mixed in with the hideous floral green print, is quickly rolled down. With your back against the headboard, Steve props your right leg back up on a pillow. Fingers careful and light trace the smooth skin of your bare leg. Lips press down on your knee, calf, the top of your foot, trying to ease that pain in the way only a lover can.

Steve momentarily gets up in search of his duffle bag. A bit of rummaging produces the roll of bandages and medical tape. The entire experience of watching your partner wrap your ankle is something that just warms your very soul. It's so incredibly domestic and sweet. Domestic for you two, that is.

Your arm will have to wait. He'll, no doubt, be making a supply run after you fall asleep. Some quick meals, a sling, more condoms. Definitely more of those.

He finishes with a kiss to the fresh wrapping. Sliding down the bed, pulling the pillows with you to rest your head on, Steve moves in beside you - pulling the covers with him.

It's still early enough in the night for the setting sun to break through the white vertical blinds. You leave the TV off for the meantime. Mr. Serious will be keeping a more watchful eye as you recover and therefore will force himself to stay away from the news (in your presence, anyway).

The thrumming AC is welcome in the humid room. Between the lingering heat from the shower and the near-constant furnace temperature radiating from Steve. The sheets are crisp and cool, the twinges of pain fade as the comfort of having him right there, holding, caressing, bringing you down.

"'m sorry," he admits with a whisper against your neck, nose nuzzled in tight.

Your fingers glide slowly up and down the forearm draped across your stomach, "Hush. I'm not accepting apologies for things out of your control right now."

You can feel his eyes open, he's probably trying to stare you down, but you remain happily in the dark of your closed eyelids.

"Sweetheart," it's deep and throaty, a heavy husk of gruffness trying to break the spell.

There's a quick pinch to his arm and a following hiss of displeasure.

He's unrelenting in his unending self-guilt, so you force your eyes open and catch the worried sea of blue.

"I mean it, Steven. You're gonna give me a headache. So, can you just shut up and hold me?"

It's like an order. And he only takes them from one person now, so he obliges. Framing his body around you, but being mindful of your elevated foot and pained arm.

You can't stand to see him so stuck in his own neverending thoughts, the worry sits right on his brow for all to see. With your right hand, you drag a fingertip over his cheek. Along the curve of his lips, the rough hair of his beard. The damp mane of gold deserves the carding of your fingers. He relaxes into it, the tight stretch of lines ease on his face as you feel the thrum of his heart.

It's comforting as always. It sings, I'm here and I'm not leaving you. For now, it's something to focus on. Something to draw you down into the heavy drape of sleep. He'll be here when you wake, probably fully healed too. But he'll watch after you, care for you until it's time to move on. Another city, another mission.

But it's just the way your lives run now. And you wouldn't trade it for anything. So, with the warm musk of your golden hero love settling in, you allow yourself the luxury of falling asleep in his arms.

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jilyyall · 4 years

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Animal Magnetism - Ch 9.

Edward Cullen was not a normal teenager; of that I was certain. But knowing that did nothing to stop the pull I felt towards him. And if what he was saying was any indication, he felt some strange pull towards me, too. It was like we were magnets struggling against hope to stay apart. I only wondered what would happen when we inevitably collided.

Chapter 9. Iron Will. FANFICTION.NET / AO3 Intro/1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10/11/12/

I took my time showering, dressing, and brushing my hair the next morning, trying to avoid my parents until they both left so that I didn't have to endure more questions about the mysterious Edward who drove me home. I ran out the front door maybe two minutes after I heard Renee's car pull out of the driveway, my truck key in hand.

And stopped, heart hammering in the damp air that promised rain momentarily, when I saw a silver Volvo where Renee usually parked. In the blink of an eye, Edward was outside and holding the passenger door open for me.

"Would you like a ride to school?" he asked. He was watching me carefully like he was worried I would have changed my mind about being near him, alone with him, in the last ten hours and thirty-two minutes.

"Yes. Thank you," I said, and walked over to him, trying my best to exude confidence even though I knew he could hear my heart hammering.

I brushed by him, closer than was strictly necessary, and slid into the car. He closed the door softly and instantaneously was sitting next to me, looking at me with that same expression he had when he'd done the same thing in Port Angeles.

"You're not going to scare me off with that," I informed him as I buckled my seat belt.

"I could scare you," he said with a thoughtful frown.

"I'm sure you're capable," I allowed, and shrugged. "But it doesn't make a difference to me."

"Yes, I remember," he said. "As it happens, I like being able to be myself around you."

For some odd reason, it sounded like he was frustrated. With me for not running away screaming? Very likely. With himself for not wanting to hide who he really was from me? Well, that seemed pretty likely as well, given what I knew of his personality and considering the several warnings he had given me that I would be better to stay away from him.

"You were going to tell me how your family was formed," I reminded him as he turned the key in the ignition.

He talked me through it, speaking quietly, carefully, as if expecting it to suddenly become too much.

"Carlisle found me dying of the Spanish Influenza in the summer of 1918 in Chicago. He was lonely, you see, after so long on his own, and had been considering making a companion for himself since he was having no luck finding one. He had treated my parents, but wasn't able to cure them. My mother… it was her dying wish that Carlisle save me. He saw something in me – I think I was especially perceptive even then, and he could see it. He was fond of me, so when it was clear to him that there was no saving me conventionally, he took me from the hospital – it wasn't hard to hide, so many bodies everywhere – and he changed me."

"I still, to this day, don't understand how he was able to stop from feeding on me. Mine was his first taste of human blood. I don't know how he's managed it, but in almost half a millennium, Carlisle has never fed on a human."

Half a millennium? I bit my lip, thinking of the young, attractive small town doctor, and trying to reconcile him with someone almost five hundred years old. It didn't seem possible, but how could I doubt Edward now?

"Do you remember it all from your own perspective? Or are they Carlisle's memories you have?" I wondered aloud.

"Some of both. I don't remember my human life very clearly, as I said last night, only small details that seemed important to hold onto. I remember even less from when I was dying. The fever was so intense…" he said, and I saw his grip on the steering wheel tighten. "Mostly, I just remember the pain."

"The pain? Of being ill?" I asked.

"No." He sighed and turned to look at me as he guided the car to a smooth stop at a red light. "The bite, and the subsequent transformation. It's days of agony, burning as the venom spreads through the body until the heart stops. And then, a different sort of burning when you wake."

"Hot iron down the throat?" I guessed, recalling the description from the night before.

"Something like that," he said with a wry smile, and his gaze flickered over me.

"Wait," I said, horrified. "Is it more painful now, with me? Even more painful than when you first woke up?"

"In some ways," he said, and shrugged. "When you first wake, it's different. It's… primal… the urge to feed… there's no fighting it. There's no caging the monster in. There is only the call of blood. Now, it's different. My body and my mind and my heart are constantly at war around you. You're lucky I'm a very stubborn being, Bella."

It was silent for a moment, one of those silences where I knew Edward was just waiting for my reaction. I looked at him, right in his eyes. "What about the others? How did they come along?"

He sighed and shook his head and I knew I hadn't given him the reaction he'd expected, the one he felt he deserved. Horror, I guessed. Or maybe repulsion.

"Esme was next. She fell from a cliff and was on the verge of death. He'd treated her in the hospital before, years earlier, had affection for her, and she for him. He couldn't bear the thought of her dying, so he changed her. They've been married for nearly a century."

"Then Rosalie. She was beaten and left for dead in the street. He brought her home and changed her. It was only two years later she found Emmett being mauled by a bear in Tennessee. She carried him more than a hundred miles back to Carlisle and begged him to change him for her. The amount of restraint she showed only two years after her own change was astonishing. To be able to resist all that blood when she was covered in it? It's not a simple thing, but she felt something for him and she knew he was going to be important to her."

"Did you see that in her mind?" I asked curiously. Somehow, I couldn't imagine Rosalie Hale sitting and talking with Edward about her feelings. But what did I know? I only saw the façade they put on at school. For all I knew, she was warm and inviting at home, and the stoic intimidating exterior in public was just a ruse.

"Yes. She used to be very annoyed with me that I could hear everything she was thinking," he told me. "She would try to block me out, but it didn't always work very well."

"And now?" I asked.

"There are no secrets in my family now. They are all free with their thoughts around me," Edward said, and scowled. "Too free, sometimes."

"You can't control it?" I asked. What must it be like to constantly have everyone else's thoughts in his mind when he didn't want them?

"I've learned to tune it out at times," Edward said dismissively. "In a crowd, it's almost like background noise. It's more difficult for me to tune out my family, though. The more familiar I am with someone, the stronger the connection."

"It must be terribly inconvenient," I said.

"Yes, it can be," he said, but he didn't sound inconvenienced. He'd clearly made his peace with the fact that he could so rarely enjoy true solitude. "They've each learned their own way of temporarily hiding their thoughts. Except for Emmett, who's never bothered to try. He's very open and honest and he doesn't see the point of trying to hide anything from me when I'll just find out anyway."

It all sounded very fascinating, and I wanted so badly to learn more about their family dynamic, but first I had to finish the story of how his family came together. "What about Alice and Jasper? You said they came together and found the rest of you."

"Yes. Jasper was changed when he was serving as a soldier in the Civil War, almost sixty years before me. He didn't have the same upbringing as the rest of us. He fed only on humans until he and Alice found each other in 1948. She helped him learn how to curb his instinct to kill humans, to control it after nearly a century of feeding on humans."

"Is that why he always looks like he's in pain?" I asked.

"It's part of it," Edward said. "It's more difficult for him to curb his nature. He struggles more than the rest of us."

"Why do you do it?" If it was so difficult, why did they bother to deny their instincts?

"We… have a fondness for humanity," Edward said slowly. "We respect the living; we see the people rather than the prey. And we don't… we don't want to be monsters."

"I don't think you're a monster, Edward," I said quietly. He looked dubious, as if he didn't quite believe me, but he didn't argue. "What's Alice's story?"

"She doesn't know," Edward answered. "She doesn't remember anything before she woke in the dark."

"Nothing?" I asked.

"All she remembers is waking up alone in 1920. She stayed that way until she and Jasper found each other, nearly thirty years later," Edward said gravely. "They haven't been apart since."

I pictured the smallest of the Cullens: flitting, pixie-like, fragile. Of course, that was just her appearance; I knew she wasn't defenseless, wasn't as harmless as she looked. All the same, I couldn't imagine the pain and loneliness she must have suffered waiting so long for her soulmate.

"It's so sad," I whispered, my voice breaking. I wondered, then, if it had been like that for Edward: lonely and sad. What was it like to be surrounded by happy couples, soulmates, to hear the force of their love in your mind, and have no one to share it with? I felt tears welling hot in my eyes and blinked quickly, swiping at a single errant tear. Embarrassed, I looked at Edward to see that he was staring at me again in stunned disbelief.

"Yes, it is," he agreed after a moment, his voice very gentle in the quiet space between us.

I realized that the car was no longer moving; we had arrived at school and parked close to the middle of the lot while he was speaking. There was a soft tapping on the hood of the car; the heavy clouds had finally produced the promised rain.

"Do you want your jacket back?" I said, feeling awkward; he was still watching me with that almost awestruck expression. I was wearing his jacket again, in part because I only had the one suitable jacket I'd left in Mike's car the night before, and partly because I'd been planning to return it to him as soon as I'd seen him anyway. That, and I couldn't get enough of the smell.

"No, Bella," he said softly, and there was something strange in his eyes. Hunger, I thought with a flush, but not the dangerous kind. "It actually serves its purpose on you."

He leaned over the center console, just like he had last night, and pressed his face to my neck and inhaled deeply again.

"Not that I mind," I said breathlessly as he began to run his nose along my jawline, just like he had done in Port Angeles. "But why do you do that? Doesn't it hurt you?"

"Yes," he murmured in my ear, but he didn't pull away. "It's enjoyable, though. And necessary. Think of it as if… I'm desensitizing."

He pulled away with a small, wicked smile. "That, and I like the way your heart races."

"Well," I said, swallowing thickly. He was still so close, his amber eyes inches from mine. I wanted him closer still. "I'm happy to help you desensitize. Feel free to continue."

"As much as I would love to – and, believe me, I would love to," he laughed ruefully, shaking his head, and then gestured out the window to indicate the full parking lot, "we have an audience, and they think we're doing something very different."

"Oh," I said, looking around in horror. I made eye contact with a couple walking in front of the car; the girl averted her gaze quickly, giggling to her boyfriend. I groaned. "Great."

"Are you ready?" Edward asked, reaching for the handle of his door.

"I guess." I sighed, though. I really didn't want to leave the confines of his car. I wished more than anything else that we could be alone again. I just had so many more questions for him.

Edward met me as I stepped out of the car, moving at a normal human pace, and shut the door for me. When he reached to take my books from me, I stepped back.

"What are you doing?"

He quirked an eyebrow, but otherwise didn't acknowledge my discomfort, taking the strap of my bag and sliding it off my shoulder.

"Bella," he said in a long-suffering voice. "Before the end of first period, everyone in this school is going to hear how we were just making out in my car. How would I look if I didn't even carry your books for you after that?"

"But, we weren't," I hissed, hurrying to catch up to him when he turned to walk across the lot.

"Would you like to tell them that, then?" Edward said. I could see the upward quirk of his lips; he knew I wouldn't say anything to anyone. "Besides, what we were actually doing is, in truth, much more scandalous. I'm only trying to preserve my reputation as a gentleman."

"It isn't 1918 anymore, Edward. You're being ridiculous," I said, then shook my head. I knew I wasn't going to win this one. "But, if I just think of it as protecting your reputation, I can bear it."

"I appreciate that. It's very noble of you," Edward teased.

I was aware of all of the eyes on us, but I couldn't find it in myself to care too much. I enjoyed being around Edward more than I hated the attention that came with it.

"Hey, where are the others? You usually drive them," I said, suddenly struck by the realization that his siblings were nowhere to be found.

He nodded to a bright red convertible on the other side of the parking lot. "Rosalie drove today."

"What does your family think about all this?" I asked. I knew I didn't have to explain that I meant us.

He was silent for a while. We were almost to the awning people usually crowded under when it was raining by the time he answered.

"Most of my siblings think I'm being irresponsible," he said carefully. "You have to understand that the entire family will be implicated if this ends badly. My parents just want me to be happy, so they're willing to support me in whatever decision I make."

"Is there something you haven't decided?" I asked very quietly. He had said I won't ever hurt you, Bella last night, and he'd said it more than once, so I was confident that he wasn't still deciding whether or not to kill me. What more was there?

"No, Bella," he answered. "I've made up my mind."

I still didn't think he was talking about the murder and blood drinking, but I knew it wasn't the time or place to push for clarification. "You said, most of your siblings?" I said instead.

"Yes," he said, his eyes narrowing in thought, like he was deciding how much to tell me. "Alice is very supportive."

"She is?" I said, surprised. I had never had any contact with any of the Cullens other than Edward and Dr. Cullen. I couldn't think of any good reason for his sister to like me, though I did remember her smiling at me the other day at lunch. "Why?"

"Alice can be strange sometimes," Edward said, still carefully choosing his words with a frown, and I remembered we couldn't speak freely here, not with so many people around. "She thinks you two will be the best of friends."

He glanced sideways at me, and smiled ruefully at what I was sure was the shocked expression on my face. "She has good reason," he added.

I filed that away for future clarification.

"Morning, Bella!" I looked up at Jessica's call to see her and Mike standing just ahead, under the awning several feet back from the light rain. Mike had my jacket folded over his arm.

"Hey, guys," I said when Edward and I drew level with them.

"Here," Mike said, handing me my jacket with a frown. "I thought you might need this."

"Thanks, Mike. You're a lifesaver," I said, swapping jackets as quickly as I could. Edward inclined his head when I handed him his jacket with a soft, "Thank you."

"Well, we'll leave you two to it," Jessica said with a sidelong glance at Edward. She gave me an expectant look that Edward pretended not to notice.

"See you in government, Bella," Mike said with a grumpy scowl.

"Yeah, sure," I agreed.

Edward chuckled when they walked away, stepping closer to me and lowering his voice. "She's planning to ambush you in Trigonometry."

"Yeah, I figured," I said with a sigh, then studied him speculatively. "What does she want to know?"

"She wants to know if we're secretly dating, or if we're just hooking up," he said at once. Then, after the briefest hesitation, "And if I'm a good kisser."

"But…" I stopped, and looked at him in panic. I didn't know any of the answers, except that we definitely were not hooking up. "What do I tell her?"

"I suppose you could tell her we're dating, if you don't mind. I think it would be easier than the alternative, since we'll be spending so much time together anyway," he said, grasping the handle of the door to the English building and holding the door for me.

"I don't mind," I said, then peered up at him shyly as we stopped outside my classroom. "I mean, it's kind of the truth… Isn't it?"

He looked at me with such tenderness, and stroked a single long-fingered hand through my hair. "Yes, Bella. You're right," he murmured, and then turned and began to walk away.

"Wait," I said, glancing warily at the people walking through the hallway. "What about that other thing?"

"Well, Bella, I'm afraid you're on your own with that one" he said, pausing at the door to give me a taunting wink. "But I'll be curious to hear how you handle it."

And then he was gone, leaving me to endure English class with Eric moping in the corner, and then Government with Mike shooting me furtive, sidelong glances. I knew he wanted to talk to me, probably to try to discourage me from seeing Edward anymore, but I was too preoccupied with the upcoming ambush to care.

Jessica was waiting for me outside of building six after my government class. It was a testament to how eager she was for gossip that she barely spared Mike a greeting before she hooked her arm through mine and practically dragged me along towards building five, and our Trigonometry class.

"Spill," she said as soon as Mike was out of earshot.

"About what?" I asked reluctantly.

"Did you plan to meet up with Edward last night? What happened after you left us? Did you hook up? Are you guys dating? Is he your boyfriend? Is he a good kisser?" She fired questions off rapid-fire so that my head was spinning by the time we walked into our classroom.

"Um," I said once I sat down. "No, I had no idea he was going to be there. I was as surprised to see him as the rest of you were."

"Why did he come? Just to see you? Just because he knew you would be there?" she demanded, leaning across the aisle to whisper so that we couldn't easily be overheard.

I shrugged awkwardly and tucked my hair behind my ear, acutely aware that Edward would be paying close attention to Jessica's thoughts.

"I… yeah, I guess so," I stammered. "We just went outside to talk… only to talk. And he gave me his jacket because I was cold."

"Because you left your jacket in Mike's car," Jessica said with a nod. "Did he really just take you home after? Or did you go somewhere else?"

"Well he was concerned that I hadn't eaten since breakfast, so we stopped at that Italian restaurant near the theatre."

"Oh, how thoughtful," Jessica said. "So, are you planning to hang out again? Are you guys, like, a thing?"

"Y-yeah, I… I guess," I said, ducking beneath my desk to rummage through my bag for my notebook and pencil. It was a pretty obvious attempt to hide my blush, I thought, but Jessica wasn't the most observant person, and I could only hope it hadn't registered in her thoughts. "He's driving me to Seattle next Saturday."

"Oh… But you guys should go to the dance!" Jessica protested.

"No, definitely not," I said, shaking my head firmly. "I don't surf, and I don't dance. Trust me, it's for the best."

"I bet Edward can dance," she said dreamily. "Rich kids go through classes like that all the time."

"I bet he can." I doubted if there was anything he couldn't do.

"Have you met his family yet? Has he met your parents? Has your dad pulled the Police Chief card and scared the crap out of him?"

"I've only met his dad. Dr. Cullen treated me after the almost accident," I reminded her. "Apparently, though, he thinks I'll get along well with Alice. He hasn't met my parents, but something tells me even the Chief won't scare him."

Jessica snorted softly. "I wonder if he'll pull the whole cleaning his gun routine when it happens."

Thankfully, class started just then, affording me a short reprieve from her questions. Of course, the second the bell rang she was at my side with more.

"Well?" she said impatiently, as if I had failed to answer a question she had asked two seconds ago, not an hour ago. At my blank look, she made a 'tsk'ing noise and lowered her voice to a hiss in my ear again. "Is he a good kisser?"

"Oh." I bit my lip, and hugged my books to my chest, thinking over my options carefully. She just assumed that we had kissed; I figured it was weirder for me to say that we hadn't, but I wasn't confident in my ability to lie to her. I decided on some semblance of the truth. "Um, you know… it's really embarrassing, actually, but every time he comes near me, much less touches me, I feel like I'm about to pass out."

Jessica giggled. "W-o-w," she said, drawing it out into a three-syllable word.

"Anyway," I said, quickly taking advantage of her silence as we approached our Spanish classroom. "Bring me up to speed on what happened after I left last night. You and Mike are looking pretty cozy."

"I know, right?" She squealed, her brown curls bouncing on her shoulders. "He dropped me off after everybody else even though Angela lives closer to him, and he kissed me!"

"That's awesome, Jess," I said with a genuine smile. It seemed Mike had taken what I'd said to heart, and had decided to leap into it with Jessica.

"Yeah, I mean, I didn't almost pass out or anything," she said, rolling her eyes playfully. "But it was really nice!"

"Are you guys going out again before the dance, or what?" I asked.

"I think he wants to go see another movie this weekend. A slasher flick this time," she said. "Oh, you and Edward should come!"

I pursed my lips in an awkward smile as I slid into my seat. "I don't know, Jess." I shrugged and reached into my bag for a pen. "Mike really doesn't seem to like Edward."

"Whatever, he'll get over it." She rolled her eyes. "I don't think any of the guys here like any the Cullen boys. It's just because they're all super hot, though. Don't worry about it."

We took our seats in Spanish just as the bell rang and I was relieved, for once, when Mrs. Goff announced a pop quiz. Next to me, Jessica groaned with the rest of the class.

"Who gives a pop quiz on a Monday? Seriously messed up. Anyway, are you having lunch with Edward again?" Jessica asked me as we started putting our books away after class. She paused, staring at something out the window. Turning, I saw Edward standing under a tree, looking at me. Jessica laughed breathlessly next to me. "I guess that's my answer. I'll see you in Gym."

By the time I stepped into the drizzle outside, he was standing there at the door with an amused smile. Once again, he took my book bag without preamble. "How did it go?"

I glowered at him and didn't answer; he already knew, of course. Hadn't he basically told me he would be listening in on Jessica's thoughts? He laughed at me as we started walking to the cafeteria and the mesmerizing sound made it difficult to feel awkward about the stares we were getting again.

"You nearly faint whenever I get too close to you?" He held open the door to the cafeteria with a smirk.

"Please. Like you didn't already know that." Following him into the line, I rolled my eyes. Then, in a truly terrible impression of his smooth, melodic teasing earlier in the car: "I like the way your heart races."

He took a lunch tray, slanting an almost nervous look down at me. "Are you annoyed with me already?"

"No," I assured him, eyeing the tremendous amount of food he piled onto the tray dubiously. He couldn't honestly expect me to eat all of that. "What? Half's for you?"

"Of course," he said with a wink for me, and a smile for the lunch lady as he paid her. She stared after him when he turned away; even middle-aged women weren't immune to his charm, I realized with a small smirk as I followed him.

He sat at the end of the same long, half-occupied table we'd shared the week before, but this time I chose to sit in the seat next to him. I worried my proximity would alarm him, but he moved his chair closer still, so close that our arms would brush each time I reached for something from the tray. I wanted to ask him so many questions, but I was worried that we would be easily overheard. Correctly guessing the reason for my hesitation, he smiled softly and angled his body toward me, leaning in.

"The other students here aren't as curious as you," he reminded me. "Besides, it's incredibly difficult to be overheard in a noisy, crowded lunch room. We can talk."

"Is it difficult for you to pretend to be just like any other person?" I asked quietly.

"In what way?" Edward said. He leaned his opposite forearm against the table, and his torso hunched slightly as he leaned towards me. We looked, I was sure, very secretive, but I figured most people would likely attribute it to new love.

"Physically, I mean. Like your speed. I know you said last night that you hate going slow, but is it difficult for you to move at a more … normal pace, for lack of a better term?" I clarified. "And the strength. I know you're capable of massive shows of strength. Are you, I don't know, concentrating really hard right now not to crush that?"

I gestured to his hands. He was fiddling absently with my empty soda bottle.

"Regarding the speed," he began slowly, pausing when someone walked behind us, "it's not difficult, per se, to move at a normal pace. It's just boring. And the strength?"

In a flash, the bottle was a ball of plastic no bigger than a golf ball. He smiled at me and set it down on table between us.

"It's very easy to do things like this, and like … other things you've seen," he said cryptically as a boy I recognized from my Gym class walked in front of us. I knew he was referring to the day he'd stopped the van from crushing me. "But it's not difficult to handle delicate things. Your hand, for instance."

He reached over and took my hand in his, slid his fingers through mine smoothly. I marveled at the bold contact – he'd been fairly careful not to touch me too much last night. He turned our hands over so mine was resting on top of his on the table.

"I could very easily crush every bone in your hand, if I wanted," Edward said with a quick flash of a grin. "But it's not that I have to try not to hurt you in that way, it's that I would have to consciously expend the effort. Do you understand?"

I nodded. It wasn't like the bloodlust where he was focused nonstop on not killing me. He was like a regular boy in respect to his strength, unless he actively chose not to be. "Is it difficult right now? In the other way?"

He smiled serenely and shook his head. "No, Bella. Or, I should say, no more than I can handle."

"Is it… normal? The, um, the effect I have on you?" I said hesitantly. "Is it very strong like this, very often?"

He frowned, his eyes narrowing with some sort of internal debate. Finally, he sighed, and shook his head. "While not unheard of, it isn't common," he told me, speaking so quietly I had to strain to hear him. "Occasionally, there will be one person who is particularly enticing, but I've never heard of it being this strong before."

"Has it ever happened to you?" I asked. I hadn't yet asked him if he'd always followed his family's way of life, but it was on my list. I just wasn't sure how to word it, or how comfortable he would be discussing it. Something he had said in the car earlier made me suspect that he hadn't always had such a strong will, hadn't always rejected human blood.

I don't know how he's managed it, but in almost half a millennium, Carlisle has never fed on a human.

"No," he said. "But to Emmett. Twice, when he was still fairly new. Once stronger than the other, but nothing like this." He danced his long fingers lightly along the wrist of the hand he was holding, right over the veins there. "He tried, but ... couldn't resist. He's the youngest of us, it's more difficult."

Over his shoulder, I saw his siblings at their usual table. They weren't looking at us, but that didn't mean they weren't aware. Alice and Rosalie were on one side of the table with an untouched apple and a banana in front of them as they looked at their boyfriends... husbands? Across from them, Emmett and Jasper were playing a very ordinary-looking game of paper football on the tabletop. Shocked by the normalcy of the scene, I turned to Edward. "Can they hear us now?"

"Yes, they're listening," he said, watching me closely. "Does it bother you?"

I thought about it. Did it bother me to know that anything I ever said could be overheard? I didn't want to hide anything from Edward, and I wanted his family to know that they could trust me with their secrets. I couldn't lie to myself and deny that it was strange, knowing that I could only be certain I had privacy if I wasn't speaking, but nothing had changed. For the two months I'd been here, every conversation I'd ever had could have been overheard by any of the Cullens.

I shook my head, and shrugged. "It is what it is. It's the world I live in now."

Rosalie Hale turned suddenly, and glared at me so harshly that I flinched. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, but in that moment, her face was the stuff of nightmares. Edward stiffened and his free hand curled into a fist on the table between us. He scowled and hissed a low warning under his breath without looking up. Casually, Rosalie turned her head back to the other Cullens and shifted back into the ordinary illusion with ease.

"I'm sorry about her," he murmured and I remembered he had said that his siblings, save Alice, weren't very happy he was spending time with me so publicly.

"It's okay." I shrugged, but I was shaken. She'd looked so angry, almost as terrifying as Edward had been that first day. Now, looking at him sitting so calmly beside me, it seemed like a lifetime ago I'd been certain he wanted me dead. "I get it. This isn't just dangerous for me."

"I'm not going to lose this battle," he vowed quietly, and I knew he said it for his family's benefit, and maybe even his own, as much as mine. "I couldn't survive it if I did. Not after knowing you."

"That iron will of yours," I murmured.

"I get it from my father," Edward joked, and I knew he referred to Carlisle.

FFN/AO3

#twilight fanfiction #twilight renaissance #edward x bella #bella x edward #edward cullen #bella swan #i forgot to post these here again oops

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prorevenge · 7 years

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They made him kill his horse.

long story. TL;DR at the end

This is a story that my grandfather liked to tell. It's kind of long, and I can't say if it's true, but it seems to fit the very old and cantankerous guy I knew, who never, ever let a grudge go. I mean, in the 1980s and 90s, he would sometimes go and yell at Democratic candidates for office, because Woodrow Wilson had made him fight in WW1.

The story actually starts with that, kind of. You see, Grampa immigrated to the US early enough that the first election he could vote in, he voted for Teddy Roosevelt. Wilson won, though, and then he ran for reelection under the slogan "He Kept Us Out of the War." Which seemed like a good platform, so my grandfather voted for Wilson. Few months after that, he got us into the war, and a few months after that, my grandfather was in the trenches somewhere in France.

He was so mad about that. When he was a hundred and four years old, and I was a kid, he was so mad about that. He'd come to the US to get away from the Czar, and now that son of bitch Wilson drafted him to fight on the same side as the Czar? My grandfather made regular donations to the NAACP, because Woodrow Wilson was a racist, and he hated Woodrow Wilson.

Issues with the politics aside, the war itself was not a lot of fun. Grampa came back with a lot fewer friends than when he'd left. First thing after the war was to take all the medals and pins and ribbons and whatever they'd given him for that war in cardboard box. Then he took a shit in that box, then he lit the box on fire, and dropped the flaming box into the Gowanus Canal. So, it wasn't really a bright point in his life. Also, he came back with a problem with authority in general. As he put it, "Someone tells you to go run at a machine gun. And you do it. Then you get cut up by barbed wire, and a machine gun shoots at you, and kills half the people who listened to that idiot. Makes you think twice about doing what someone says. For the rest of your life, it makes you think twice about doing what someone says."

Which, you know. Fair enough. Only that attitude made it hard for Grampa to hold down a job. The 1920s went okay, but then you got the Great Depression, which was not a great time to be a mentally troubled veteran with problems with authority. My grandfather was living in Brownsville, a slum out in Brooklyn, and he was a junkman. He had a cart, which he'd take around the neighborhood, buying and selling crap, picking up stuff that people had thrown out, fixing what he could, collecting scrap metal and selling it. Since there wasn't any point in going fast, and since this wasn't exactly a well paying profession, the cart was pulled by a horse, rather than by a truck.

Now, at this point, a few more characters enter the picture. I'm going to call them the McAnally family, even though that wasn't their name, because they were Catholic boys from Northern Ireland, and because I think that McAnally is a funny name. Jimmy McAnally, and his younger brothers Paddy and Joe.

It wasn't a particularly great time to move to Brooklyn, but it wasn't like Northern Ireland was doing that much better. Also, Jimmy had been involved in the politics of Northern Ireland, and had attracted the attention of the local authorities both because of his republican leanings, and because of the way he'd set fire to the shops of people who did not donate sufficiently to the republican cause. And he'd also attracted some ire from the republican side of the aisle as well, because of the way he'd keep most of the donations that he'd collected on their behalf.

Now Brooklyn was the place for him to be, because there he had the advantage of having cousins involved in the labor rackets down on the docks, and in other activities of that sort. So Jimmy, along with his younger brothers, got themselves a place in Carnarsie, right near the edge of Brownsville, and settled into their new digs.

Because of Jimmy's connections, people let Paddy and Joe get away with whatever they wanted to, for fear of getting shot. And Paddy and Joe were the sort of kids who took advantage of that. At the time, Carnarsie was a dismal wasteland (it still is) but there were bars and candystores and windows to break in Brownsville. Also, there was a junkman's horse they could steal, to ride around on at night, and leave him abandoned on a streetcorner, tired and shaking. Well, that was what happened the first two time. Third time, they broke the horse's leg.

Now, I didn't know that horse. But I knew my grandfather, and my grandfather loved that horse. Sixty years later, he had a picture of that horse, and you could see how much he missed that horse when he looked at that picture. My grandfather liked my grandmother, didn't mind my mom, and tolerated me. But he loved that horse. And he was the one who found him, with the broken leg, and he was the one who had to put the horse out of its misery. He had an easier time talking about the battle of Soissons than about having to kill his horse.

I'm pretty sure that if it wasn't for my mom and gramma, he'd have just gone after those kids, and beaten them to death. Paddy and Joe didn't even pretend that they weren't the ones that'd stolen the horse; he'd heard them bragging about it. But he couldn't; the Great Depression wasn't a great time for veterans with authority problems, but it was a worse time for windows and orphans, or folks who's father or husband was up in Sing-sing, waiting to go to the electric chair. So, okay. He also couldn't replace the horse, at least not right away. But he could do some of the same job with a pushcart. And he could keep an eye on the McAnallys, and wait for an opportunity.

That opportunity came when they were hanging out at a streetcorner, and Mrs. Strauss walked by. Among his many, many, many other grudges, my grandfather hated Mrs. Strauss. So, he went over to Paddy and Joe, and started up a conversation. No hard feelings about the horse. Boys will be boys, right? Only, well. Some people wouldn't understand. They weren't from the neighborhood. Like Mrs. Strauss, there, who'd moved uptown, and lived in a nice apartment on the East Side. You take something from her, why, she'd call the police on you, just like that!

Which meant that he'd just told the young McAnallys not to do something, which meant that they were going to do it. Next time Mrs. Strauss came down to Brownsville to visit her family there, Paddy and Joe jumped her, knocked her down, and took her jewelry. Which was expensive jewelry, which her son had bought for her.

Now, the reason that my grandfather had a grudge against Mrs. Strauss was the way she came down with a nice dress, and fancy jewelry and acted like she was better than everyone else. But the only reason she had all that was because her son Harry "Pittsburgh Phil" Strauss gave it to her. And why should she put on airs, considering what her son was doing?

Harry Strauss, aka Pep Strauss, aka Pittsburgh Phil was probably the most prolific hitman in American history. Working under the orders of Lepke Buchalter and Albert Anastasia, Strauss was the top assassin in Murder Inc., and probably killed somewhere between a hundred and five hundred people. And those young rapscallions Paddy and Joe McAnally had just knocked down his mother, and stolen the jewelry he'd given her.

My grandfather was not there when Paddy and Joe brought the jewelry to their brother, so that he could hock it for them. But it seems that he did not entirely approve of what they'd done, once he'd figured out what they'd done. Shitting themselves mightily, the whole McAnally clan fucked right back off to Londonderry, not even stopping to go back home. Which meant that when a well-meaning passerby happened to take all the stuff they'd left behind, he found enough money in their house that he could afford to replace his horse, and a little extra besides.

That's where my grandfather's story ends. I'm sure the McAnallys were all fine; both the IRA and the British probably would've let bygones be bygones, and when WWII rolled around, young men of Paddy and Joe's age had all sorts of exciting opportunities both at home and abroad. But they didn't show up again in Brownsville, and I hope they learned a valuable lesson about stealing a guy's horse and then making him kill it.

TL;DR: Brooklyn. (source) (story by UnshornDiergar)

#pro revenge #by UnshornDiergar #prorevenge #pro revenge stories #revenge stories #pro #revenge

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fatgirlwritesscenarios · 7 years

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One Last Prayer Pt. 2

((Since there was such positive feedback for that last request, and further requests for a part two, I went ahead and wrote one out! Honestly, I’m glad people wanted some kind of closure, because it was killing me to leave it like it was. I hope you all enjoy the finale! Thank you!))

Pairing: JihoonxReader

Genre: Angst/Fluff

Word Count: 2,041

Summary: It was so peaceful where you were. Things were so much better. It was beautiful…but why was Jihoon crying?

Part 1: Here

Everything felt so…good. Your mind was clear, your senses heightened, your spirit at ease. When you opened your eyes, you saw the sky. It was the kind of blue you had only ever read about in books, seen in your imagination when the real thing couldn’t be materialized in your reality. There were cotton candy pink clouds drifting by, lulling you into security and happiness.

Everything felt so good. Everything felt so peaceful…but where were you? And why did it feel like you were bobbing and rocking back and forth?

You heard the gentle lap of water and the quiet creak of wood. Sitting up, you found yourself sitting in a little boat, just big enough for you. It was drifting in the middle of a peaceful river that was lined on both sides by great green trees, the current too weak to move your craft. Attached to the hull of the boat, keeping it from drifting away, was a long rope tied to the end of a dock.

‘Where am I? What is this place?’ you thought to yourself curiously, not the least bit afraid to find yourself in this strange, beautiful place.

Vibrant, delicate flowers floated past you in the water, their sweet perfume drifting over you. You leaned your hand out to catch one, a bright pink with petals velvet soft. You cradled it in your hands tenderly, suddenly reminded of someone very important, very special to you.

“You remind me of an incredible person with hair the same pink as you. He pulls it off very well,” you whispered to the flower, your smile serene.

“Y/N…”

You looked up when you heard your name, eyes landing on the dock to see a shock of pink hair. A man stood there, rather short and slim in frame. His beautiful slanted eyes stared at you, his pink lips parting and calling your name. You smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back.

“Jihoon,” you whispered, holding the flower out towards him in both hands, “Look…isn’t it beautiful? There are hundreds of them. Probably thousands.”

“Y/N…Please…”

You blinked, noting the desperation in his voice. You stared harder at him, noticing now how he was leaning forward on the very edge of the dock, calling for you, trying to reach you without falling in.

“Y/N, please…come back…” his voice echoed.

You tilted your head to the side, careless smile spreading to your lips, “Come back? But I don’t want to. It’s so nice here.”

‘Wherever here is,’ you thought secondly, ‘How did I get here, anyway?’

“Don’t leave me. Stay with me.”

“But it’s really nice here.”

“Y/N…” The sun glimmered off of the tears trailing down his cheeks and you frowned, shaking your head.

“Oh, Jihoon, why are you crying? It’s so peaceful here! I thought you would like that since you’re always saying you never get any peace.” The river’s current began to grown a little stronger, tugging on the boat, pulling it away little by little from the dock. The rope began to strain, trying to hold on to you. You didn’t notice it starting to unfurl in the middle, barely hanging on by a thread.

Jihoon was still crying, but the sound of his voice started to grow quieter. “Y/N, don’t leave! Come back! Don’t leave me!”

“But I like it here, Jihoon.” You cradled the pink flower to your chest, right against your heart steadily beating.

“Y/N, please!”

“There’s no fear or sadness or regret. It’s perfect. It’s happy.”

“Please!”

“I want to stay.”

“Please!” His knees hit the dock as he fell down, screaming and holding his hand out to you, “Don’t leave!”

The rope was on its last thread and Jihoon’s voice sounded like nothing more than a whisper of pain. ‘I want to stay…’ you thought to yourself, Jihoon’s face contorting into unimaginable pain just as the rope snapped and the boat started drifting away, ‘but I hate seeing you cry more.’

The flower fluttered from your hand and the boat rocked violently as you splashed into the river water, hand reaching for the rope.

Jihoon felt his very life crumbling around him, standing back as multiple nurses and your surgeon rushed into the room. Just minutes ago, Jihoon had been ripped from a fitful sleep by your convulsing and the sound of your heart monitor beeping erratically. He had been lulled into a false sense of security when it reached 8 AM and you had survived that first terrible night after the accident. You had beaten the odds…so he thought. Now, the heart monitor was shrieking as it flatlined and the hospital staff rushed to bring you back.

They shocked you with the defibrillators. Once…Twice…A final third time, but still, the heart monitor’s shriek did not change. Jihoon felt his fragile soul shattering as the sound carried on, the nurses and doctor standing around, regret filling their expressions. The doctor placed down the metal pads and sighed forlornly.

“That’s it. I’m calling it,” he said solemnly, Jihoon shaking his head, praying that this was just one long, terrible nightmare, “Time of death…8:27 AM.”

“No…Please…No…” Jihoon said, voice cracking and his shaky legs moving him forward towards you, “Try again…You have…You have to try again.”

“I’m sorry, son. She’s gone,” the doctor replied, practically blowing a hole in Jihoon’s chest with those two little words.

“No…Jagi, no…” He fell on top of you, his ear pressed to your chest as his arms caged around your waist. He felt so weak, so hopeless. “Y/N, please…please don’t go. Come back. I’m begging you, come back.”

He hugged you fiercely, sobbing into your hospital gown while the nurses and doctor watched. They knew better than to try and remove him right now. He needed this time…he needed to grieve.

“Y/N, I love you. I love you, Y/N, I love you. I love you,” he chanted, rising just enough to press a final kiss to your lips, crying all the harder when you didn’t kiss him back and laying his head back on your chest.

Ba-bump.

He froze.

Ba-bump.

Did he just hear..? Was he imagining it?

Ba-bump.

The heart monitor beeped.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

One. Two. Three.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

All of a sudden, you gasped for air and started choking, struggling to breathe. The nurses rushed forward, removing the oxygen tube that had been inserted down your throat. The doctor checked the other machines, pushing Jihoon out of the way.

“Blood pressure rising…heart rate steadying…brain activity slowly returning to normal,” he read off, noting how you were better able to breathe on your own, “It’s a miracle…she’s alive.”

Your eyes fluttered for a few seconds, struggling to open. Your lips moved slowly, trying to speak, but mouth feeling incredibly dry. A nurse brought over a wet washcloth and held it to your lips, giving you some water.

“Ji…hoon…” you croaked and the man’s heart leaped up into his throat.

“Y/N…” he whispered, pushing his way past the nurses to your side and staring down at you, afraid to blink, afraid that if he did, he would lose you again, “Y/N…”

“Ji…hoon…” you said again, the man falling into hysterical relief, his arms wrapping around you.

“Y/N! Thank God, Y/N!” he cried into your head, kissing your cheeks, forehead, nose and lips, “You came back to me!”

“I…heard…you…” you struggled to say, fighting to put him into focus, your vision blurry, “You…called…me…”

“I called you. I cried for you. I begged for you…and you came back,” he responded, “Thank you, Jagi. Thank you for not leaving me. I love you.”

“…Love…you…too…” You lifted your right hand as far as you could and patted his back, Jihoon sobbing harder into your neck while the hospital staff watched on, making sure you were stabilized and sighing in relief that they were alright.

*~*~*~*~*

Another three weeks go by before you’re allowed to leave the hospital with a relatively clean bill of health, meaning that you were no longer on the cusp of death. Bit by bit, the bruises had faded into something less frightening and the pain was manageable…with enough medication. You would still be rocking the casts on your left arm and right leg for another few months, but you could now heal at home…no more degrading sponge baths.

Jihoon hardly left your side for those entire three weeks, doing what work absolutely needed to be done right there in the hospital while the rest of the boys continued with their schedules, stopping by as often as they could to visit you as well. The shorter male felt some form of guilt for having to push back Seventeen’s comeback, but he would do that 100 times over before leaving you alone. You were going to be his #1 priority now; he wouldn’t make the same devastating mistake twice.

“Are you ready to go home, Y/N?” Jihoon asked, packing away your clothes as you sat up on the bed, fully dressed and happy.

“I’ve been ready. These hospital beds are not comfortable,” you answered, idly rubbing your back, “I’m sure you’re happy to be out of here, too, hehehe.”

He grinned and leaned forward to press a kiss against your mouth, “I’m just happy that you’re feeling better.”

You hummed and smiled as he gave you another kiss…and then another…and then another, this one longer. You slid your hand onto his shoulder once the kiss deepened, Jihoon catching it and holding your palm to his cheek. He gazed into your eyes, sorrow and regret flashing in his own. You had seen that look many times over the past three weeks; became quite familiar with it. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck and tugged him forward, kissing him once more.

“Stop blaming yourself,” you told him, “What happened is not your fault. None of it is your fault. If nothing else, it was that truck driver’s fault. He was the one texting and driving and ran a red light.”

He allowed a small smile to grace his features which you kissed again. “I’m fine, now, Jihoon. I’m alive and I’m here. I’m not going anywhere any time soon.”

“You better not. I refuse to lose you again.” He nipped your lips and you giggled, nuzzling your nose against his.

“It’s time to go, Ms. Y/L/N,” a nurse announced as she walked in, rolling a wheelchair with her and interrupting the moment you and Jihoon were having, “You have been discharged. We gave your medication to your parents and they’re waiting in the lobby. Let me help you down.”

“I got her,” Jihoon said, already sliding his arm underneath your knees and lifting you up from the bed.

You squealed and giggled, the nurse helping Jihoon to at least place you down gently into the chair, “Look at you, Mr. Strong Man.”

He blushed, but smiled that crescent moon, all-dimples smile of his that always made you melt. He placed your bag in your lap and then stepped behind you to wheel you out of the room.

“I know you guys are finally about to have your comeback and that it’s going to get pretty hectic, but make sure that you take care of yourself, okay? I won’t be able to come by as often to give you snacks or anything, so make sure you eat regularly. Also, get lots of rest when you’re able to. Don’t push yourself too hard and don’t worry yourself over me, I’ll be fine. You just focus on doing your best, okay?” you lectured him, Jihoon chuckling at you and your worry, “I’m serious, Jihoon. I know how you get.”

“I know, Jagi, and I promise to take care of myself.” He paused in the middle of the hall and leaned over, kissing your cheek gently, “Thank you for worrying about me, but you just need to focus on getting better. For me.”

“I will,” you answered, receiving a smile in return.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too. Always,” you replied, grinning as he continued to push you down the hall, the both of you turning the corner to find your parents and all of Seventeen waiting for you in the waiting room, gifts, bears and balloons at the ready.

#Seventeen #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #jihoon #jihoon scenarios #jihoon imagines #woozi #woozi scenarios #woozi imagines

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ratherhavetheblues · 6 years

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CLAIRE DENIS’ WHITE MATERIAL “Nothing’s mine. But I’m in charge.”

Sometimes it pays to be ridiculously late. Years ago, I saw two or three of the films of Claire Denis, and wrote them off (figuratively) as overwrought, Grand Guignol melodramas pertaining to the outrageous predations upon Africans. Failing to heed the well-known predilection of auteurs to sermonize bullshit about their efforts seeing eye-to-eye with politically correct dullards, I left that hidden and unbeknownst treasure to pursue the singularities of quite untrammeled sensibility within the wheelhouses of the likes of Wong Kar Wai, for instance (his, Happy Together [1997], recently posted).

Having also been a latecomer to the skills of Ingmar Bergman, there were notions about Denis’ extremities which began to make much more sense. Since her film, White Material (2010), is copiously woven with the cosmic elements to be seen in Bergman’s, The Seventh Seal (1957), that seems to be a good starting point. It is fearlessness, not salvation, being the essence of Bergman’s work; and it is fearlessness, not foreign aid, of the essence of Denis’ work. Therefore, our first step has to do with our protagonist, Maria, tempting the fates by refusing to get away from the collision of rebel and French colonial militia forces in mid-century Africa. At a road on her coffee plantation she is visited by a hovering French Army helicopter, from which the following one-way dialogue screams: “Madame Vial! The French Army is pulling out! We’re leaving! You’ll be completely cut off! Think it over, Madame Vial! Think of your family… We’re pulling out… You must leave immediately.” Madame Vial swishes away as best she can the reddish soil kicked up by the chopper, which resembles a dinosaur, especially its image as a shadow in flight (a fossil), a commotion whose time has passed in a peculiar way. The retreaters shower down many black containers with the words, “Survival Kit,” prominently inscribed. Maria, after lifting one up, tosses it away contemptuously.

Before that aerial, long-distance event, we are privy to her presence in close-up—a performance carefully defining why (for better or worse) she won’t take orders from French rationality. At the film’s outset she seems at her wits’ end, treading along a dusty rural road. A car approaches and she screams, “Pull over!” Aggrieved and more anxious than ever after that rebuff, she does manage to attend to her shredded emotions. She becomes angry and her gait becomes informed with resolve, a march. Then she swings into a jog which soon becomes a marathon flow. Her panache is tripped up, however, by the appearance along that artery of a truck carrying militiamen sitting rigidly and myopically and failing to notice her crouching in the bush along the road. She resumes her run, now in full stride as if mindful of competition needing to be met with formidable rigor, distinct from that of the semi-professionals seated in that truck. So rhythmic is her take-off, that one might imagine her being a master of tuning discovery to notable power. That her mastery is contingent, though, soon plays out when, having brought her run to a cement highway, she hails by gesture, the screaming silenced, an overloaded bus. “Can I get in?” she asks of the driver. “No,” he declares. “No room.” (And therewith the sinuosity of Joseph and Mary, in The Seventh Seal, joins the search.) Some considerate soul on the roof calls out (to the only white to be found), “Hey, climb up here!” Instinctive composure leads her to prefer staying on a rung of the ladder leading to the overflow (and perhaps an undertow). (A ladder being a place of motion.) “I’ll stay here, thanks…” As the cruise resumes, Maria, in close-up, and shaken, measures what her venture means. One meaning we can well discern is her isolation. Also, without a word, she shows us that she has entered a death-trap. A mountain range in the distance infers that her marathon skills have encountered an impossible terrain. (The name-plate on that back of the vehicle, “Tricolino,” evokes a tripartite situation, one facet of that tripling being the three colors of the French flag [and another facet being synthesis, dialectic, the domain of Bergman, and his theme song of the impossible trick]). That the term is placed in a rather careless art deco font perhaps implies that the rigors of fusion making demands upon her have not been appropriately rendered. But, on the other hand, amidst the rattle and roar of the bus, she claws herself back to equilibrium. Seen in close-up, from the interior of the back-seat window, her face is contorted but her hands are large (remarkable for such a slight figure) and sinuous in gripping the ladder. Seen from outside, she now remarkably presents as an uncanny ease. Her mouth is set, her eyes are calm. A view of her right biceps casts her unmistakably as inured to hard physical labor, having a priority of muscularity (with perhaps scant circumspection). A militia jeep brings the flight to an abrupt halt. Our volatile protagonist becomes a study of terror and defeat. She looks around, frantically. Inside, it’s the French-trained trooper, trained in violent arrogance: “Driver. Papers!” Outside, another grey-uniformed, French-chosen, pulled-out-of-destitution public servant swaggers along the outside of the bus and encounters Madame Vial. He demands, “Where are you going?” She replies, “Home… the coffee plantation further down that way…” Having seen a lot of imperious, gallic, Cartesian dominance in his instructors, he proceeds to enjoy cutting her down, as he, no doubt, had been similarly treated on the road to being an effete prig. “There used to be a roadblock here. Did you ever pay them?” The coffee farmer, feeling bound to give an honest account to avoid a Kafka complication, replies, “Yes, I think I did once…” “How much?” the go-getter dictates. “About a hundred dollars,” is Maria’s admission to the free-lance auditor, with an audience to impress. “To those thugs?” he pretends to be aghast. “No wonder they act above the law!” Maria reasons (not her area of impact), “I had to get through… Everyone pays…” Her prosecutor/ highwayman continues with, “That’s what breeds corruption… Because of people like you, this country is filthy…” The military hero waves the bus through. Before he does, the stung target of his insult jumps into the in-fact-not-full premium seating and chooses a space at the back window. She looks out her new vantage point, and we might—in light of the difficult task of blending, in the air—see her on the hook to bring off an impossible trick of juggling, as posed by Jof, the circus caravan driver, in The Seventh Seal. Does her obsequious question, “Can I sit down, Sir?” account for such a creative move?” All around her, the passengers show fear. What made her smile in that context? On the soundtrack, a low, ringing sound wells up as the raw forest grinds by.

The passage we have just witnessed comprises, in fact, the run-up to the saga’s denouement. Her errant smile—to be distinguished from the valid upswings of her balancing act—locates her en route, her coffee enterprise defunct (her having driven her mutinous crew [“You bewitched us!”], with a gun to her head, to a supposed “survival” zone), to reach the blood-bath at the farm and, like the off-kilter in the bus, machete her venal (and yet considerably sound) father-in-law for having, along with her already shot-dead ex, courtesy of the militia, signed-off the property to the venal, indigenous mayor of a nearby town.

As with the work of Bergman, particularly, The Seventh Seal—in a time of lethal plague and venal scheming—it is Maria’s having entered an arena of sensibility tempering “survival” with hitherto discounted wit and grace, which galvanizes this film. Therefore, the eventuation comes at us not in lineal order, but for the sake of heightening the protagonist’s performance of a priority our world seems to be allergic to. The performance of a pair of medieval and middling jugglers, musicians and clowns (in the film from the distant past) upstages an earnest campaign to gain favor from a powerful dictator seemingly rewarding a binge of personal advantage. They turn that trick by way of momentary “vision,” sensuous disposition offering a perspective upon nature vastly unlike “the real world.”

Thus, cutting away from Maria’s being insulted by the pedestrian, stuff-shirt, venomous African cop, we have, from quite a few days before that bilious bus ride, one of her own moments of “vision.” In close-up, she is at her red-soil property, on her dirt bike, and on top of the world. Her face is ecstatic, her head lifted to the heavens, the wind whipping in her hair, and the ferocious noise of the machine only augments her joy. Though we’ve already seen her having been beaten down (just as Jof was beaten down by the barflies in The Seventh Seal) we can call her an “acrobat” of sorts. Jof, you’ll recall, had hoped their baby boy, Michael, would become an acrobat. But not only that, he was attentive to the boy’s necessity of, beyond a flash in the pan, being a “juggler” (a weaver of disparate initiatives, which he cites for being “one impossible trick”). We receive a long take of her visit to those special sources for her to fly with and thereby become a creative partner. Still in close-up, she lifts her left hand and spreads her fingers in contacting a pure dynamic she conveys to be her homeland. Then the right hand tests the current. It leads our eyes to the branches overhanging the road, now a blur, more motion than matter.

This bracing moment, however, was not without its evil. That cut to before the wheels fell off presents the reddish-haired head and shoulders of Maria from behind; but it could just as well have been her girlish son, Manuel, a teenager, spawned with that Andre she once married and quickly left (but also stayed on , as the only business person on the plantation). (Could there be something called a Californian Frenchman? When Andre uses that bike, it’s Easy Ridertime, also into death, by way of mawkish, sluggish self-adoration.) That Maria has made impressive inroads into creative action is not in question. That her accomplishment is glaringly incomplete—and nowhere more sordid than tolerating, even celebrating, the inertia of Manuel—is also a certainty. And “white material,” with its spray of connotations culminating in the factor of the skill of Maria, is all about having or not having—as with Bergman—what it takes to be a human (to master the “impossible”).

In the course of her seven-day work weeks, she (needing to replenish workers in face of the rebel threats against white enterprises and the questionable militia form of law and order) hires a new crew-boss who tells her of his young daughter being sick. Maria asks what’s wrong, and the new recruit can only say, “She’s in bed. She doesn’t move.” Maria recommends the clinic and he tells her, “It’s too late now.” That could be Manuel. But her self-importance (her competence in the fields being in direct opposition to her parenting) finds her stymied to act upon that responsibility, a stasis not touching the type of juggling being part of her strengths. She falls asleep during her dinner on the patio late one night, the night she brought her crew back to full strength. Her dream concerns a social visit to the mayor, a family man, surprisingly enough (but then his leaning had always been about advantage for the sake of domesticity, and the wider ranges of survival). “He’s [Manuel] grown up,” the host declares. It’s not just that. His mind runs all over the place. He’s become a dog…”/ “Insane,” Maria agrees. (That civic dispenser of blame surfaces as a measure of tone, not narrative progress, in a scene where Andre proposes to sell the farm [insolvent, it turns out to be, despite Maria’s strivings]. The mayor’s little daughter pops up with a bottle of Fanta, her favorite. Stolid sobriety, and infantile fantasy. The world in a nutshell; but not, despite slippage, the world of Maria.) “You botched it with him,” the voice of reason maintains. You didn’t finish the job.” (Very true. But her finish is light years away from his.) She laughs cynically, in face of that defeat.

The “insanity” of Manuel functions here, beyond the display of the protagonist’s dismaying dividedness, as a recurrent amazement to Denis that sadomasochistic rampage flits across the appetites of a tasteless (Fanta-prone) populace. Maria—spurred to do something about Manuel’s sleeping far into the afternoons, by Andre’s new partner declaring that her son from Andre is “different” (superior) to Maria’s sluggish output—forces entry to the bedroom and insists on his showing some sentience. In response he goes to the pool in the yard and floats on his back like a diseased seal. The silent, decisive, self-contained marathoner shrinks to the likes of, “Manuel, get up! How can you sleep all day in bed? I don’t know what to do. You disappoint me… Nothing interests you. You loaf around all day. We can’t talk. It’s like we don’t exist… I’ll send you to France. What happened? I can’t believe you’re my son. Losing a crop is worse than a fire. Letting your self go is the vilest thing a boy can do. It’s loathsome!” After she leaves to take up once again her (relative) success story at the coffee fields, two of the rebel children soldiers now drifting about the property in the absence of direction from their leader, “the Boxer,” mortally wounded and finding sanctuary of sorts in one of the plantation’s out-buildings, come close to harpooning Manuel as he does absolutely nothing but leak incoherent venom. Andre chases them off and pampers the “not different” son. “It’ll be fine, son, you’ll see” [Andre’s counting on the mayor to follow up on the promise of escape in exchange for the business being as delicate and dull as his figurine boy].

The detour through the mayor’s office prepares for the prize-fight imagery to come as further sealing Maria’s darkening fate. Andre’s fatuous rationale to Cherif, the mayor, as to squeezing Maria out of the business and out of the monies left, “I’m protecting her from herself,” comprises a prelude to a spate of cat and mouse. “I’m glad to hear the plantation is worthless. I keep you alive. Without me you’d be rotting on the Garonne” [river, in France]. It’s a nice piece of land, but still, if I add up everything you owe me, I should first of all seize the plantation; and second, kick you out! And you’d still owe me and the government.” To provide additional nightmare, Cherif (almost “Cheri”) points out to Andre his “personal militia,” a group of bath house devotees. When Andre laughs, “Come on, spare me!” the family man/ politician prompt his bodyguards, “Anything to say?” “Yes,” they call out. “What is it?” the cheerleader prompts. “Knock down the rebels,” they chime, and they preposterously assume triumphant gestures.

Andre tells Maria about the close-call at the pool. “Two kids with a machete and spear…” Impassively she replies, “I’ll tell Jean-Marie [a previous crew-boss] tonight.” When the ex persists, “Those two kids were strange, threatening… attacking Manuel,” all she says is, “I’m going” [back to the microcosm and back to squelching the macrocosm]. Those trespassers soon show up again, wandering through the house with their hard eyes, and coming across a print showing medieval soldiers with hard eyes, consigning a “witch” to the stake. (Hello, Mr. Bergman. And your doomed witch and all that jazz, and malignancy, from The Seventh Seal.) Though our protagonist puts up a front that hard eyes mean nothing, her finding interest in the imagery of sadistic persecution reveals that it has, on occasions, anyway, occurred to her that the unfinished business of juggling needs attention. (Andre tries to get through to her that she won’t be able to sell the coffee now. But she cuts him off with, “You’re getting defeatist.”) Manuel is at home and he actually wakes up to see the invasion (though he is too late to see one of them find and pocket Maria’s handgun, salted away amidst her panties). The kids rush out, cackling like chickens, perhaps cock-fight birds. And Manuel, in this regard like his mother, discounts the violence overrunning the moment. Quaffing down an entitlement long past its expiry date, he pursues the primitive cynics. That he pads along, having not thinking that footwear might be necessary, cues up a soundtrack of that growling tone heard earlier. The undisciplined but advantageous squawkers see a new form of combat arising when Manuel cuts his foot. Taking off his jersey to mop up the blood and brush away some of the mud, he limps forward; and his “prey” sees him as an easy prey. Soon a machete is at his throat and Manuel is pushed to his knees. Now, at last, he realizes that the skinny adversaries will enjoy displaying that they are more powerful than he is. One of the illiterate boys cuts off a swatch of the truant’s locks, and then he sniffs the hair he holds in his hand. The arrested spear-thrower runs his hand over Manuel’s would-be bad-ass Gothic tattoos. “Yellow Dog,” the machete- and gun-totter sneers. One of the effectively bad-asses rips off his gold necklace. The machete blade returns to Manuel’s throat as his combat career seems to be at an embarrassing end. A German Luger gets loaded up and both of the black sociopaths shoot into the air while the white sociopath stays petrified on his knees. Manuel’s jersey has become a flag—a red flag of rebellion, but also a white towel of surrender.

This episode has an extension by way of the scuttlebutt hovering around the source of the homicide, namely, “The Boxer,” (who turns out to be crew-boss Jean-Marie’s nephew), and a fan, no doubt of boxer, Mohammed Ali, who performed in Africa at that era. Like “Gaseous Cassius,” he has covered himself with a mystique of superhuman imperviousness to pain and his branding includes nifty murals showing himself always a winner, flexing his muscles as if having just won a fight. (The flexing of Maria’s muscles had been far less focused and yet far more valid.) In contradistinction to the mayor’s “fighters,” babbling about “knocking down” the upstarts, one of those posters persists near the mayor’s bailiwick, a portrait including the supposedly up and coming leader with a red star on his cap—part of the off-shore borrowing by which the self-styled salts of the earth expose themselves to be uninspired. Though the opening moment of the film shows him on is back, having died from a gunshot wound (militia men cautiously enjoying the loss), we come to see in the prequel a stoic but less than heroic fabulousness. His devotees may prate about his invincibility, but we first see him (when alive) hitting the ground (as if by a plague) to avoid a truck full of underlings in the service of the French military, still in control despite rhetoric of liberation and self-determination. On his way to find a hide-out on Maria’s land and Maria’s sheds, he mounts a horse having been wandering on the property, and with his hoody he resembles a medieval soldier, recalling Block and Jons and their baggage, in The Seventh Seal. The plantation church he passes posts a sign, “God Doesn’t Give Up;” also, a cock struts around. Here he is noticed by a fan, and the discovery soon finds its way to the largely tiny army. The adult in charge childishly celebrates, “I knew it! They can’t take him down! If I could meet the Boxer, God could do no more for me! No KO’s!” Then a cut to the Boxer’s bleeding gut. Another cut features Maria calling out to Manuel, “Get up, Manuel, please! I need you!” The bedroom door is locked. Then she goes on to notice one of her sheds unlocked. There she meets the Boxer who is lying down but not as inert as Manuel. She asks, “Are you Jean-Marie’s nephew?” On hearing her guess was right, she asks, “Does he know you’re here?” The nephew (suddenly becoming less than huge), looks to his swollen reputation, by way of, “He’ll be glad to see me” [the awesome celebrity]. She offers him a drink of water and some rice in a bowl. Closely following this hiatus, there is Maria berating the staff for its “pulling out.” “You don’t get it! You let them scare you!” [in the back of her mind she knowing herself to be pretty tough—tougher, more regal, than the Boxer; but, as we well recognize, foolishly, which is to say, weakly, overestimating her strengths]. A pirate radio DJ cuts in, quixotically devoted to reggae, not African music, and he emotes, “Listen to my words, fearless young rascals. The Boxer is back! He’s in hiding. Go find him. Go out there and find him!” Another communique, even more fevered than the last, reads, “Some have walked a hundred miles in search of the Boxer…”

The two little punks, loosely linked to the slipshod “revolution,” had been bright enough—clever in their endless delinquency—to choose restraint in delivering punishment to a victim and thereby avoiding consequential punishment to themselves. The brush with violence had left the clueless Manuel stripped to his underpants and frozen by the danger and humiliation, staring at the unforgiving scrubby turf. Andre comes along, and for the second time sends away the lively incidence of plague. He and the straw-boss provide some clothes, and Maria is nonplussed but not visibly shocked or dismayed (her temperance coinciding with the slipperiness of the punks). She and the paid troubleshooter inspect a hole in the fence. She says, “It’s been like this for months.” Then, after looking for footprints, she declares, “Must be young shepherds…” (That could be an ironic reprise of the rapist-murderers-shepherds, in Bergman’s The Virgin Spring [1960].) Manuel and Andre are card-carrying sheep. But Maria, the centre of gravity here, is much more difficult to assess. Manuel unconvincingly tries to maintain he hurt only his foot. (The assembled burly, balanced and adult breadwinners/ farm hands witnessing the ridiculous coward being given a ride home constitute a silent jury.) Though he soon hops off the truck to get going on a pathetic rehab, he has been captured for us as a rendition of the retarded “witch” in her tumbril, burning by consensus, in The Seventh Seal. As the war and the plantation go up in flames, what remains of Manuel is shown by a quick cut of his head reduced to something close to a scorched potato. For a real rally, there is Jof, in the aforementioned film, having been humiliated by a savage mob; and riding high at the end of the saga. That recurrent, ominous ringing tone during the carriage-trade send-off of Manuel leaves no residue of musicality upon Maria, in pathological denial about weakness needing to be checked, lest sadism prevail. “This is nothing,” she says, of the slip in the field. He is nothing, per se. But he and his ilk are an essential element requiring ruthless alertness.

Having left the truck, the loose cannon rushes home to shave his head, take a shotgun, abuse his step-mother (bound for the encampment without a clue), and joins the children’s army where he is but one of very many slaughtered by the militia in his stone-castle-like home. The optics of his demise are part of a rich study of physicality in a time of protracted presumption, a time where no one—unlike the players, Joseph and Mary, in, The Seventh Seal—devotes sufficient energy to acrobatics and juggling. (In his new provocation of lousy theatre messing with the protagonist’s equilibrium, Manuel coincides somewhat with lousy playwright, Minus, knocking off the equilibrium of Karin, in, Through a Glass Darkly [1961]). The tiny rebels had been instrumental in shooting up the local pharmacy and absconding with a remarkable number of tiny pills for every occasion. Their display, among which of course included Manuel, of gobbling down chemical aid like ravenous birds in a berry patch, strewn over a swatch of mud after readily solving the baby screw-caps, gives us a taste of the decidedly trivial political red herring this production has mounted. (For those who can never see any farther than politics [as complemented by science, religion and humanitarian morality], as the route to humanity, this film will forever be shuttered.) The “rebels” experience high confidence from their murderous theft; but real playfulness, real delight, does not come close. Before he’s shot dead, his body dragged from his ham-radio studio, the DJ had told the world, as far as he could see it, “Herbs to tone those flabby muscles, and render you invincible and invulnerable…” (This time Haight-Ashbury—as Jamaica, before—becomes a beacon with no light.) Maria, hearing this recommendation with no confidence, recalls her bus ride after the insult, and her being at a loss, lacking the muscle, her bicepts notwithstanding. The survival kits and the order to leave that world offends her risk-taker’s spirit. But her misreading of advantage slams her closer to Manuel and Andre than she should be.

The exuberance of this catastrophe plays out in a supplemental rain of cruel irony. Necessities capable of burnishing the protagonist’s resoluteness fall like ash in her hands. She beholds a Toyota loaded down for the sake of surviving the conflict. And though she feels nothing but disdain toward what she proudly regards as squeamishness in others, she is readily duped into childish, skittish, toy-like thoughtlessness, including disregard for the malignancy on the ground nearby and the malignancy all over the planet. The large, cinderblock homestead tranquillizes her—as did the stone castle of Antonius Block and his guests, in The Seventh Seal—to the extent that such an edifice and its concerns must be too big to fail. One of her longest-staying workers, Angel, now about to cut and run, has a life-sized wooden figure of a man on her worker’s veranda. (That would coincide with the large, inert sculpture on the veranda of a beach house being abandoned in Bergman’s film, Persona [1966].) Inside a meal of fresh vegetables is on the table. But the door is locked. (Block being denied the substance of heaven. Maria being denied, due to failing as an acrobat and a juggler.) The close-formation of the many cyclists abandoning the farm evokes the closely-linked dance of death by Block and his retainers. In her disappointment Maria wanders to an area of the property being impassible due to a mass of shattered tree trunks. In the Bergman film, Through a Glass Darkly [1960], a woman disappointed by her mojo leaving her, hides in the wreckage of a big wooden fishing boat. Her next step consigns her to a mental hospital. But with Maria, the tone is, “Maurice [Angel’s husband], we don’t need to be terrorized. We can fight back!” She runs into a rebel roadblock and has to pay to proceed. The point, however, has to do with the leading gunman having been Manuel’s gym teacher. The real drama being, what kind of athletes are stepping up to the plate? Similarly, when Maria visits the pharmacy for the grandfather’s medications the (soon-to-be murdered) pharmacist tells her, “It’s all here, except for the oxygen…” Seen, as so often in close-up from behind, Maria overhears the DJ’s pep talk to the converted. “Many things are to be found in Mama and Papa’s house. But go about it gently. Everyone is entitled to his share. And don’t ever forget what fate has in store for us … No one can take away your share. Beware of imposters…” Does Maria have any inkling that her excellent career could be tainted with imposture? The radio gate mouth goes on to a fact of life; but not a really significant fact of life. “As for the white material, the party’s over!” Showing the ropes to the new workers, while the “young rascals” are on a roof cutting the power lines, she blithely explains, “The power goes out often…”

With Manuel shaved down as he was in the prologue—shifting and crouching desperately in a nearly pitch-dark interior—he in fact shared the flickering launch with a pride of cheetah bounding across a road on the plantation. This spike of bemusement comes to clarification, later, regarding the early and unlamented death of someone who was dead to the world anyway. In the trajectory of that binge of fruitless go-pills, we see a wobbly Manuel on his domain encountering two, no-nonsense militiamen, training their rifles on his empty head. But, wait a minute, those gunslingers have turned out to be brimming with nonsense, in the form of cat and mousing the chump in that darkened place kicking things off to set a bilious tone. The cats then torch the mouse and the whole mouse-pack; but not before exacting a gory slaughter. That’s where the real cats come in, to put everyone to shame, including Maria, who would have got caught up in the sadistic frenzy—rather aptly, in fact, now operating, as a second front of massacre and becoming an Angel of Death, or, if you prefer, a carrier of the plague which will always be with us.

After her pampering and loading on the truck the flabby boy having shown what he’s made of—“You’re my son. I can’t let you drift away…”—a cheetah by the road silently and expertly cuts the crap. In that interview with the Boxer, she tells us a lot. He asks, “Why didn’t you leave with your son?” She answers, “I’m a good fighter, too… How could I show courage in France? [but real courage being not a display of advantage]. It would be absurd, no rhyme or reason [how, then, is she doing with deep musicality, in Africa?]. I’d slack off, get too comfortable…” And here she is, giving a quick and comfortable rundown to the new, and last, crew: “Nothing’s mine, but I’m in charge.” One of those grounded laborers she could have learned something important from, tells her, “If it’s not yours, it’s just smoke.”

#claire denis

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manchattanskyline · 7 years

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Downtown to Midtown and Back Again.

Manhattan Bridge, Manhattan- side traffic exit

A sleepless , and I mean totally sleepless, night followed. I was at the reception desk at 6 am , sharp, being firm but fair to begin with but this quickly deteriorated into out-and-out begging for a room on the other side of the building. I was given sincere apologies and informed that another room would be free, the following day. One more night in the noisiest room from Hell. OK, it had to be done. We didn’t have a choice. Being terribly stiff-upper-lipped about the whole thing, I decided that this was not going to ruin the holiday, or even the day. I slapped on some make-up on my far-travelled, sleepless, dehydrated face and we set off in to the slightly warmer climes of -2 degrees C. It had snowed the day before so I thought it would be a good idea to go all the way up to Central Park, while the snow was still hanging around, so that we could see some iconic ‘New York in the snow’ sights. Despite the joys of free wifi in the hotel and the excitement of using Google Maps in New York, it was a bit further than I’d anticipated. We soon stopped at a lovely looking coffee shop called Think Coffee, at the lower end of the hugely historic Bowery. The Bowery has seen some good times, bad times and downright dangerous times. From being one of the first roads built in New York, showing Houdini’s first solo show and spawning the birth of punk rock in America ( see CBGB’s & The Ramones ) there’s a rich history and culture about the place, although the lower end is now mainly populated by restaurant equipment and lighting shops.

There are still some original stores here, like the cash register store which has been selling and repairing the things since the turn of the century ( the 1900 one). There are some beautiful old fashioned elaborate models in the window, as well as rows and rows of spare parts, inside.There’s also The Bowery Mission, a men’s shelter set up in 1879, and at it’s current location since 1908, which still provides help and shelter to Lower Manhattan’s homeless. A lot of the shops and buildings have laminated posters in their windows, telling you the history of that building. I think we managed to read most of them, over the next ten days, but I’m sure there are a few that eluded us.

The Bowery, Downtown

We settled down in the warm – sweet- pastry smelling coffee shop to a crispy artisanal ( I use that word with a wry smile) almond croissant and a steaming- creamy cappuccino. Sat in the corner window on a real leather seat, at an impossibly small table, we had a perfect view of the whole world passing us by. Every age, race, gender and sexuality passed by that window, as two NYPD cops were handing out leaflets on the corner of Bleecker St and The Bowery. What struck me was how much interaction there was between the NYPD and the general public. Despite the corruption which we know still exists within the organisation, it’s clear that New Yorkers do, ultimately, trust their police force. They know that they keep their city safe, that they have and will continue to sacrifice much, for New York and it’s visitors. In the UK, we rarely have anything to do with our Police force unless we’re in trouble, as a suspect or a victim! People were having cheerful conversations with these cops, thanking them for their work and wishing them a good day. As one older woman touched the arm of one of the cops, all I could think was ‘ are you crazy, he’s got a gun!’. And they do have guns. And batons. And stab proof vests. I have my opinions on armed Police but here, in this city, with it’s issues and it’s not so distant history, I found myself feeling a little more open minded on the subject. There’s an eclectic 1990s mix-tape playing in the coffee shop and suddenly it’s the Spice Girls. New York is already giving me so much life, so much to see, so much to hear, so much to smell. What have we given New York? The sodding Spice Girls. I feel like I ought to rush up to the counter to apologise. I could have sat in that window seat for the next ten days, just soaking in the action on that cold street corner. We had a good way to go yet and so we bundled back up, taking care to dispose of our individual items in the appropriate recycling bins, and pushed on, back up The Bowery, towards Midtown and Central Park.

Each new block gradually became a little busier with more business-types. The buildings got newer, shinier, squarer and taller and we found ourselves walking over more and more subway vents and bigger crossings. A note about crossing the road in New York. First of all, a really good way to judge a native New Yorker, or someone who’s been here more than twenty-four hours, is to see how far out in to the street they stand when waiting to cross. new comers (like us) dilligently stay on the pavement (sidewalk) whilst inevitably looking the wrong way first. Natives stand a good few feet out, confident that not only are they looking the right way, but that are close enough to the sidewalk to jump back from a speeding truck and far enough out to accurately judge the first opportunity to cross.

About those ‘walk’ ‘don’t walk’ signs. First off, the original style ones were replaced in 2004 when the city replaced them with pictograms (a white pedestrian for ‘walk’ and a red hand for ‘don’t walk’. This does make me a little sad but it also makes it a lot safer for the hundreds of thousands of non-English speaking visitors and new residents of the city. Secondly, you learn pretty quickly that these signs are an optimistic suggestion, at best, and a dangerous assumption at worst. Whilst here are enforced rules in New York regarding jay-walking, from what I could gather the general rule is ‘walk’ means you can cross but the traffic might still run you over, a ‘don’t walk’ means you can cross but the traffic will actively go out of it’s way to run you over. If there is no sign, look both ways, say a little prayer and run across with your eyes closed, keeping at least one other person (a loved one if needs must) between you and the oncoming traffic.

We passed men practising ballet at the barre, in what looked like a shop window but which was probably a studio / gym. we casually spotting a giant red Jeff Koons “Balloon Rabbit” in the foyer of an office building and lamented the deaths of what seemed like hundreds of discarded Christmas trees, permeating the air with their piney-scent as they lay on their sides, covered in a very festive dusting of snow and awaiting their fate (Sssssssh, don’t tell them!). There were tiny dogs wearing coats and shoes and women with huge leather tote handbags and even bigger headphones. The air felt crisper and cleaner as we approached the lower East side of the Park. Suddenly the soaring Empire State Building, the ominous Trump Building (this was only days away from the inauguration) and the ornate Plaza Hotel give way to wide-open walk-ways, trees, grass and sky. Sky! Something we hadn’t seen an awful lot of since crossing 14th St and passing the Flat Iron Building There was a incredibly smug-looking woman running in Central Park. To be fare, who wouldn’t be smug if that was your local running track, and although our faces hurt from the cold and our legs ached from the rather epic trip from Lower East Side to Upper West side (yes, yes, we should have taken the Subway) I was nothing but ecstatically happy.

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Jeff Koons’ Balloon Rabbit

The Flatiron Building

The Chrysler Building

Central park Ice-Rink

That bridge, Central park

I felt like I knew my way around Midtown better than I did Downtown, only because that’s the area I’d stayed in before but having already had a glimpse of the more residential and daily-functioning of Downtown, I was realising how showy and over-polished the upper areas of Manhattan were. This is where the iconic skyscrapers and word-renowned department stores and, yes, the money, reside. All these things make for great photos and certainly have the ‘wow’ factor but they are also the tourist traps and the over-priced attractions and are a million miles away from the soul of New York. This is one version of New York, one of a hundred, that gives you a totally different experience of the city from the one you had a block away.

A quick jaunt in to the park and out again on the lower West side at Columbus Circle, along West 59th street, back to The Plaza (where we’d be having afternoon tea on Friday) and then back down Fifth Avenue at a leisurely pace towards our main food destination of the day, the world famous Katz’s Deli. After turning the map round a few times to re-orintate ourselves and almost bumping into Helena Bonham-Carter (yes, really) we arrived at our neon-lit destination. You know, the one in ‘When Harry Met Sally’ , where Meg Ryan demonstrates to Billy Crystal the acting skills of the female species. A quick scan of the walls of the giant dining area, every inch covered with photos of the deli’s owner and staff with movie stars, sports personalities, politicians and the odd U.S President, proves that that’s not all it’s known for. What Katz’s does best, beyond the fame and the hype and the celebrities, is really, really, really, really, really good food. We opted for table service as the counter service ordering was a little confusing and we really needed a sit down. I had the pastrami on rye, with pickles, and a home-made lemonade (Katz’s own brand). The meat was hot, the bread was soft and the pickles were amazing. The sandwich itself was huge and whilst I ate half without a struggle, the second half proved a struggle and was beaten I ate some meat off the remains half and then had to concede that I was already way past being just ‘full’. My dessert tummy was not, however, and so we both ordered a plain New York cheesecake. It would have been rude no to.

Katz’s, That’s all!

Always busy and the huuuuge serving counter.

Pastrami on rye, lemonade and a whole plate of pickles

Even Leo’s been here.

As we slowly (very slowly) rolled back down Houston St towards The Bowery, we passed two stalwarts of the Lower-East side culinary scene: Russ & Daughters and Yonah Shimmel’s Knish Bakery, both Jewish in origin and both promising familiar and mind-boggling delicacies, alike. We resolved to return and visit these establishments, later on in our trip.

When we returned to our hotel room, we were tired and aching and full to bursting. It would have been dangerous to lie down so we caught up with a bit of social media, posted some photos and watched a bit of TV. The local New York channel was concentrating on the up-coming inauguration and the protesters we had passed, on Fifth Avenue. living in a city I was, of course accustomed to seeing familiar streets not he news but this was different. This was world famous streets and world changing events that we had ben privy to, just a few hours ago. Before we got too comfy and fell asleep, we took a quick look at the map and went on a min-advendure to Little Italy. Mr Manhattan has Italian heritage so we were interested to see a) how much of it still there and b)whether or not we had room for a canoli. it was well and truly dark now and as it was a Tuesday evening, also pretty quiet everywhere. We had a bit of a reccy and made a not of some places we’d like to come back to, to eat, and then found ourselves in a gorgeous old corner cafe, Caffe Roma. Proudly situated on the corner of Mulberry and Broome, this place had been here since 1880 and didn’t seem to have changed much. A large glass display counter showcased plate after plate of pastries, cakes and biscuits. The decor was most definitely original and the chairs were the old decorative wire kind, and reassuringly uncomfortable.

display counter of wonders

Old School

Espresso and canoli

Original ceiling, light fitting and shelves

Outside sign

Turns out we did have room for canoli, and an espresso. We had a further mooch around the neighbourhood, now being squeezed by the ever-spawling Chinatown to the South and the multi-million dollar brownstones of Greenwich Village to the North. Having long been deserted by all but a handful of the descendants of those brave and trail-blazing immigrants, the popular restaurants and bakeries remain but you know that no new arrival to this city could ever afford one of those apartments, five stories above our heads, sporting a smart fire-escape and potted palms.

Welcome

A small selection of Ravioli

Oldest Cheese Store in America

Sofia’s, Mulberry Street

With no room left in our tummies and no elasticity left in our leg muscles, we sauntered back to the hotel, and our Subway train soundtrack.

Manhattan Bridge from our hotel window. No zoom.

Read the first entry of this travel diary, here. New York Travel Diary: Day 0

New York Travel Diary: Day 1. Downtown to Midtown and Back Again. A sleepless , and I mean totally sleepless, night followed. I was at the reception desk at 6 am , sharp, being firm but fair to begin with but this quickly deteriorated into out-and-out begging for a room on the other side of the building.

#bowery #Central Park #Chinatown #Little Itally #new york #photography #travel #travel diary

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