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whirlybirbs · 3 years

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( another gif by @unearthlydust from this beautiful set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 3/?

summary: you find out about bucky’s past, he finds out about yours.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.4k, va va voom

a/n: oh look out here comes the plot, charactization, and growth between to pals who are maybe starting to feel a little something begin to take shape. but ignore that, there’s danger afoot. no spoilers for tfatws here!

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“You know I have to ask these questions. It’s part of the check-in.”

“Yeah,” you fire back, flat enough to warrant Dr. Hart’s scowl to grow. You can’t see it over the phone, but you know the way her words whip around you means she’s upset, “I know.”

“If you’re not following the action plan set out by the judge,” she begins, leaning forward as her tone drops into a scalding hot sort of seriousness on the other end, “You will go to prison. You know this. So, do you want to spend ten years of your life behind bars? Are you trying to get yourself locked up? Come on.”

You can’t look up from your computer’s screen. Or maybe you can, but right now, there’s a dangerous mixture of anger and guilt and frustration boiling under your skin.

“I’m trying.”

“Trying isn’t good enough for the GRC,” Dr. Hart snaps, “You know this. They’re giving you a chance — they know you’re talented. You have the ability here to go straight, to earn a living, to finally make up for those years of blackhat work.”

“Everything I did,” you fire back, ripping your eyes up to meet Dr. Hart’s, “Was for others. I didn’t get a fucking penny.”

“You’re not Robin Hood,” she shakes her head as her tone softens, “We all make mistakes. But, everything has a consequence. You know this. And this conversation isn’t even considering the other charges.”

“You know the extortion case would never hold up in court.”

Dr. Hart sighs raggedly. “And I don’t intend on ever seeing it play out in court, because you’re going to follow the conditions of your pardon.”

“The GRC is a bunch of fascists—”

“Enough,” she snaps, “If you want to go and appeal your case with the judge, be my guest, but I can almost guarantee you’ll be perp-walked out of that Federal courtroom in cuffs.”

She’s right.

Dr. Hart is right.

Your knee is bouncing, up and down and up and down. You’re wound up around yourself, arms crossed tight, brows knotted. With a shaky exhale, you just nod. You breathe, and you remind yourself that she’s right. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. It’s not worth it. Dipping yourself back into that world, the layer of the web beneath the surface, isn’t worth it.

The GRC is your way out.

Just be a good little girl and do as you're told.

“So, I’m going to ask you again,” Dr. Hart begins, pen clicking alive on the other end of the phone call, “...Have you engaged in any illegal activities online in the last seven days?”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

Inessa Sidrova’s photo stares up at him from its place on the speckled marble counter, stacked neatly next to his notebook where her name is scrawled in chicken scratch — between two other names: Zemo and Henrikson.

His laptop, technically on loan from the FBI, sits beside both.

(When Barnes had agreed in that closed doors meeting to the conditions of his pardon, a certain FBI agent by the name of Jimmy Woo had been rather insistent that Barnes needed a personal computer in order to carry out his portion of the conditions insofar as tracking down the remaining HYDRA pawns in the States. Woo had also insisted, to the agreement of Dr. Raynor, that a personal computer would help better acclimate Barnes to the new world he’d been dropped into.

Woo was even nice enough to take an hour of his own time to show Bucky enough to get started — but was whisked away for some investigation out in New Jersey.)

Bucky rubs the cold vibranium of his left palm into his eye, then exhales long and slow.

He’s done all he can. And still, no leads on the woman.

Rounding the kitchen island, he digs his cell from his pocket. He goes back to staring at that text — the one he’d laughed out loud at the moment it lit up his phone — and he can feel that ol’ bite of anxiousness creep into his arms. His fingertips tingle.

On the television, a laugh track plays over a clip of The Three Stooges. Blue eyes flick upward, and he partially wishes a ladder would put him out of his own self-induced misery.

Outside, the antics of a Saturday night in Brooklyn roll on.

In the last few days he’s parsed through his thoughts enough to realize it’s not telling you that scares him — no, it’s telling you the truth. The whole truth. All of it. After all, the good comes with a lot of bad; the sort of bad you chain in a chest and sink in the ocean. And Bucky finds that, even still, the good is questionable at best. The good is… small. Microscopic. Completely and totally tainted by the fuckin’ decades of brainwashed, war dog bullshit.

He groans and drops his head back against the wall.

He tries, for the next twenty minutes, to formulate some sort of reply to your text message. But, half the battle is figuring out what to say, and the other half is actually typing it out. This whole flip phone purchase was really starting to sting like regret — and as much as Bucky loved technology back before the war, and all the magical possibilities it held, he can’t help but feel like an ornery old man now.

It’s the change. Steve was right. Too much change.

He can’t find the space button and he can’t figure out how to delete the random 3 he’d accidentally punched in — so, with a grumpy huff of disapproval, Bucky simply dials your number.

You pick up on the third ring.

“Don’t you know it’s Saturday?” your voice is a welcomed sound, “The History Channel is running a bunch of old war documentaries you might enjoy, grandpa.”

Bucky snorts, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie. “What makes you think I’d wanna watch that shit?”

“Everyone knows that old men like two things,” your voice is light, half-distracted from the sounds of it, “World War Two, or grilling. And honestly, you don’t strike me as the grilling type.”

“I like a good burger.”

“Yeah?” you snort, and Bucky can hear you shift your phone from one ear to the other, “Is that why you called? To hint at being hungry?”

“No,” he exhales, looking out the window, “No, I was trying to reply to your text but I can’t find the fuckin’ space button. Calling is easier.”

“Oh my god—”

“Shut up,” he barks with a laugh, sitting up, “Don’t even start — are you hungry?”

“Almost always, why?”

“Got any plans tonight?”

“... You do know who you’re asking, right?”

Bucky grins, a little boyish and a little tired. “Good point. Loser.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re the one calling me to hangout,” you snort, leaning to prop your feet up on your desk and lean back. Your chair wheels backwards, far enough for you to get a good look down the street. It’s a nice night, cool enough, and it seems like the whole borough is awake, “But, I’m only hanging out if you tell me what the fuck is up with court mandated therapy. I can’t wait another three days.”

Your anxiety has been pricked the last few days over it.

“... Do I get to pick the place?”

You roll your eyes. “Fine.”

“Great,” he exhales tightly, “I hope you’re in the mood for sushi.”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

Izzy’s is busy, but there’s privacy in the bustle.

Bucky had buzzed your apartment’s ringer and you’d flown down the stairs, looking… alive. The sort of alive that was new — like a fresh bud beginning to bloom in spring. It had made him grin, and he’d watched you push a tress of hair behind your ear as you decided it was warm enough for no jacket tonight. The light of the crosswalk sign lit you up like a star.

He was sweating.

Dr. Raynor was right — that was it, of course it was — that it was getting too warm for his usual outfit. So, he’d settled on the next best thing: a sweatshirt that was big enough and black enough that he could bury himself in it. His hands are tucked neatly into the pockets.

No gloves tonight.

He feels naked.

He shoulders the door and holds it open with the toe of his boot as you duck towards the back of the restaurant. There’s a booth in the back by a large bamboo plant — you weave through the place with a new found confidence. There’s anxiousness in your shoulders but it melts when you look back at Bucky. Like a watchful guard dog, he nods.

You settle into the booth, toss your jacket in the corner, and smirk.

“I get out sometimes,” Bucky remarks before you can even say anything. He shifts in the booth and reaches up to scratch his cheek with his right hand, “Not often, but I do.”

“I didn’t say anything...”

“You were going to,” he nearly smirks back, his brows raised as he adjusts the chopsticks on the table, “I know that look.”

You snort, nudging his boot under the table. That works a huffed little laugh out the man across from you. Almost immediately you can sense anxiousness rolling off him — it’s the tightness in his mouth that gives him away, the way he’s fussing with the soy sauce dish and trying to get it to line up perfectly with the marbling on the table. Worry flashes in your eyes.

“Bucky.”

He raises his head.

“You alright?” you ask quietly.

“You have to promise not to flip out.”

Your brows knot tightly — but before you can even question what the fuck he means, he’s casually dropping his other hand onto the table.

And you almost don’t notice at first. Your brain fills the gaps in, figuring it’s his glove. But, then you blink and his hand catches the light and you realize it’s not leather. It’s glittering obsidian, garnished with gold, and it’s moving. Flexing. Seams bending and warping and there’s a gentle hum coming from the appendages and you squint because he’s tapping his fingers on the table and there’s a metallic tik-tik-tik that meets your ears.

Then, your eyes jump to his face.

He looks pained.

You’re confused.

And then you’re not.

“You’re —”

You slap a hand over your own mouth. You have to promise not to flip out. Your eyes are eighty miles wide and your jaw is falling open and you’re leaning forward, whispering in a rushed tone because what the fuck.

“You’re that Bucky?!”

Oh, you feel stupid.

The hostess appears, suddenly. You snap backwards in the booth, Bucky tucks his hand away, and you both muster forced smiles to the waitress. She’s young. Pretty. Her name-tag says Sarah.

She asks about drinks.

Bucky gets a beer.

Slowly, you knock your knuckles against the table and drop your head into your hand. The look on your face is exhausted. “Do you guys have Mai Tais?”

The answer is yes. And you’re glad. Because you’re going to fucking need it.

The two of you are quiet until the drinks come — avoiding one anothers gazes for completely different reasons. Bucky is sheepish, a bit mortified, like he always is when people recognize him. It’s why he shaved his fuckin’ head. It worked well enough but… the arm was usually a dead giveaway.

Meanwhile, you’re wondering if you could shave your own head and disappear. Because there’s no easy way to explain the weird elation swirling in your chest right now.

Bucky’s first to speak. His beer is in his good hand. He inhales quickly, eyes darting to you as he leans forward and whispers incredulously. He speaks quickly and his words are pointed with an edge of curiosity.

“...What do you mean ‘that Bucky’?”

“Y’know, I knew there was a reason you acted like you needed a senior citizen discount. And you know exactly what I mean,” you rush out all while waving your Mai Tai and jabbing the side with the umbrella towards him, “Listen, this is a lot to take in, Mr. Avenger.”

“I am not an Avenger—”

“You helped reverse the Snap. You’re the Winter Soldier. That makes you an Avenger—”

Bucky’s shaking his head, eye screwed shut tightly because the sudden equation to his past self being considered a hero is like being socked in the mouth. He stutters over his words and shakes his head more vigorously, like he’s trying not to hear what you’re saying.

“I am not the Winter Soldier. Not anymore. And it’s not like I’m not on the fuckin’ roster, doll—”

You hold a finger up, stopping him there, and take a long sip of your sunset colored drink. You swallow. You exhale. Bucky swigs his beer.

“One, don’t call me doll,” you say curtly, then raise a second finger. You lean in and squint, “Two… Christ, the haircut really makes a big difference, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” he sighs raggedly, dismissing your scrutiny.

You puff your cheeks out and exhale. Leaning back in the booth, you try not to feel so fucking insane.

“...I can never have you over now.”

Bucky’s brows narrow quickly and his eyes snap to yours. “What?”

“I can’t have you over,” you explain slower with your eyes rooted to the soy sauce in the corner, “Because I don’t think I could ever handle you seeing my signed and framed Captain America poster from his USO tour in 1943.”

Bucky’s face is deadpan. “You’re kidding.”

“I really wish I was,” you gripe, “It’s an original.”

“...You’re a Cap girl,” he says suddenly, leaning back with this look in his eye. It’s less of a question. You can’t pin it down. It looks like he's damn near traumatized.

Bucky thinks — honestly — that this is the cherry on top. Every girl back then was a Cap girl, too. It figures, now, in this new century where he’s making new friends that… as per usual, Steve gets the cake. That fuckin’ pint sized bastard.

He’ll have to tell him about this.

You yank your eyes up to Bucky’s face. His mortification is shifting to surprise to amusement. You’re fast to sit up, mouth opening to fire a retort — but Bucky’s suddenly really enjoying the look of pure horror on your face at the insinuation. He’s smirking. Plain as day. He swigs his beer.

“No, no—” you raise a finger, “No, stop it. Don’t make it fuckin’ weird, Bucky, it’s not like I have his name tattoo’d on my ass. And I knew a girl in college who did.”

His brows rise sharply and you’re finding you’re regretting everything that’s coming out of your mouth.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you guffaw, gesturing for him to show you his hand again, “I wanna see.”

Bucky sighs and plucks his hand from his hoodie pocket.

With a sort of tenderness Bucky wasn’t prepared to handle, you take his metallic hand into your own. There’s an immediate twinge — one that’s procured by flashes of violence from years of being a walking weapon. He breathes, and he reminds himself that this arm is not the same that tethered him to HYDRA all those years ago.

This arm is his, it is not him.

The sensation is different. He isn’t used to anyone touching him like this; he’s used to the feeling of flesh on the other end of a punch, or a throat caught in his palm. Not the gentle pass of your fingers, delicate and purposeful, over his knuckles.

You turn over his hand, eyes alight with curiosity — and Bucky, desperate to stamp out the hotness growing in his gut, moves quickly to flick your nose.

“Ow—”

“Don’t stare,” he says coyly, “It’s rude.”

The waitress is back. His hand is tucked away, and you wrestle the stupid expression off your face long enough to order a plate of assorted maki rolls and some fried tofu. Bucky orders what seems like his usual — shrimp tempura and spicy tuna rolls.

The waitress, Sarah, disappears with a smile.

You’re grinning.

“So… Does this make me the sidekick?” you whisper playfully.

“Shut up,” Bucky laughs, his lips almost darting into a smile.

You cock your head, pushing your chopsticks across the table with a horribly coy look on your face. It’s comical. “...I think this makes me the sidekick.”

“It — stop it — it does not make you the sidekick,” Bucky says slowly as he sips his beer and pins you in the booth across from him, “I’m not a hero. You’d have better luck asking Cap on that one.”

You grow silent. There’s a question hanging on your tongue. You’re wrestling with yourself — Bucky can see that much. He frowns.

“Spit it out, Goose.”

You blink. “Was that a Top Gun reference?”

“You wanted to be the sidekick.”

You wave it off, blinking into your Mai Tai. Your voice is quiet. Even as you speak, there’s a hesitancy akin to walking on eggshells. “What happened to Cap? Is he… alive? He’s gone off the grid. It’s, like, this massive conspiracy theory online.”

“He’s upstate.”

You blink.

“That’s ominous.”

Bucky shrugs. “Someday I’ll take you. It’s… nice.”

You go quiet. You freeze, drink halfway to your mouth. Bucky can’t help but smirk at that. His laugh is more of a scoff than anything.

“Relax, Miss America.”

“Shut up — do you mean that?”

“What, that I think you’re in love with Captain America?”

“No, you bastard, that you’ll take me. To meet him.”

Bucky’s words are easy. They roll off his tongue without a second thought. He feels… okay. Like this part is okay. Not as bad as he thought it could be. His anxiousness isn’t as heavy now. He feels like he isn’t losing you. But then again, he hasn’t gotten to the bad part yet.

“He’s my best friend,” Bucky explains plainly, “And so are you.”

The admission is warm. As easy as breathing. Two months in the making.

“Your only friend,” you say quietly, offering the joke as a cover for the softening tone that dances over your words. It’s affection, you realize, as you mimic his shrug, “But, go on.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Bucky chirps, “But, yea, I mean it. He’d like you.”

You raise your chin, wiggling a bit in the booth. It’s pride — and as much as Bucky likes the look of it, he can’t handle the ridiculousness that comes along with it. But, it’s sort of comforting. He knows this playfulness, this easiness, it’s all because he’s him. You trust him. In.a way, it strikes Bucky with guilt. There are wall of his still built up high. Maybe they’re slowly coming down, but… he’s like a stray dog, slow to trust.

“Safe to say,” you breathe, “I have a few questions.”

“I figured as much.”

You sip your drink and swallow. You raise a hand. “But — I wanna know the boundaries. I don’t want to… I don’t want to pry about shit I have no business knowing, alright? It’s your life and even if we are friends, I don’t need to know everything.”

The relief is almost immediate. He thumbs the label of his beer.

“Ask anything. But I can’t promise I’ll be able to give you the answers.”

“And I’ll leave it at that,” you say sternly, propping your elbow up on the table and offering your pinky finger, “Until you want to talk about it. Promise.”

He crooks his pinky in yours, squeezing gently. You smile.

Sarah comes back with the food, and then Bucky offers his usual half-exhausted, half-amused smirk.

“You get three questions now. Then, we shut up and eat.”

You fold your hands neatly over themselves, eyeing your food as you try your best to sort out what questions come up with the most urgency. There’s… a lot. I mean, everyone knew about the Avengers — and everyone had their opinions. The Sokovia Accords, Lagos, the Blip… and SHIELD. Years of bullshit culminating around those who were considered the heroes. The kickback usually ended up on everyday citizens like you. After the initial amazement, the reality of it all set in.

But, to Bucky’s point, he wasn’t really an Avenger.

Nowadays, there really wasn’t a team at all. No up-state compound, no leader, no Stark and no Rogers.

You’re sure the GRC will try — that the military will try. Morale and hope and blah, blah, blah.

You narrow your eyes. “How old are you?”

It’s quick. “One hundred and six.”

“How’d they keep you alive that long?”

There’s a wince that flashes across his face like he’s been stabbed with a white hot poker in the ribs. You see a twitch of irritation bubble across his lips. Not with you. No, it’s that this question is still hard for him to answer. Bucky exhales sharply.

“Next question.”

You feel a pang of guilt flare in your chest. You move along.

“Who kept you alive that long?”

“The Russians. HYDRA, if you wanna get specific.”

You exhale and settle on the fact you now have more questions than answers. But, you nod and snatch up your chopsticks. Enough of the twenty questions game.

In all honesty, it’s not like Bucky’s existence was common knowledge. The Winter Soldier was known mostly, sure, to those who had floated in the same circles as him when he was nothing but a rabid cur on a choke chain. He can’t help but be a bit thankful for the minor erasure of his new self — sure, in the eyes of the U.S. government he was a high-level threat to be reintegrated as soon as possible and surveyed at all times. But, to the average New Yorker, he was just another person. Everyone was so used to seeing the heroes in their costumes with their bigger than life personas and…

Bucky was just Bucky.

Even he didn’t really know who that was. He was starting to.

His pardon had come with some flak from some of the more political news outlets but… somehow, the details of the Winter Soldier’s exact crimes were being kept silent. Probably to avoid panic. And, even then, the connection between the newly alive James Buchanan Barnes and The Winter Soldier hadn’t been made yet in the public eye. He was glad.

The haircut definitely helped.

It’s like he was a walking classified redaction.

Bucky has a sushi roll in his mouth when he finally speaks. “For such a Captain American fan, I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me.”

“Oh, you’re really not gonna let that go, huh?” you say as you chew, covering your mouth. You swallow and waggle your chopsticks at him, “Listen, it’s been a while since I’ve… y’know, had my Avengers phase. That was years ago. It was at its peak when I worked for SHIELD. And besides, you’re kinda new to the whole superhero scene.”

Bucky frowns. “You worked for SHIELD...?”

“For a year,” you say tightly, “Back before the collapse.”

“Only a year?”

“It was for my graduate program,” you wave it off, “I won out on the most competitive internship NYU had to offer. I was working within their cybersecurity division. I will say I spent more time trying to sort of email phishing scams than anything else, though. I’m sure they saw my record and wanted to keep me away from the juicy stuff.”

Bucky squints.

You offer a sheepish shrug.

“I got into trouble when I was younger,” you sip your drink and sigh, “I always liked computers. I used to spend all my time on forum sites just… reading and talking to people and figuring out how these sites actually worked, so learning how to write my own code was just the next step. When I was fifteen, I learned how to tap phones. At sixteen, I was hijacking my neighbor’s internet conenctions and remotely controlling his laptop.”

“Sounds like a good time.”

“Yea, well, he was a sitting Senator who was having an affair with the nanny,” you mutter, “And I was stupid enough to try and blackmail him for cash. I wish I could say I learned my lesson.”

Bucky exhales long and hard at that, like he knows where that snap of misguided judgement goes. It’s not like he’s passing judgement onto you, but… like he knows the feeling. And you manage to not feel so small, then — telling him this is easy. It’s not your favorite part of your life by any means, but Bucky is listening. Really listening.

He fiddles with the paper wrapper of the chopsticks.

“So, less a Goose and more a Kevin Poulsen type, huh?”

You snort. “For an old man, I’m surprised you know who that is. But, I wasn’t hacking into the Pentagon at seventeen. I was too busy doing community service.”

“HYDRA had their eyes on him in the 90s,” Bucky mumbles through a bite of spicy tuna, the memory popping into his mind and flying out before he can stop it, “I remember… I thought his username was stupid.”

“Oh, you didn’t like Dark Dante?”

“Like I said,” Bucky chortles, “Stupid.”

“You wouldn’t have liked mine, then,” you smirk lightly, “It’s worse.”

Bucky raises his brows, somehow doubting that entirely. “Really?”

“...I was hackrabb1t for a long time. Y’know, with a ‘one’ for the ‘i’,” you cringe, “People kept thinking I was a furry.”

There’s a pause. Bucky’s face is set in an unreadable emotion. It’s confusion mixed with amusement mixed with… something else. When he speaks, he clears his throat and tilts his head.

“It’s clever. But,” a pause, “What is a furry? I’ve been seeing that word all over PlentyOfFish.”

Your jaw flies open. You raise your hands as your head reels around. Bucky has a look on his face like he knows, he knows he shouldn’t have asked and he definitely shouldn’t have given you enough context to know where he’s seen that phrase before, because now you’re looking at him like he has seventeen heads and they’re all on fire.

“Y’know what, nevermind—”

“—Oh, no, no, there’s way too much to unpack here,” you lean forward, “You’re on PlentyOfFish?”

“ChristianMingle wasn’t really my speed — stop laughing.”

“Shut up — stop it, stop — this is too much,” you say with a high voice, “If you get catfished, I’m not helping you track the person down…”

“—What the hell is a catfish?” he nearly cries, raising both hands in a desperate shrug, “I don’t even know what any of these words mean.”

“Oh, you sweet, naive, innocent, man—”

“No, no, no, no,” he chirps, raising a finger with a deadly look of seriousness on his face, “No, I am not naive or sweet or any of the above. I’ll take ‘cute’, sure, but none a’ those.”

“Is that what the furries call you on PlentyOfFish? Cute?”

He drops his head back against the booth and stares at the ceiling.

“Our friendship was a mistake, rabbit.”

You choke out a laugh. “Shut up, you walking claw machine.”

You’re both laughing now — quieter but sustained and everytime you think you’ve calmed down enough to sip your Mai Tai, you just have to look at the distraught, scruffy man across from you to break into another fit of muffled laughter. Finally, after what feels like forever, you both manage to calm down enough to finish the plates in front of you.

There’s a warmth that’s settled in Bucky’s chest — it’s eaten away at the usual jitter in his legs, the anxious twitch of his fingers. It’s a different emotion. Acceptance, maybe. Comfort. Affection.

Then, while you’re piling the last bit of sushi rice into your mouth when your phone, set on the side of the table, begins to go off. It hums erratically, dancing in a circle, and all you do is stare at the name flashing across the screen. You’re smiling, hugging her. It’s from Jaimie’s wedding — out in some big, wide open orchard with the sun setting behind you. The picture there is old; you were both different people then.

Before… everything.

MOM Morristown, NJ

You scowl and stare.

Bucky blinks.

“You gonna get that?”

Quickly, you snap out of it. You reach and silence the buzzing with two quick taps. Quietly, you offer up a somber sigh.

“I never do.”

Bucky frowns again, this time with a worried look that digs deep into his eyebrows. You ignore it on purpose, pushing your plate away and leaning back in the booth. He knows what you’re doing — you’re avoiding his gaze, and therefore his own questions.

“Rabbit.”

“Oh, is that my new nickname, then?”

“It fits,” he chirps before crossing his arms, strategically hiding his metallic hand, “What’s up?”

You grow quiet — then it spills out.

“I can’t talk to her.”

“Why?”

You chew your lip. You bite your tongue and you hold back on the finer points of your anger — ones dredged up by the still present sting of your check-in with Dr. Hart this afternoon.

Here it comes.

“As a part of my pardon, I was ordered no-contact with my family,” you exhale, controlling the level of your voice, reciting the court papers you’d read over and over and over, “It was deemed that further contact would impact my progress towards reformed behavior and judgment.”

Bucky’s eyes are wide. His jaw is tight.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘pardon’?”

It’s your turn to cross your arms now, to ignore the sting of his look. It’s the kind that screams disappointment more than anything. You hate that you’re getting it from Bucky of all people.

“Like I said, I didn’t learn my lesson when I was a kid,” you shirk, “Last year I was arrested on a number of counts — I’d been evading the FBI, CIA, all of them, for years. I was doing it all for people like me. The ones who got left behind.”

Bucky’s tone is flat. It’s serious. His next sentence is less of a question, more of an order. The cadence is rhythmic and it reminds you of your brother the night he found out about the first time you’d been arrested; you decide, then, that Jaimie and Bucky would have gotten along.

“What did you do?”

“Whatever I could,” you wave your hands, “Identity theft, falsified documents, insurance fraud. Anything. There were people, like me, that in a blink, lost everything. Accidents, deaths, evictions and no one did anything for us. The insurance agencies wouldn’t cover damages related to The Snap. Life insurance policies, social security… It all got snatched up by people at the top while the system collapsed around us. I had to pay for my brother’s funeral out of pocket. And there were hundreds of thousands of people just like me, just trying to get by. And everything failed us.”

Bucky is stuck in silence. It’s like mud, dragging him to the bottom of a pond — the sort that’s dredged with misery. In an instant, his veins are on fire with an anger he hadn’t felt in a while. It manifests itself in the tightening of his jaw. He rubs his face and props his elbows up on the table.

“Why won’t they let you see your family?”

You fiddle with your napkin.

“My brother… His wife was on maternity leave when she disappeared in the Blip,” you mutter, “She came back to no job, a dead husband, and no home. Their apartment complex had been abandoned. She’s trying her best to make ends meet. She lives with my Mom in our old home. Neither of them can find work. They… The court thought that I’d be influenced to do something if I was around them.”

“What, like help?”

“They see me as a criminal,” you manage, “But I’m useful, so they’re keeping me around.”

Silence falls between the two of you once more — and the sad look on your face makes Bucky’s chest tight. He can see anxiety beginning to spill over; you’re wringing the napkin, fiddling with the edges. Suddenly, Bucky realizes you’re feeling exactly how he was an hour or so ago.

Your voice is soft. “I’m sorry. I was going to tell you.”

“Looks like we’re two birds of a feather,” he says, knocking the toe of your sneaker with his boot, “Listen, we all do stupid shit. I’ve got a lot worse weighing me down. I get it.”

You look up, sadness glistening in your expression like sun off a lake. It’s harsh. He wants to look away.

He doesn’t.

“... So, that means you’re good with computers?”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

That’s how you find yourself in Bucky’s Brooklyn apartment at almost midnight, wandering behind him in the long halls and watching curiously as he digs his key from his pocket and shoulders the door open.

It’s a small apartment. One bed, one bath, a kitchenette and that’s really it.

For its size, it’s hardly lived in.

You suppose it makes sense — Bucky didn’t have a lot of personal belongings, and with the hints he’d dropped about his life before The Blip, you were beginning to understand that he may have never really had that much to begin with.

There’s a blanket on the floor by the television and a single couch pillow. It’s tucked in the corner, behind a small sofa. There’s a chair in the living room, one from an old dining set. At the kitchen counter, there’s a stack of papers and a single laptop. Even though all the kitchen’s wares are older models, the bones of the apartment are good. Bare, but good.

You stop in the doorway to the bedroom and stare at the untouched bed. The sheets are tucked tightly in the corners — there’s something militaristic about it. Across the hall is the bathroom. It’s small. You can see a few amenities scattered across the sink’s top.

Being in here feels something like an open wound.

It was lonely. Quiet. Cold.

“We need to make a trip to HomeGoods,” you mumble as Bucky flicks on the lights, “I get the whole minimalist thing, but sheesh.”

“I don’t have a lot,” he says, kicking off his boots by the door and shrugging off his jacket, “And I don’t need a lot either.”

You watch as his shoulders sag a bit, like he can finally let down his guard just a little in his own space. It’s endearing. You perch yourself up on the kitchen counter as your eyes follow him; he moves to fling open a cabinet and grabs a mug. Then, he hesitates.

“You want tea?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Tea?”

“Dr. Raynor said,” Bucky reaches for a container of tea bags from the top shelf. His henley lifts enough to flash a bit of skin along his lower back and you swear you see a scar, “It would help with my anxiety.”

You swing your legs a little. “Then sure.”

“You can use my Captain America mug,” he chirps, laughing a little to himself, “Seeing as you’re such a big fan…”

“God, I regret even saying anything to you,” you spit as you hop down and lean around him to get a look at the mug, “Did you seriously buy that?”

“It was a gift.”

“Bullshit.”

Bucky snorts as you shake your head and wander backwards, eyeing the rest of his apartment with a bit of astonishment. It’s really nothing impressive — but, you suppose it makes sense. Whatever meager disbursement that the government was willing to give Bucky for his efforts in fixing the Snap was better than nothing.

Your gaze hangs on the blanket in the corner.

He watches you; and he notes the sore sadness that dissolves your posture at the sight of the nest in the corner. A bit of shame colors his cheeks as he heats up the water. When Bucky speaks, it’s slow.

“The bed was too soft. I couldn’t sleep on it,” he shifts from foot to foot and focuses on taking the tea bags out and methodically wrapping the strings around the handles, “Dr. Raynor said that’s a typical thing for soldiers to experience when they come home from war.”

You’re quiet for a while after that, only speaking when he rounds the counter with your tea. He offers it up with a tilt of the head.

“You never got to come home, though, right?”

“No,” comes the short reply as you both watch the lights outside the window, “No, I didn’t. Not until now.”

You nudge his arm with yours. You lean a bit. Bucky leans back.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he manages after a sigh and sip of the tea, “I can’t just feel sorry for myself anymore. I’m trying to fix the wrongs I did — and that’s why I need your help.”

You quirk a brow. He reaches around you and grabs the stack of papers on the counter. With a steady grip, Bucky presents the photo of a woman who looks strikingly familiar. You can’t place her face, but there’s something about her that feels like a slap across the cheek. She’s young here, in a faded photo with tattered edges. Beside her is a man who is laughing. The photo is candid, and they’re both beautiful. They’re both wearing a uniform — but you can’t place the era or location.

You turn to Bucky for answers.

“Back in the 70s, at the height of the Cold War, HYDRA was working in tandem with the Russians to spy on American forces,” he offers easily, staring out the window, “The American HYDRA cell hadn’t yet been planted. This man, Andrei Kuznetzov, was a spy. He was feeding the Americans information on the Russian nuclear program. His wife, the one in the photo, was ordered to kill him. She refused.”

Bucky’s fingers twitch.

His words are soaked through with pain.

“I,” he continues, “killed him.”

You hold your breath. Then you spare him a mournful look.

“Inessa Sidrova went on to help form the same HYDRA cell that ended up taking over SHIELD here in America,” Bucky mumbles, “She’s dangerous. There’s others like her, ones who I helped create, all over the world. But, she’s my top priority. I just haven’t had much luck tracking her down.”

“That’s why you need my help.”

“I’m 106 years old,” Bucky deadpans, “The microfiches at the library were getting a little tedious.”

“But,” you chirp with a sly smirk, “You figured out how to set up a PlentyOfFish account?”

He shoulders you again as you sip your tea and laugh.

“Shoulda never said anything,” Bucky grumbles, “Dr. Raynor thought it was a good idea. Y’know, to get back out in the world.”

“I can promise you,” you say with a stern shake of the head, “The metal arm will get you plenty of chicks and dudes in due time.”

“Good to know,” Bucky replies as his words lilt with a playful sort of questioning that you purposefully ignore. You’re not feeding his ego today. Maybe tomorrow, after you take a crack at figuring out where this woman is.

It’s going to be a long night.

#vacant mirrors #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier imagine #tfatws imagine #bucky barnes #marvel imagine #bucky x reader

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Star Trek Doctors, Ranked By Crankiness

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This Star Trek: Lower Decks article contains spoilers for Season 2, Episode 3.

In the very first filmed episode of Star Trek: The Original Series — “The Cage” — Captain Pike drinks itty-bitty martinis with the Enterprise’s chief physician, Dr. Boyce (John Hoyt.) And although it remains to be seen if we’ll be seeing Boyce in Stranger New Worlds, the tradition of the cranky — but wise — Starfleet doctor was started right there. After Boyce and Piper, Star Trek set the standard for cranky, wise-cracking doctors in space with the introduction of Dr. Leonard “Bones” McCoy; as played by the wonderful DeForest Kelley.

While Kelley passed away in 1999, the spirit of Bones lives on. Not just in the Karl Urban version of Bones in the reboot films, but also in the foul-mouthed, utterly hilarious Catian medical officer, Dr. T’ana (Gillian Vigman) on Star Trek: Lower Decks. In the most recent episode of Lower Decks, “Mugato, Gumato,” T’ana demonstrated some next-level crankiness, as she avoided her own physical examination, something Bones had to prod Kirk to do all the time, including his first-ever filmed episode, “The Corbomite Maneuver.” But is Bones actually still the crankiest Star Trek doctor? Has T’ana dethroned him?

The only way to find out is to rank all the Trek doctors from least cranky to most cranky, and find out who is the hardest to please, and as a result, possibly the doctor we paradoxically love the most.

(Note: With some exceptions, we’ve excluded characters who were Starfleet doctors who weren’t regular recurring characters. This is why Dr. Selar from TNG isn’t on this list, even though as a Vulcan, she’s inherently cranky.)

10. Dr. Tracy Pollard (Discovery)

The least cranky doctor on this list is easily Dr. Pollard on Star Trek: Discovery. This woman even puts up with Georgiou, a dictator from an alternate universe who wants to die. As played by the fantastic Raven Daudu, it’s very possible Dr. Pollard is the best doctor on this list. She also may never be recognized as such, because she’s really even-tempered, kind and way too busy saving people’s lives to complain.

9. Dr. Phlox (Enterprise)

Phlox isn’t just one of the nicest Star Trek doctors ever, he’s actively one of the most likable characters in the entire franchise. Played charmingly by John Billingsley in all four seasons of Enterprise, Phlox projected a childlike curiosity of the universe combined with a ton of knowledge and wisdom of having seen more of the quadrant than most of the other characters. Phlox is also, perhaps, the most tolerant Star Trek doctor, insofar as he never pushes his cultural views onto others, even though, in some episodes, like “Dear, Doctor,” he’s torn apart by his own set of ethics. Oh, and he saved the life of Porthos, Captain Archer’s dog in “A Night in Skybay,” AND while doing so, managed to make a joke that Porthos would develop lizard-chameleon powers in the process. That’s bedside manner!

8. Dr. Hugh Culber (Discovery)

Who doesn’t love this guy? Since Season 1 of Discovery, Culber has put up with shit from everyone, and very rarely has he snapped. Yes, in Season 2, after coming back from the dead, he was pretty pissed off at everyone. But, as he said in Season 3, “My murderer and I are good now!” In episodes like “Su’kal” and “Die Trying,” Culber is one of the kindest and simultaneously most practical Star Trek doctors of all time. He doesn’t lie to anyone, but he does know how to make you feel better. Out of all the Discovery regulars, Culber feels cut from the same cloth as someone like Deanna Troi or Guinan. He’s smart, insightful and empathic.

7. Dr. Beverly Crusher (The Next Generation)

Crusher certainly has the ability to sass her patients, but she’s basically a nice person. Whenever Crusher freaks out on anyone it’s always because she’s either in love with a ghost that lives in a candle (“Sub Rosa”), her feelings are being manipulated by a nearby Vulcan (“Sarek”) or Jean-Luc is messing around with her emotions. (All of The Next Generation.) Crusher suffers the fools she works with, but she does it with grace and dignity. That said, you kind of know she hates certain people in certain moments, which can probably just be attributed to Gates McFadden’s flawless talent.

6. Emil, Rios’ EMH (Star Trek: Picard)

Rios has a lot of cranky holograms in Season 1 of Picard, but his medical hologram is not even close to being the most difficult of all of them. In fact, he’s pretty cordigal, and reasonable, which is odd considering the situation he’s in. Clearly, among the holograms on the La Sirena, Emil is one of the most well-adjusted. You wouldn’t want him as your primary physician in real life, and because he’s basically connected to the personality of Rios the possibility that he might become super cranky is certainly there. But, so far, he’s right on the line.

5. Dr. Julian Bashir (Deep Space Nine)

Okay, we’re crossing over into slightly cranky territory here. Bashir began his journey on DS9 as a cocky jerk, which isn’t the same as the kind of crankiness we’re talking about here. The Bones-style of crankiness is the kind of crank we can get down with. Bashir’s off-putting personality was — at first — not something anyone admired or liked. That said, as Alexander Siddig evolved the character, Bashir didn’t become more cranky, but he did develop righteous indignation. When Bashir got his indignant buzz on in episodes like “Past Tense,” or “Inter Arma Enim Silent Leges,” he was really at his best. To be clear, Bashir isn’t a nice doctor, and this is where we cross the threshold.

4. Dr. Leonard “Bones” McCoy (Star Trek: The Original Series)

Although he set the standard for crankiness, in the entire canon of Trek, Bones is somehow not the most cranky Star Trek doctor. The reasons for this are threefold: First, there are three characters on this list who are much crankiner than him. Second, Bones is actually a sweetheart deep down, and demonstrates his love for Spock over and over again, despite his terrible, terrible comments. Finally, Bones can’t be the crankiest doctor on this list because Dax heavily implied in “Trials and Tribble-ations,” that one of her previous hosts — Emony Dax — totally hooked-up with him. For some reason, this detail makes it seem like he’s a lot nicer than he comes across. And again, The Search for Spock exists.

3. Dr. Katherine Pulaski (The Next Generation)

In 1988, Pulaski would have easily been number one on this list. She mispronounces Data’s name, doesn’t feel bad about it, and proceeds to kind of make everyone else on the ship feel awful. Pulaski is a pretty good doctor, and not remotely a bad person, but she’s pretty damn cranky. The brilliant Diane Muldar plays Pulaski like someone who has been transferred to a job she doesn’t really want, which is sort of amazing considering at this point, Roddenberry didn’t want Starfleet characters to have interpersonal conflict.

In “The Icarus Factor ” (which the latest Lower Decks also referenced) Pulaski also thinks Riker’s deadbeat dad is hot and tells Riker this point blank when he’s reminding her that his dad is the worst. This alone gives her deeply strange tastes, and makes her super cranky and weird AF. Don’t mess with Pulaksi! If you talk about how your friend is mean, she might throw it in your face and say she likes them better than you anyway!

2. Dr. T’ana (Lower Decks)

Okay. So Dr. T’ana is almost the most cranky Star Trek doctor ever. Combining the best qualities of Bones, with that weird go-shove-it-vibe from Pulaksi, Gillian Vigman turns it all up to 11. It helps that T’ana is a cat-person (I.E. the Catian species) but her crankiness is more than that. She’s kind of sadistic, and isn’t afraid to use boulders to knock “strange energies” out of people when the time comes. T’ana is sort of burnt-out, but also, is kind of unflappable too. Like, you get the sense that she’s sick of all this space sickness stuff, but she’s got too much proffensionality to say she can’t do something. The secret crankiness of Dr. T’ana is that seemingly she can fix anything that is wrong with anyone. But, she’s going to make fun of them for it, and get pissed off if you look at her the wrong way.

That said, like Bones, you get the sense that none of it is personal. Which is what makes her Starfleet all the way.

1. The EMH (Voyager)

Robert Picardo’s Emergency Medical Hologram is the best cranky Star Trek doctor. There are many reasons for this. His arrogance. His constant complaining. The fact that he has good reason to complain, considering he’s a hologram that has to do other people’s bidding. But the reason that tops all other reasons is the way that Picardo can make his crankiness clear with the simple inflection of his voice. It’s not what he says. It’s how he says it. And if you need proof, all you have to do is go back to the very first Voyager episode ever, “Caretaker.” When the Doctor has to start triage on the wounded crew, he asks somebody to hand him a tricorder. He looks at it, and realizes it’s not the right kind of tricorder, and hands it back and says “medical tricorder.” The amount of venom in this comment cannot be communicated in print. The way Picardo says medical tricorder is so dismissive and frustrated, that he basically created a new level of crankiness with one single utterance.

T’ana may be creeping up the EMH from behind, but this cranky crown will be hard to swipe. Especially from a hologram.

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irrealisms · 4 years

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very glad you're in favor of lying to therapists-- there's a lot i wish i could tell my therapist but i don't have the words, and saying a lot of it would get me hospitalized as it mainly relates to me deriving immense pleasure from causing myself pain. i feel it's almost hypocritical to be okay with someone else consensually hurting me but when i hurt myself (for the purpose of seeking pleasure) it is suddenly a huge concern.

ohhhh i have a lot of things to say to this but honestly the first thing is that this is #relatable. a Huge Mood.

okay now time for my ramblings. this is such a thing that can honestly be really frustrating and can make things hard? like, i self harm /and also/ i’m a masochist, and some of these experiences are super different, but then other times they’re... not. for the most part i have the policy of telling my therapist when i self-harm out of emotional pain reasons and not just Ooh Stimmy reasons, but sometimes it is genuinely hard to tell those apart, from both directions! and also that policy has.... mostly fallen by the wayside since I’ve had therapists who would report to my parents every time I self-harmed. (spoiler: it didn’t make me stop self-harming, it just made me stop telling them when I did.) honestly, I highly recommend asking your therapist outright (ideally on the first day! this is always the first question I ask when considering therapists) when they consider it justified to break confidentiality and/or suggest hospitalization and/or hospitalize a client involuntarily. some therapists won’t take any action about self-harm; if you can find one who fits your other criteria and is helpful, this might be a question to ask them, as long as you’re willing to lie if the answer is that they will.

the other thing is safety. (this is not actually a reason to tell your therapist, btw, people in general tend to be super bad at judging which things are safe and which things aren’t.) if you’re doing something for pleasure, you probably don’t want to die! a lot of “coping mechanisms for self-harm” are just maximally safe ways to self-harm, like snapping a rubber band against yourself or putting your hand in ice water. other things you might like that are basically zero-risk: spicy food, waxing, getting your flu shot, (nsfw) figging. when cutting yourself, avoid veins and arteries; when hitting yourself, avoid organs and bones. one of the most famous “people are really bad at judging what’s safe and what isn’t” examples is that fireplay and waxplay are less dangerous than slapping someone’s face hard. in general, anywhere that’s covered in fat (breasts, butt, thighs) is gonna be safer to hurt than places that aren’t (face, neck). there are some things where having a partner does improve safety a LOT— especially if you’re doing anything where you might go unconscious before you’re able to respond (don’t do solo breathplay, kids). if you’re doing anything with infection risk, keep a fully stocked first-aid kit, use it, and be mentally prepared to suck up your pride and go to the doctor if you have to. i’m not an expert on this, but in general, you’re going to want to be looking for BDSM safety guides and self-harm harm-reduction. don’t 100% trust advixe from anyone who isn’t an expert (including me!), because, again, it can be REALLY unintuitive which things are dangerous and which are low-risk. (note that i DIDN’T include exercise on my zero-risk list; IME, it can range from “healthier than not exercising” to “significantly less safe than cutting”, depending how good you are at noticing the difference between good pain and bad pain while exercising and whether you consistently stop when you experience the latter.) if you’re doing high-risk things and don’t want to compromise on them (for example, if you’re me age 15 and are super into solo breathplay) please please PLEASE look up safety/harm reduction/risk minimization guides. (if you’re unwilling to do this, consider that you might, in fact, be self-harming; putting yourself in risky situations is a form of self-harm, even if the situation is one you enjoy.)

there’s also a thing where.... okay this is gonna be controversial but. safely practiced self harm is not actually an inherently bad thing! for me, self harm is often a bad sign because it signals that my normal strategies for distress tolerance have failed, that i am in so much emotional pain that i’m relying on this for endorphins. other times it’s bad because it signals my belief that i deserve to be hurt. these are bad things! my pain is bad! but the badness isn’t located in the self-harm, they’re located in my motivations, and (sometimes) in the fact that i’m inflicting a negative experience on myself without a reason. the self-harm is more measurable, so it makes a good metric of how well I’m doing, but it isn’t actually the goal, except insofar as I want to avoid scaring other people. (my friend wrote a post about this; I’ll link it in a reply to this ask, because I’m on an ancient version of tumblr mobile and don’t trust it with links. I’ll also drop a link to the Icarus Project’s short workbook on self-harm.)

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firewoodfigs · 3 years

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For the WIP asks, could I pls know a lil bit more about the next few chapters of memento amare :,,,) I CRAVE (but also understand you're a superbusy superstar so I will await as patiently as I can!!!!)

heLLO you flatter me too much the only thing I am rn is a broke college student living on maccas and caffeine HAHAHAHA xD here’s a toast to us both!!! 🤠 but YES of course for you anything <3 and since you asked for the “next few chapters”... HERE WE GO

[POSSIBLE SPOILERS!! I tried to be all vague and whatnot, but vagueness is subjective and I’m half-asleep LOL]

For the next chapter, we’re gonna slide right back into the angst business, albeit with a few sprinkles of poorly-timed humour here and there and more snark. I suppose there’s also gonna be a wee bit of character / relationship analysis - a bit less action, but I kind of wanted to build up Roy & Riza’s relationship a little, and as [spoiler alert?] I hinted to in chapter 7, Ed’s gonna make another appearance, to Roy’s dismay and to Riza’s... uh... I’ll drop a little something here, if it helps xD

Amongst the three of them whom Riza had gotten reacquainted with - him, Rebecca and Edward - Mustang liked to think that he was the most skilled at concealing his emotions. Years of politicking around with sycophantic sleaze bags had certainly taught him how to keep his enemies close and his cards closer. Rebecca was naturally expressive, but she was also military, so she came a close second. But Edward… where did he even begin? The kid was exactly the kind of moron who’d go around proclaiming that he didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything or anyone, and then proceed to wear his entire heart on his sleeve. (Mustang sincerely hoped that becoming a professional poker player wasn’t in his list of alternative career options. He’d go bankrupt in a day.)

And Riza, ever perceptive, clearly hadn’t missed the haunted look in his wide, golden eyes.

One of the things I really enjoyed about FMA was also how every character had a vital role to play in the story. I hope to achieve that in memento amare as well, but it’s tough because I’m severely lacking Arakawa’s native genius 😂 even though the story is predominantly about Roy and Riza, I think Roy is smart enough to know that he can’t handle everything on his own (and tbh, he has a ton to deal with - inter alia, trying to reconstruct Ishval, dealing with the citizens’ rising suspicion and dimming faith in the government, the loss of his precious Lieutenant). A good leader knows when to delegate the work, or so I’ve been told 😆

SO [another possible spoiler] a dilemma I’ve been facing is whether to write from Ed’s POV to introduce another character in chapter 7. There are a few reasons why I was thinking of doing so, including but not limited to: (i) Ed’s natural guilt complex means that he must feel like crap over what happened to Riza too (in a sense, this sorta alludes to the summary - the ‘price’ she pays also refers to the relationships and the people around her who are suffering as a result) (ii) comparing the implications of the Promised Day on the city vs the countryside (iii) drawing similarities between two characters approx. 10 chapters or so down the road... hahaHAHA

For chapter 9, we’re gonna see (hopefully) a shift in Roy & Riza’s relationship, and also them vibin’, or not really, at their respective jobs 😆 I’m quite excited to write this chapter because of the impending hurt/comfort, and also the juxtapositions in the nature of their work? I can’t say too much, but I think it’ll be interesting to consider how Roy, despite working for an incumbent Fuhrer who knows and favours him, still has a limited sense of agency sans what he aspires to achieve because he’s working in a military institution, for a stratocratic government after all.

My personal head canon is also this: that Grumman was lucky enough to escape the Ishval extermination, and therefore would probably not be as invested in rebuilding Ishval or decentralising power to the people. So I reckon their ideologies would probably diverge at some points, but maybe they’ll agree to disagree?? We’ll see xD

[another possible spoiler]

Their ideologies converged insofar as a democracy was involved, but the divergence lay in their notion of power. Mustang knew that Grumman didn’t believe in a complete decentralisation of power. He wasn’t willing, nor was he about to relinquish all of his power and leave it in the citizens’ clammy, suspicious hands.

I don’t have a fixed outline for chapter 9 yet, though, so I might also just scrap the part about their jobs and focus more on their relationship for the time being :”)

“You have nothing to apologise for,” he reassured. “None of this is your fault.”

I’m sorry this turned out to be such a ridiculously long response, but THANKS FOR THE ASK and for giving me a chance to ramble on about all my random thoughts that I’m too tired to put into proper writing atm 😂 ILY FRIEND!! Hope your week is off to a good start!! <3

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scrutineyeze · 4 years

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i’m seeing a lot of ppl tossing around ideas about the nature of Fear & the Fourteen Fears (& some about the Extinction & its place in that), so i thought i’d try my hand at it too, lol. these thoughts have been kicking around my head for a while, & i’d be really interested in hearing what others think about this !

gonna put a warning here just about descriptions of fear/s & stuff. also a heads up: this contains spoilers for all of the magnus archives up to date [6/29/2020] and also i have A Lot of thoughts & can Not shut up, so this got. long. (2.7k) & ,,, increasingly weirdly worded bc uhh that’s kinda How I Write

without further ado: my thoughts on Fear, its facets, & how Old these might be. possibly also featuring mentions of the sublime & various things i’ve read. (i’ll work to paraphrase and/or quote these things as succinctly as possible.)

01. introduction 02. Fear: that it is not distinct Fears 03. Fear: a continuation, that it is in Facets 04. on the separation & age of such Facets 05. on, indeed, why such facets cannot be seen are Separate 06. some closing thoughts

01. thesis: robert smirke is Wrong about Fear. robert smirke believes that Fear is distinguishable into Fourteen Separate Fears; this has been shown to be, of a sort, already incorrect, as jonah magnus figured out & demonstrated with the only successful ritual, which entailed bringing in all the “fears” at once. however, to think of them as distinct Fears as in plural is a misunderstanding.

02. the following are selections from the meno, a dialogue written by plato & this translation is from Cathal Woods. beginning at 71d.

Socrates: … But you yourself, divine Meno, what do you say virtue is? … Meno: M: But it's not hard to say, Socrates. To begin with, if you want the virtue of a man, it's easy. A man's virtue is this: to attend to the affairs of the city effectively and in the process to benefit his friends and harm his enemies and make sure that he suffers nothing similar himself. If you're looking for the virtue of a woman, it's not hard to express. It's to manage her home well, preserving her possessions and being obedient to her husband. And there's a different virtue for children, both male and female, and for an old man, and, if you want, for a free man and, if you so desire, for a slave. And there are so many other virtues that there's no problem saying what virtue is, since there's a virtue for each occupation and stage of life with respect to each function of each person. And I take the same to hold for vice, Socrates. Socrates: It seems I've had some great good fortune, Meno, if, when looking for a single virtue, I have discovered in your possession some kind of swarm of virtues.

socrates then goes on to ask about bees & if meno thinks that they differ from each other insofar as “their being bees” or if they only differ through other means, such as beauty, size, colour, etc. meno says that they differ by other means, not through their being bees, & socrates presses then that virtue must be the same: there must be something which makes each of the attributes which meno listed virtues, and that connecting thread must be Virtue.

imagine, then, that we are talking about fear. (not so hard to do, when we are talking about fear lol.) so it might follow thus:

Socrates: meno, what is fear? Meno: Well, it is of corruption, and of violence, and of death, and of …

and so on—except that meno could, of course, differentiate further than simply the fourteen which smirke spoke of. as said in 111 “Family Business:”

I always think it helps to imagine them like colours. The edges bleed together, and you can talk about little differences: “oh, that’s indigo, that’s more lilac”, but they’re both purple. I mean, I guess there are technically infinite colours, but you group them together into a few big ones. A lot of it’s kind of arbitrary. I mean, why are navy blue and sky blue both called blue, when pink’s an entirely different colour from red?

and, of course, he goes on to say:

I mean, you could see them all as just one thing, I guess, but it would be pretty much meaningless, y’know, like… like trying to describe a… shirt by talking about the concept of colour.

but i would (will) argue that it isn’t meaningless to try to describe Fear as it is, which is as a single Entity. because it is the differences by other means (beauty, size, shape) which distinguish the facets of Fear, and not that it is distinct from itself by its Being Fear. that which makes us afraid—and us here, and likely everywhere, will be in reference to living things which feel fear in general, tho i will try to make myself clear at any time i speak less or more generally—makes us afraid through its Shared Connection to Fear, not through its connection to any other thing or other attributes. if something has the capacity to induce fear, then it must contain within itself the connection to Fear, or its being scary—the way that a bee, regardless of its other features, will always share with other bees their Being Bees, and the way that virtues must all contain within themselves that which Makes Them Virtuous in order to be listed as virtues at all. “that which Makes Them Virtuous,” socrates says, must be Virtue, & he spends the whole dialogue trying to get meno to help him answer that question (plus an interesting part about memory & reincarnation, but that’s unrelated).

(i’m going to say here that you Really Don’t Have To Read the meno. i uh personally dislike plato, esp when he’s not talking about love—but this is neither here nor there.)

03. so this brings us to, well, if Fear isn’t separate, then what are the Fourteen in relation to Fear? i’d say that they’re Facets of Fear, the way that honeybees and bumblebees are both bees, and aren’t different insofar as “their being bees,” but they are different in terms of other things, such as size and shape, so you might call them Facets (or different manifestations) of Bee-ness.

this does, also, allow for the looseness of seeing Fear like Colour. you can stick to the basics—blue, red, yellow, green, etc.—or get into specifics—ochre, cerulean, lilac—but you’re still discussing Colour. at the same time, Fear works similarly; you can speak of Fear of change (which would include fears such as uninjured to injured, healthy to sick, alive to dead), of depths (which is my reasoning against the point in 111 that “[s]ome really clash, and you just can’t put them together” … “I doubt The Buried would be bringing through The Vast,” because the fear of both seems to me as significantly more similar than dissimilar: the fear is often categorized as not being able to breathe, due to a too-much or not-enough, and also as the fear of being insignificant in comparison to the size, the fear of a deepness you will Never comprehend that Will Swallow you—a video i would Highly Recommend is “Fear of Depths,” made by Jacob Geller; he talks mostly about caves, the darkness you can’t see into, the call of the void. he talks some of the creatures at the bottom of the ocean, a lot about various video games, including a platformer which causes you to lose the floor. it’s a game about going deeper, ever deeper, and yet … you’re plunged into a massive, empty space. it’s a very, very good video. cw for talking about someone dying stuck in a cave.)—and you can speak of Fear in specifics, even more into detail than the Fourteen do. the Fourteen seems, to me, as a relatively easy nomenclature for these things, especially as understanding these things involve “paradoxes that most adults couldn’t handle” (111)

04. and i’m not arguing, necessarily, against using such nomenclature. to talk about Fear is difficult—i believe, much like socrates believes in Virtue, that there must be something that we can speak to which will succinctly categorize all that we find Scary, but, just like socrates and his search for Virtue rather than the naming of virtues, i find myself at a loss. i have my own thoughts on its connection to the sublime, & how terror and awe meet—how i find it impossible to separate the two, and other thoughts on how perhaps calling what i’m speaking of Fear is a reduction of what it Is—but i think putting those thoughts in another meta is a better organization of my thoughts.

so to talk about Fear in a much more manageable way, to talk about it in its particulars, in its Facets, allows us to better speak to it, just as, when trying to speak of Bravery, one does not need to speak of all things Virtuous.

however, i do believe it important to bear in mind the distinction between something being a Facet of Fear, and something being A Separate Fear. this is when we come to the “age” of various “fears,” or facets. this is another point at which i believe that robert smirke is wrong. he believes that the flesh is the youngest entity, that the end is old & so is the dark—and i’ve seen further speculation from there, about the eye being young—which, in light of how the eye (or, at least, jonah magnus, which i think is more likely, as it does seem Fear is malleable based on belief—as it should be, if it is to reflect our Fear) feels about children’s fears (cf. “Night Night,” ep. 173), i’ve seen quite a bit about

in order for fear to exist, the Fear must have been there since the first time fear was felt—or must have been created simultaneously with it, or some such thing. if Fear is indeed how i’ve described it, and smirke took the easy way out by calling it by its Facets as meno did Virtue, then i would argue against the saying that one facet of Fear is older than another—especially because the difference seems only to be in how close one pays attention.

consider the hunt and the eye, for a moment. at first glance—indeed, likely from smirke’s point of view—the hunt would be an older fear than the eye. we understand the hunt to be the fear of being chased, the fear of being made prey, the fear of predators lurking or stalking or hunting. and we understand the eye to be the fear of being watched, seen, known, of having our secrets brought into the light—the eye, as i’ve seen algie @equalseleventhirds say (along with a great deal of other things that i find highly interesting! they have had a lot to say about the connection between fears—fear soup is the nomenclature there—& also about jonah’s effect on the apocalypse & the distinction of Fear that we’ve seen in season five; all of this i highly recommend checking out) is younger than others, and from how these facets are understood now, it seems possible

after all, animals have been afraid of being prey since there were first hunters.

except to be hunted, you must first be Seen. how many animals protect themselves through camouflage? how long have animals used camouflage to protect themselves? how many animals Must fear being Seen just as much as being Hunted because, to them, those facets are inextricable?

05. which brings us to the facets being incapable of being made separate. we—and once more, this is all living things which can feel fear—don’t ever fear only One Thing At A Time.

from a piece of my writing (which is still very much in the works):

“Fear … isn’t that separate. The cabin fed on your fear of loss, yes, but also of being alone—of being left alone. Of being the sole survivor. Of watching us slip away—of losing us to an unfathomable violence that hid[es] … you’re not only afraid of one thing, Tim. It all blurs together.”

in this instance, i’m talking about desolation—kind of. 111 describes it as the “[f]ear of pain, fear of loss, fear of unthinking or cruel destruction.” but where does the fear of pain stop connecting to the fear of being prey, of being the victim of some unexpected violence? from “the Eye Opens,” ep. 160:

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

where does the fear of loss stop being the fear of being alone? if you’re afraid of losing those you love, you’re also afraid of being made separate from them, of being alone, aren’t you?

even the flesh, which smirke thinks began with the industrial revolution, must have existed since there were first bodies. even if included within other facets, there are so many things which force us to recall our own physicality in the worst way. in the disease & decomposition of bodies—in things like gangrene, in the bacteria that consume flesh—in the witnessing of flesh (sometimes yours) in the mouths of predators—hyenas and lions don’t always kill their prey being beginning to consume it—

humanity’s stories are full of reminders, too. we have cannibalism in our fairytales (hansel & gretel) & we have it in our propaganda: horror stories ranging from during the famine in Jerusalem during Titus’ siege—Reza Aslan’s Zealot: The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth, “There were scattered reports of Jews who succumbed to eating the dead.” and i think i’ve read of similar rumors spread about early christians eating children, tho can’t currently find any sources—and also in significantly more recent times we also tell stories of various people participating in cannibalism, or of monsters which only consume human flesh, or people driven to starvation (cf. ep. 58, “Trail Rations”)—these stories aren’t new. living things have probably feared our own bodies since we had the knowledge that they age and deteriorate and die—that we must eventually end because of them.

this is also why i don’t believe the extinction is any more than another facet of Fear, just like any other; (from “Rotten Core,” ep. 157) “[p]erhaps it is an existential fear that flows through the others like a vein of ore.” it overlaps with and through and into the other facets just as each other in turn folds into the rest. i mean ,,, how many apocalypse-setting shows/books/movies/podcasts exist now? how big was the “2012 as the end of the world” thought? (they made a movie about it: 2012.) us, our end, & the life that comes after … i’m put in mind of a post i recall going around:

“but we built robots, who have beat-up hulls and metal brains, and who have names; and if the other people come and say, who were these people? what were they like?

the robots can say, when they made us, they called us discovery; they called us curiosity; they called us explorer; they called us spirit. they must have thought that was important.

and they told us to tell you hello.”

06. this has all been a rather long-winded (and somewhat meandering) proposition on how Fear might work—i’m Very interested in how other people think about Fear/the Fears/the Fourteen (& if anyone wants to talk to me about the Sublime & where that meets Fear, i’d ! be Very interested in talking about that, i might make another post about that too). i see each facet of Fear as inextricable—when talking and/or writing about them, i find it hard to keep any of them separate at all, especially when it comes to fears i specifically have myself. what do other ppl think ? how separate do you see the various fears/facets ?

#tma #the magnus archives #magnuspod #meta #season 5 spoilers #ig idk i kinda only referenced night night & an au version of cozy cabin #but anyway yeah ! i have a lot of thoughts on how fear works ! im very curious to see how other ppl think it works !#pls come talk to me about the nature of fear lmao !

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quillfulwriter · 5 years

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Sephiroth in Crisis Core: Character Study

WARNING: FINAL FANTASY VII AND CRISIS CORE SPOILERS AHEAD

In game canon, Crisis Core comes before Final Fantasy VII, and it's placed when Sephiroth was young and had friends and absolutely no desire to crush us all with a meteor (probably). We start at the beginning: Sephiroth was raised and trained as an intellectually and physically exceptional child with no immediate family.

While there’s no canon information on his childhood, some of his behavior in Crisis Core reflects what his mentality likely was.

Unlike many real life students with exceptional skills, Sephiroth had all of the special instruction and resources he needed to prosper. By the time we see him in Crisis Core, Sephiroth was entirely confident in abilities he’d been building on his entire life.

Yet when Genesis expressed jealousy over Sephiroth’s fame, he told Genesis he could have it. This is an indication that his confidence was self-contained rather than something he got from or held over other people. In short, fame or the lack of would not affect him at all.

This connects to another issue that exceptional people face in their upbringing. According to a guide by the Education Resources Information Center (ERIC), “specific provisions for [gifted and talented students] stir heated controversy regarding whether or not they need special attention”.

Zack himself displayed this skepticism just before his mission with the Turks that Sephiroth was originally assigned to. Upon hearing that he refused to go, Zack asked if they were being too soft with him or babying him (depending on language/translation).

You can see the scene here at about 6:40.

For Sephiroth, this kind of controversy led to his abilities defining him to others in one of two ways. His status as the best First Class SOLDIER led people to believe he was either a hero beyond their standing or he was entitled more than he deserved.

Let’s consider that in conjunction with the immense value he placed on his friendship with Angeal and Genesis.

To have two friends who treated him as someone on their level, whether positively or negatively, meant a great deal to Sephiroth. There were few people who wouldn’t judge him based on his reputation since he had no family.

The bottom line is that Angeal and Genesis (and later Zack) gave him something his reputation could not: a sense of belonging.

And that feeling overpowered everything else Sephiroth held as important. He refused the mission that Zack went on because it was an act directly against his friends. When he was on his way to Modeoheim, he put his current mission off to go out of his way and talk to Zack – even though Zack was upset with him at the time.

Sadly, this value Sephiroth placed on belonging was his undoing in the end.

To be human and exceptional separated him from nearly everyone, even others who were First Class. But at least he had that in common with people – humanity.

Full clip here.

Failing that, Sephiroth had utterly nothing in common with anyone insofar as he knew. What meant most to him in life was inaccessible to him forever (or so he felt).

His discovery of the truth took that last bastion of hope away along with two of his closest friends. (The below video shows Sephiroth’s struggle as he tried to hold onto his humanity and the particularly painful way he found out he wasn’t human after all.)

All that remained to fill the void was his greatness. In his mind, that had defined him to everyone else throughout his life, and he only thought he’d been defined by something more to those he cared for.

With his feeling of belonging gone, Sephiroth had to face that he would never truly belong among humans.

Full clip here.

That combined with inevitable rage at the deception and horror at the truth of his origin… Sephiroth turned to godhood to embrace what he had originally tried to reject.

He was exceptional and he did not belong among these people; he never would. Grieving it in solitude could drive him mad or…

Sephiroth could choose not to grieve, instead empowering himself by believing he never really needed to belong. The feeling was simply another deception by the lesser beings of humanity.

And so, he rationalized godhood as his destiny.

and I’m still sad about it after all these years

#BlameHojo

#blamehojo #Final Fantasy #final fantasy vii #Final Fantasy 7 #ff7 #crisis core #final fantasy crisis core #ff crisis core #ffcc #meta #Sephiroth #spoilers #ff7 spoilers #analysis #character study #my meta

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veryfantasticstudent · 4 years

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Mothers in Her Private Life (2019)

or Motherhood Pvt Ltd. A Publicly Traded Corporation

Spoilers!

Her Private Life is a 2019 Korean drama based on Kim Sung-yeon’s novel Noona Fan Dot Com, starring Kim Jae-wook and Park Min-Young in the lead roles. The show follows Sung Duk-mi (Park Min-young), the talented and dedicated Curator at Cheum Museum of Art, who has a secret that no-one at her work place must know about—she is a k-pop fangirl and fansite master The Road to Si-an. Trouble starts to brew when Duk-mi’s paths cross with Cheum Museum’s new Director, Ryan Gold (Kim Jae-wook), both as The Road to Si-an as well as in her role as the headstrong curator of the Museum. A rumour that Duk-mi is dating idol Cha Si-an (ONE) further threatens to dissolve the boundaries between Duk-mi’s work and private life.

Image from The Asian Wiki

Her Private Life was my first k-drama, and it took me a while to get to this even though a friend has been asking me to watch them for at least a year now. I decided to watch this show because the premise seemed familiar enough from anime and manga like Ore no Imouto Ga Konnani Kawaii Wake Ga Nai and Kami Nomi zo Shiru Sekai (The World God Only Knows). The show’s initial episodes follow the typical pattern of shows on fan culture: the censure and ridicule fan communities face, the struggle as well as joy of keeping up with one’s favourite music, games, TV shows, what-you-have-it alongside one’s daily life. Her Private Life is an easy-going romantic-comedy with bright production pallets, stunning outfits and make-up for its entire cast, and a wonderful OST list; it reeled in (G)I-DLE for the title track “Help Me” and also features songs by Ha Sung-woon, IN2IT, and Davichi. I did not think the show would go beyond the cute-sy and slightly contrived incidents that bring Duk-mi and Ryan’s together. I am happy to say I was wrong.

While the first half of the show focuses on the will-they-won’t-they angle, the second half picks on a very interesting strand: motherhood. There are a lot of mothers, biological and adopted, in Her Private Life. We see some of them while others are only present in the background, but this fabric of various mothers ties together the different characters in this show. We have Go Young-sook (Duk-mi’s mother), Lee Seon-ju, Editor Nam Se-yeon, Director Eom So-hye, Artist Lee Sol, and Ryan’s adopted mother—who never makes an appearance on the show but is an important part of it nonetheless. All these women have a different relationship with motherhood; they struggle through it in different ways as their male counterparts do not actively participate in child-rearing[1] or the domestic sphere--what is “private” must be managed by the woman. Inept men fail women and also trample the future of children in the process. In Her Private Life, the so-called domestic sphere mixes up with business when women rear children as a community and also become breadwinners. They are left alone to balance responsibilities both the domestic and public spheres, and can only rely on each other to look after their children. By exploring motherhood through the different mothers peppering its story, the show quietly states the feminist maxim “the private is the public” to throw out gendered division of labour.

Young-sook and Seon-ju are “traditional” mothers, and it may seem that there is nothing new about them. While the two women never meet on screen and discuss their lives, they have much in common; they spend much of their time with their children and derive pleasure from motherhood. Despite being married to men who are at least physically present, Young-sook and Seon-ju have to take much of the burden of parenting on their shoulders.

Image from Manga and Anime Maniac

Young-sook is an efficient and loving mother of two, Duk-mi and Duk-su. She also takes Nam Eun-gi and Heo Yun-jae/Ryan Gold, a supposedly abandoned child, under her wing. In the course of the show, she acts as a mother to Kim Hyo-jin, the Museum intern struggling with an insensitive with her own mother, Director Eom So-Hye. Young-sook receives little support from her husband except finances. Being a mother to five children at different points in time, Young-sook is a super-parent. Young-sook’s role as a nourishing caregiver to all these children ensures that they becomes well-adjusted individuals in the course of the show. Her affectionate rearing in the domestic sphere becomes the backbone on which single mothers like Nam Se-yeon can earn their livelihood in the public sphere. She is the glue who binds families together.

Image from Go K-Pop

Seon-ju, like Young-sook, shares a thorny marriage with her husband and practically raises Geon-u on her own. A “modern” mother, insofar she owns and manages a café, Seon-ju is self-sufficient when it comes to money. Her husband, Kim Seung-min is rarely available for the emotional support that Seon-ju wants in her marriage, and he remains busy with his work life. In the beginning of the series, it is only for the sake of her child that she stays in her marriage. Seung-min further alienates Seon-ju when he helps produce a documentary film called “Obsessive Fangirl of the 21st Century”, hurting Seon-ju who is a fangirl herself. Seung-min insists that his work is separate from his family life and thus Seon-ju should not be disheartened by the documentary; work life is separate from private life, a distinction that we can only draw in the case of gendered division of labour. Seung-min even tries to justify his contribution to the documentary by saying that he did it so that he could transfer to a variety show and be able to spend more time with his family. Seon-ju refuses Seung-min’s excuses, Seung-min apologises to Seon-ju for thinking that he could work on a documentary that portrayed fangirls in a negative light while also respecting Seon-ju’s life as a fangirl; their reconciliation only happens when Seung-min lets go of the constructed binary between a public sphere where one works and the private sphere of domestic life.

Editor Nam Se-yeon and Lee Sol are the two career-driven women in the show who raise their children, manage their domestic sphere by “giving them up”. Se-yeon is still single during the events of Her Private Life because few men her age seem to be compatible with “ambitious” women—a gaslight-y way of saying they are intimidated by her success. When Eun-gi was born, Se-yeon was desperate enough to consider leaving him since she could not rely on Eun-gi’s father to support her. Only a woman, Young-sook, steps forward to help Se-yeon in her time of need and allows her to move forward in her career. Women must hold the fort in both the public and the private sphere.

Image from MayRealm

Meanwhile, Lee Sol raises Yun-jae/Ryan on her own even as she toils to make it debut as an artist. Lee Sol loses her son when she is knocked into a coma after a car accident. Although Lee Sol is not able to find her son until she meets him as Director Ryan Gold of Cheum Museum of Art, Lee Sol’s lost son finds love and warmth first in the family of Young-sook and then in the Gold family. The accident damages Lee Sol’s hand enough that she can no longer be an artist and pursue her career. Again, it is Young-sook who initially takes care of Yun-jae. Even though she must later give him up for adoption, Young-sook steps in as a mother to prevent Yun-jae from being traumatically orphaned on the day Lee Sol met with her accident. Young-sook is a kind of a “middle mother” who willingly nurtures Eun-gi and Yun-jae in a way that they can cultivate strong and healthy bonds with their parents and themselves.

Motherhood, however, is not the sole test of these women’s characters or moral sense. In portraying the efforts these women put into all aspects of their life, Her Private Life does not offer any judgement on who is the better mother “and, thus the better woman”. Even though Young-sook is the super-mom, she is also the only mother in the show who loses a child. Her youngest, Duk-su, passes away in a car accident. There was nothing Young-sook did to “deserve” it and nothing she could have done to prevent it. She is not rewarded for being a super-mom, and the other mothers on the show are not censured for choosing to run businesses or pursue a career.

Perhaps the only mother Her Private Life condemns is Eom So-hye, who is not a bad mother but an insensitive person in general. So-hye cares little for her employees at Cheum and often makes life difficult for her daughter, Hyo-jin, even if it comes from a place of trying to prevent Hyo-jin from engaging in sasaeng-like (stalker) obsessive behaviour. Young-sook’s advice to So-Hye is not just advice for becoming a better parent but becoming a better person by listening to the needs of other people. Though So-Hye remains the drama queen character of Her Private Life, by the end of the show she is no longer the obnoxious person who wishes to boss everyone around.

Without introducing an element of “karma” or what-comes-around-goes-around for the different motherhoods—traditional or modern, involved or a little aloof—Her Private Life gives breathing room to motherhood. Since men cannot support them emotional or financially or both, women step outside their houses to take on the roles of breadwinners while balancing the role of caregivers. Women divide roles according to their strength and not their genders, and advance in their careers and raise well-adjusted children without the need for a patriarch to guide them.

[1] We do not know what relationship the Golds share.

#herprivatelife #korean drama #kdrama #park min young #kim jae wook #그녀의 사생활 #motherhood

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dimples-of-discontent · 5 years

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“Absence, darkness, death: things which are not”: 14x18 watching notes

“What’s Deal with Catharsis?”

Let’s talk about catharsis. 13x04 has been haunting me since it aired. I couldn’t get over Dean sitting on a therapist’s sofa asking “So what’s the deal with catharsis?”. I know it’s obvious but it is also a dramatic term and we are hardcore missing some catharsis in this show. Essentially, it’s the purging of negative emotions that are typically repressed which, in drama, enables renewal or restoration. One of SPN’s narrative problems, for me, is that it gives us precious little in the way of catharsis. There are notable exceptions (12x22 when Dean confronts Mary in his dream, for instance) but for the most part negative emotions are repressed, sublimated, and remain unaddressed.

This is especially (haha, autocorrect turned that to “epically,” which is also true) for Dean and Cas. And it’s not sustainable. We need some purgation of their negative emotions, we NEED them to know crucial bits of information that reveal their true feelings instead of repressing them: Cas killed a million Deans but Dean doesn’t know! Dean was nihilistically depressed when Cas died but Cas doesn’t know! Cas sacrificed his soul (and happiness) to save Jack and Dean doesn’t know! The layering of dramatic irony is all very well and good, but we need to stop it at some point.

“A quintessence even from nothingness”: Absence and Negative Space

Do I actually think that will happen soon? No. I was interested in “Absence” being the title of this episode since absence is defined by the things it is not. Cas explains it in terms of Jack--not bad but the absence of good. And that’s kind of where we are with DeanCas too. It’s not definitively one thing (romance) but it’s the absence of any other convincing explanation. If they aren’t these other things--brothers, friends, war buddies--then what are they? “Absence” also refers to Mary, of course, who was absent from their lives once and now is again to be experienced not as a person but a lack. Their whole maternal relationship is defined by feelings of loss and absence so in a sad and terrible way it’s returned to normal. SPN is full of things that are not definitively one thing but which are NOT a bunch of other things and, in all cases, the slipperiness of the definition is itself the narrative problem.

SHAMELESS RENAISSANCE POETRY PLUG please go read this poem by John Donne on the winter solstice, which is all about death and renewal:

Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring; For I am every dead thing, In whom Love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.

It’s called, “A Noctournal upon St. Lucy’s Day, being the shortest day” and I adore it. Also...it (along with a lot of Donne) seems so SPN-appropriate that I think he would have been a fan. (Donne is the preacher who wrote the “no man is an island” sermon and asked “not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee”. He had a massive command of rhetoric, yo.)

Anyway, “absence, darkness, death: things which are not” is what the title immediately made me think of. Jack promised a new beginning, forged from the darkness that was Lucifer, and part of me is still convinced that this is what he’ll bring, despite appearances. We all predicted early on that he’d have a moment to go darkside and, yeah, this is it! His choices would also matter--because this is Team Free Will--but it would then be his choice to act evilly. Even if that happens, though, he can choose not to and part of me thinks he will. We don’t have other Big Bads on deck for the end of this season/start of S15 so I’m assuming episodes 19 and 20 will focus on the Jack problem until it reaches a crisis that carries us through to the summer. But how they will resolve it, I hope, has more to do with the power Jack holds to create as well as destroy. Or maybe Chuck’s reappearance will set this balance off? We’ll see.

Also, “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” which I’m going to keep an eye on as the season goes on.

Destiel is Pain

It’s fascinating that the promos were edited to suggest that this was an episode with MAXIMUM DEANCAS DRAMA OMG!! when it kinda...wasn’t. I know @occamshipper pointed out that they edited it just like a het romance drama, centering on the “you’re dead to me” and building up the angst and tension. And that was there, but it wasn’t everything. PR isn’t showrunning, yes, but it does mean something; it means they think the GA cares. And that’s kind of a big fucking deal at this point because what the GA cares about determines what we’ll see more of in the show. It’s not definitive at all. But it’s a trend and an important one that some fine folks have been tracking for a while.

The “you’re dead to me” was not not a big deal--and I had hoped very much that we’d get an apology along the lines of, “Cas, I’m sorry. What I said--I put the whole Jack thing on you and that’s not fair. I did the same thing. We all did. You didn’t fail us.” Let’s cross fingers and hope we hear that the next time they talk (since Sam stopped Cas from trying to give comfort in this episode...pray4Sam who was SUCH a brother-in-law/marriage counselor here). But it’s a Buckleming next so I don’t hold out hope. In any case, it’s a big deal because while Sam now knows that Dean doesn’t consider the whole thing Cas’s fault Cas doesn’t know that and will continue to go on thinking that a) he’s only good the Winchesters insofar as he’s “useful” and b) he’s a failure to Dean specifically. THAT’S TERRIBLE AND WE NEED TO CORRECT IT IMMEDIATELY!!

But we won’t correct it immediately because the show is riding DeanCas tension as basically the A plot at this point. Building angst to a breaking point surrounding Jack just emphasizes that. Jack caused our biggest DeanCas rift to date, both by Cas’s unwavering support in him that led to betraying Dean (running off with SOME WOMAN after stealing the colt from under his pillow after the mixtape scene, layering romance trope on romance trope) and by coming into existence the same day Cas died. Jack’s essential good or evil nature has been the biggest disagreement in their relationship for 3 seasons now so it makes sense to center a crisis on it.

And Dean doesn’t even KNOW about Castiel’s deal with The Empty! He doesn’t know that Cas traded his soul to return Jack’s to earth...only to have it be destroyed. True, The Empty said it would only come when Cas was happy and the thick angst we have now doesn’t suggest he’ll be happy anytime soon, but I think Dean and Sam are about to find out about the deal and Dean’s about to be pissed the fuck off at Cas for doing something SO STUPID (so like a Winchester). Maybe in the same conversation where Dean apologizes we can have Cas tell him the truth about the deal? Like, can they talk please? The real villain was miscommunication all along though, right?

Zombie Moms

Just a little sidebar to tell myself to return to 13x12, “Various and Sundry Villains” (a Yockey ep) and the two witches who were able to get Rowena the Book of the Damned (crucial in this episode, as Rowena unwittingly leaves it with Jack) try to resurrect their mom and bring her back...wrong. Because necromancy is extremely tough (and why didn’t Jack need any victim blood to bring Mary back the way that the Plum sisters did??) what they bring back is just a murderous simulacrum that was, honestly, what I was afraid they were planning to do with Mary. I’m relieved that they didn’t.

Both episodes owe a great debt to the Buffy episode “Forever” (5x17) where SPOILERS FOR BUFFY after their mother’s death her younger sister attempts to bring her back, only to realize at the last second that it’s not possible and the thing outside the door is a horror. It’s a very intense episode about grief, following “The Body” (5x16), one of the most devastating TV episodes to ever air. It was obvious to me that Yockey et al. were using that episode in 13x12, though not totally clear how. They even cast the zombie Mom like Joyce!!

In any case, in 13x12 the sisters’ refusal to let their mom go was an example of the toxic sibling codependency that Rowena used to kill them (as they beat each other to death, one using a hammer just like demon!Dean). In 14x18 Jack’s desire to bring Mary back is an example of his being unable to cope with the reality of his actions and his fear of losing the Winchesters. That’s not toxic codependency, but it is a refusal to go through the stages of grief. There’s definitely something going on here--and going on about Moms--that I can’t pick apart now but want to (or hope someone else will!!).

On which note, my chemo fatigue has found me so I’m gonna sign off. Apologies for typos or lack of clarity. I have really missed doing episode notes, though, so maybe I’ll be back to it soon. I’m psyched to see how this season wraps up, how about you?

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drink-n-watch · 5 years

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Welcome back one and all. Have you been looking forward to this week’s Demon Slayer? We were right in the middle of a deadly fight after all. Sort of an awkward place to leave things. I know I wanted to see the conclusion. How about you Crow?

Absolutely (I say in bold print)! And — I don’t think is a spoiler or anything — we even get a brief replay of the final moments of the battle. In case we forgot. True to form!

Where are my manners… As always, I will be having the pleasure of discussing this episode with my friend Crow of Crow’s World of Anime and of course all of you! Not that there’s all that much to spoil, but we’re going to go into the episode in some detail, so if you haven’t seen it yet and don’t want to be spoiled, I suggest you tab out for half an hour or so and go watch it, Crow and I will wait. Also, I’m in plain text this week!

Are you proud of me Crow? I finally learned how to put all the proper disclaimers at the beginning of posts!

You can’t hear, but I’m clapping in appreciation. I knew you could do it!

I can hear it in my heart

Episode 9 wasted no time, we were brought straight back to Tanjiro and Yahaba

desperately trying to murder each other. I thought Yahaba was an interesting character, or at least potentially interesting. You know — interesting design, interesting power the creepy calm cryptic type. Triple C! But well, it turns out he was already done for! Were you hoping to see more of him, Crow?

Perceptive question! Yes, I was. There were hints of character richness there, to the point where I expected him to not be dead. It was only when his skull began to actually disintegrate that I figured yep, he’s dying.

awww man, that’s gonna leave a mark

I’m not sure exactly how it works but I’m assuming the water that Tanjiro summons is considered an extension of his blade since it could kill a demon. Did we get an explanation?

Not that I saw, but I agree with your theory. His sword’s water effects must be an extension of the blade, at least insofar as it affects demons. Back in episode 7, we saw his water powers rip the two under water (well, under swamp) demons apart, and they stayed dead. So I guess it’s the same thing?

I thought it was because they were shades maybe?

Despite get summarily dispatched, Yahaba actually managed to put up quite a fight for the few seconds he was still standing (well, less standing and more lying about evaporating…). I quite liked the aftermath. Like isn’t the right word. Seeing Tanjiro barely able to move from exhaustion and injury after his fight, just laying on the ground wheezing, went a long way to drive the impact of the confrontation home. I could almost feel it along with Tanjiro and what I felt was a great deal of relief with a sprinkle of pity and melancholy.

Wasn’t that great? So often, heroes walk away from a battle with a cut or a scrape. Tanjiro got pummeled, and he looked it. Were you impressed by how dedicated he was to getting to the other side of the compound where his sister and new friends were fighting? He took the sword in his teeth because his arms were too tired. Kinda reminded me of Violet Evergarden!

ok!

But of course, that was just half the story. Over on the other side of the grounds, the rest of them were trying to deal with Susamaru. I was a bit confused as to why Tanjiro was so panicked about this. Sure, Susamaru is very strong, but hadn’t they determined that she was weaker than Yahaba? And these were 3 demons she was dealing with. Then I remembered that Neuko was seriously injured, Tamayo seems to be a non-combatant, and my favourite Yushiro just grew back his head. Yeah…there may be some trouble there.

As happy as I was to see Nezuko alive and kicking(ha!) again, I have to say completely healing her off camera like that felt like a cop-out. Not only does it seem that she instantly recovered, but she can now kick those tamari without losing a foot, for… reasons. That’s a bit convenient wouldn’t you say, Crow?

If I had to point to one serious disappointment in this episode, it was that moment. You’re right! And as evidence, remember how Yushiro freaked out in the previous episode when Nezuko even looked like she was going to try to kick the ball? Sure, Tamayo said her serum gave Nezuko a power boost without human blood, but it seemed pretty dang convenient.

Though you’re also right about something else: Their soccer footwork!

just try to get one past me!

I liked that lightening of the mood by turning a battle for survival into soccer practice, it was a cute scene.

It was interesting seeing Susamaru gaining respect for Nezuko’s footwork!

Despite the fact that things seemed to be going quite well, Tamayo was worried. We learned two important facts. 1) Nezuko is gaining strength at a prodigious rate, especially considering she’s never eaten human flesh (allegedly) and 2) Susamaru was quite literally toying with them and Neuko wouldn’t stand a chance against her real strength. And so it was time for a grown-up to step in.

that hir is so perfect

Tamayo has been playing it coy. Standing back and acting very delicate. But she hasn’t survived all this time in defiance of Kibutsuji because she’s anything resembling weak. Her poise, power and words ripped through the unfortunate demon before she could realize what was happening. And those words struck a chord with me as well. Crow, do you think Tamayo was just trying to get under her opponent’s skin or was there some truth to that story of Kibutsuji living in fear? If so, it makes the character even more interesting!

There’s a lot to decompress from that moment, isn’t there? First, Tamayo has really impressed me. What a tragic character who chooses not to wallow in that tragedy but decides instead of fight in her own way to rid the world of a terrible evil. That’s noble stuff! Yes, I think she was trying to get under Susamaru’s skin (and doing an admirable job of it!), but I think there’s some truth to what she was saying. Remember in episode 8 where Kibutsuji was able to shrug off plain rudeness, but lost his temper completely when the poor drunk dude quested his unhealthy appearance? There was something driving that reaction, and I think it might have been an almost paranoid level of fear.

Good point…he did hate being called sick… hhmmm…

he’s afraid of responsibility!

Turns out the blood spell Tamayo was casting activated the Kibutsuji demon cells in Susamaru’s body and essentially destroyed her from within. Visually it was a visceral scene and possibly the most gruesome to date. It’s going to stick with me. And Tamayo calmly explaining that she had never been one of the 12 demon moons because she didn’t have a number on her eyeball, while pointing to sais stray eyeball on the floor, certainly didn’t make it any less gruesome!

[ A question: Was it merely Tamayo’s spell, or was there actually a curse from Kibutuji, where if a demon speaks his name, his cells within them rip them apart? Wasn’t Tamayo’s goal to goad her into speaking the name? I think that’s what I got from Tamayo’s description…]

I do know Kibutsuji’s curse gives him control over those who have his blood ad his cells eventually kill them. Didn’t they mention something about him keeping his identity secret and therefore making it impossible for other demons to give him away. That’s why the teeth grinding guy was so panicked a few episodes ago. I’m guessing that basically extends to speaking his name out loud. That’s how I’m taking it… I guess he is very paranoid!

Crow thought we should take his questions out but it’s good

Was that horrifying and pitiable all at the same time or what? The two demons had been deluded into thinking they were powerful and on the inside with the demon they revered, but nope.

In the end, Susamaru went like all the major demons have gone so far. Small, scared and pathetic. A lost child who ended up and a very wrong path. I understand why they are setting up this moral dilemma, trying to build up sympathy for the demons, but can’t we just have one of them that’s an actual bad guy? At this rate, I’m going to end up having a really difficult time cheering for the Demon Slayer Army.

Tanjiro’s parting words here were the final nail in the coffin (um sorry, poor choice of expression). There is no salvation to be had for demons. Their sins are too great, the burdens upon their souls cannot be lifted. A tragic realization that is sure to make Tanjiro even more eager to find a cure for Nezuko.

how?

I continue to like Tanjiro’s reactions. His push to understand puts him at odds with most of the other demon slayers we’ve met. At odds with the demons, too. He’s doing his own thing and he’s trying to maintain his core humanity at the same time. Tough balancing act.

You’d think that with those intense battles out of the way and all the useful exposition we got, the episode would be basically over. Nothing left but a quick, sweet wrap up to tie everything together in a nice little bow and send the audience away with a smile on their faces, ready for episode 11. In a way, it did exactly that! But it also did much more.

It was my favourite part of the episode.

Oh! Oh! I’m looking forward to this, because it was my favorite part, too! Go on!

all the cuteness

My two favourite characters are Yoshiro (because I love comedy relief and a proper foil character) and Nezuko (because I’m predictable). They both played important roles in this part. Yoshiro’s various intensely exasperated faces at getting patted on the head by Neuko, or at the horror of potentially taking Nezuko with them, were so much fun to watch. By contrast, the mundanely painful sight of seeing him wasting away from disease brought all the death we’ve been seeing back down to a terrifyingly relatable level.

What Irina didn’t tell you is that Tanjiro joined the other three in the basement after he’d finished with his vigil to watch Susamaru finally turn to ash. As soon as he entered, Nezujo ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. A perfect “awwwww!” moment. Then, she ran back down the hall and did the same thing to Tamayo! Even better, she patted Yushiro on the head! There was almost too much adorable in the room at that point!

awwwww indeed

For her part, Nezuko seems to almost be taking advantage of the suggestion she’s under. Relishing in seeing her family again. Overflowing with love for everyone in the room. Of course, the interesting part is that Tamayo and Yoshiro are not in fact human at all. But she’s decided to see them as such and therefore as part of the family. Which begs the question, how much is imposed suggestion, how much is willful self-delusion?

I really liked that Tanjiro finally addressed the question directly and acknowledged that he was uncomfortable with the situation as well, but that he’s accepted it because it seems that Nezuko has retained her free will. Thank You! That makes me feel so much better for some reason. Now we can all move on!

That free will bit? That was everything. It seemed to me that Nezuko is capapulting her mind off delusion into a greater truth: that Tamayo and Yushiro, by virtue of their choices, are in fact part of her family. It makes them human in the sense of members of the human community. I love that message!

when the lies are so sweet….

Tamayo and Yoshiro will be leaving town out of precaution, and Tamayo invites Neuko to join them, as they will know how to take care of her. Yoshiro is the one to watch in this scene. Despite acknowledging the wisdom of the offer, the siblings decide to stick together and Neuko runs out the door. Just as Tanjiro s about to run after her, Yoshiro calls him back and staying with his back to Tanjiro the entire time, admits that his little sister is a real beauty.

How adorable was that moment?

Very, very adorable! And did you see who drove the decision for them to stay together? Tanjiro wavered. He wants her to be safe as desperately as he wants her to stay beside him! But Nezuko took his hand and gave him a look that spoke volumes. It’s as articulate as I’ve seen her be so far!

that face!

If I remember correctly, Zenitsu was your favourite right Crow? Want to tell us about the closing scene?

Cool — thanks! Zenitsu is among my favorite characters in this series — and the list is growing! But, poor Zenitsu! Tanjiro’s on his way to his next assignment — his Crow being a real pest like only we Crows can be — when both of them stop because they hear this tearful voice. It’s Zenitsu! He’s begging this bewildered and disgusted girl to marry him because he could die at any time!

Zenitsu needs to work on his communication skills…

Where was his birdy?

Few away in embarrassment?

good guess

And another great episode down. Demon slayer has been consistently entertaining and does not seem to be losing momentum at all. I wish Tamayo and Yushiro could have stuck around a bit longer but I bet we’ll see them again. Any closing thoughts?

Isn’t Tanjiro supposed to gather tissue samples for Tamayo? Shouldn’t he have her forwarded address or something? Other than that, I’m still thinking of Tamayo’s tears as Nezuko hugged her!

Previous episode reviews

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 01: Cruelty

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 02: Crow will protect me

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 03: Sabito and Makomo

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 04: Final Selection

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 05: My Own Steel

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 06: A Friend fo All Humans

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 07: Muzan Kibutsuji

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 08: The Smell of Enchanting Blood

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 09: It’s a Whole New Ballgame

Hooray for more pictures!

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba Episode 10 – A Friendly Game of Kickball Welcome back one and all. Have you been looking forward to this week’s Demon Slayer? We were right in the middle of a deadly fight after all.

#action #anime #Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba #Horror #shonen #supernatural

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dear-dr-kenzo-tenma · 5 years

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Doctor Kenzo Tenma - TV Tropes

https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Characters/Monster

An Aesop: In-universe, he gives some of these.

Action Survivor: Dr. Tenma is initially an average person, insofar as a well-known brain surgeon can be average. The series' circumstances force him to become a hardened survivor.

Adaptational Attractiveness: In the manga, he starts off plain and downright funny-looking. The anime takes its cue from the later chapters' more adorable Tenma◊.

Adorkable: Before his badass upgrade made him stop being a doormat.

Adrenaline Makeover: Ahem.◊

All-Loving Hero: This is both a large advantage and similarly a large disadvantage to him because of the complex location on the Sliding Scale of Idealism vs. Cynicism that Monster inhabits.

The Atoner: As kind-hearted as he is, he sees his absolute biggest mistake as being something he alone can fix. And despite numerous opportunities he gets where he could abandon his self-set mission, he refuses every time. Johan: (Seconds after killing Junkers in front of Tenma) I was supposed to die that night. You're the one who resurrected me, doctor.

Badass Pacifist: He can take a beating, jump off a bridge to avoid confrontation, and save people's lives while avoiding the police and criminals alike.

Beware the Nice Ones: Tenma is kind and righteous, but false accusations force him on a path to become much more assertive.

Barbarian Longhair: Subverted, he's not, by any definition, a barbarian. But by most persons in the series, his long hair is perceived as ugly.

Beard of Sorrow: He is normally beardless, but after he learns about Johan's true colors, he attempts to grow a beard and overly disregards his appearance.

Beware the Honest Ones: Tenma's idealism turned out pretty bad for his money-grubbing boss.

Big Good: This is particularly evident in arcs where he is offstage or not the main character. In keeping with his nearly messianic role, by the end, nearly all the characters would do anything to protect him.

Break the Cutie: By all accounts, he's sweet and adorable, but his entire life was ruined by the actions of a former patient.

Care-Bear Stare: He frequently does this, illustrating his initial idealism.

Celibate Hero: Post-Eva, although there is some subtext involving Nina that may avert this. In Another Monster, it is explained that he was still quite the celibate during his high school years and even purposely didn't get together with a girl who liked him (and the feeling was somewhat mutual) merely because he was friends with her (cheating) boyfriend.

Character Development: He begins as a well-respected, compassionate doctor. Over the series, he becomes more driven and relentless.

Cheaters Never Prosper: Averted, though not soon enough for poor Gillen's complex. He cheated on a test in medical school, which made him excel, and caused jealousy in one of his classmates. This acquaintance later becomes an important character.

Chronic Hero Syndrome: Despite his goal of hunting down Johan, he'll never turn down helping a stranger, even if the person's a criminal.

Clear My Name: Averted. His reason for hunting down Johan isn't to clear his name, but rather to correct the error he made in keeping Johan alive.

Combat Medic: "This is the carotid artery. Even a ballpoint pen could kill him, if you pierce it in the right spot."

The Drifter: Justified, since he was a murder suspect and has to be on the run from the police.

Expository Hairstyle Change: Starts off clean-cut, but gets progressively more disheveled.

Extreme Doormat: He used to be very submissive to his boss and his fiancee.

The Fettered: His beliefs frequently make him question his mission.

Forgets to Eat: Quite frequently. At other instances, he'll bemoan the lack of soy sauce in Western cuisine.

Friend to All Children: The good doctor loves children, and he is perfectly willing to help them. He even formed an Intergenerational Friendship with Dieter, a kid.

Friend to All Living Things: He saved a hurt bird in the time he was training as a gunmen. Later, when he was talking with a former friend to all living things, a finch landed in Tenma's arm.

Gentleman and a Scholar: He is a highly-accomplished brain surgeon and an incredibly caring and selfless man.

Good Is Not Dumb: Well, he's good, and intelligent. Heck, he's a brain surgeon. Beyond fitting the literal trope title, however, Roberto underestimates him at one point because of his goodness and pays for it by losing the use of his right arm.

Good Is Not Soft: While a genius neurosurgeon, he is nice, humble and compassionate. When Johan becomes a threat, he takes a level in badass and takes a journey to stop him. Also, he doesn't hesitate to threaten people with his pistol if their actions endanger one or more lifes.

Grew a Spine: He decides to stop being the doormat of his fiancee and his boss after seeing the immorality of both (the fiancee is not that evil, but this counts).

The Heart: Tenma is the moral center of a morally complex series.

The Hero: He is inarguably the protagonist, and he's very heroic, motivations and rumination aside.

Heroic Resolve: Kenzo has one in his battle against Roberto.

Hero with Bad Publicity: Wanted for the very murders that he keeps trying to stop.

Honor Before Reason: Though he cares about the "right thing" rather than any type of personal honor.

Hospital Hottie: He has a cute appearance, be well-groomed or not.

Humble Hero: He never takes credit for his good deeds and maintains that all people are equal despite conspicuously being better than everybody else in every imaginable way.

Hurting Hero: He's haunted by the actions of a former patient, who destroyed his life.

I Can't Dance: According to Eva, Tenma claimed to not be able to dance. They stood and held each other on the dance floor instead.

I Just Want to Have Friends: According to Eva in Another Monster, he was chronically lonely and thanks to his workaholic tendencies, he was unable to make friends other than Dr. Becker.

Intelligence Equals Isolation: His medical capabilities make him isolated among peers.

I'm Not Hungry: When he was captured by the police, he refused to eat for so long they had to put him on an IV. Which doubles as Fridge Brilliance, as he was trying to end up in the infirmary in order to get in touch with Gunther Milch.

Inconvenient Hippocratic Oath. All the more so (or not) for being an integral part of what he comes to be about after the first episode.

Incorruptible Pure Pureness: One of the rare examples of this trope being pulled off successfully. No matter how complicated things get, he retains his idealistic views on humanity.

Just in Time: He saves Reichwein, who came VERY close to being killed by Roberto, just in time in episode 30.

The Last DJ: Both played straight and averted, in short succession. His integrity makes him lose his job.

Last-Name Basis: People tend to call him by his last name rather than his first name, even when they've got to know him well—including Nina and Eva (though the latter is the one that does it least).

Looks Like Jesus: His long hair and stubble look make him somewhat similar to Jesus.

Magnetic Hero: He's kind, charming, and persuasive.

Manly Tears: He does cry, but it doesn't make him appear weak; it showcases just how horrible his life gets, in spite of how much he tries.

Married to the Job: Noted constantly, one of his fellow physicians tried to hook him up with other loves, but he was more focused on his job.

Messianic Archetype: To counter Johan's Antichrist

Nice Guy: He's very nice and will help even his enemies. This is both a blessing and a curse, considering how dark the series is. It gets him a lot of friends, but it also gets him into difficult situations.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished: He helped Johan, and then he's framed for murder. Johan: I was supposed to die that night. You're the one who resurrected me, Doctor.

Parental Favoritism: It's mentioned in Another Monster that his father favored him, his youngest son, over his other brothers. However, his mother favored his two older half-brothers (who are unrelated to her) more than him.

Perma-Stubble: He grows one during his Expository Hairstyle Change.

Save the Villain: At first unknowingly, in the case of saving the young Johan from his asked-for bullet wound to the head. By the end, [spoilers] he does it again, this time intentionally, to defy Johan's point.

Screw the Rules, I'm Doing What's Right!: Thoroughly believes this, when he decides to operate on Johan's brain-bullet and disobey the director's orders to ignore the kid and work on the mayor's cerebral-thrombosis. He starts doubting himself, when he sees what Johan has become.

Skilled, but Naïve: Tenma's a surgical prodigy, but it's not his relative inexperience with a scalpel that gets him into trouble in the beginning. It's his inexperience with another aspect of being a doctor: hospital politics.

The So-Called Coward: "Tenma the Weenie! Tenma the Weenie! He peed his pants, too!" Even more so considering the full story given in Another Monster. After the first time the other boys scared him during hide-and-seek, Tenma decided to go through it again in order to conquer his fear. What ended up happening was that they couldn't find him and thought that he just went home, so when one of the mothers told them it was time to go home, they left Tenma by himself. When they found him still hiding in the abandoned yard at night, they probably stopped picking on him simply because he had the guts to do all that.

Technical Pacifist: Although he has no problem pushing, kicking, shoving, and threatening with violence, he has a hard time causing harm to others even if it is to defend his own life.

Think Nothing of It: Does not like to take credit for his achievements, e.g. denying that he'd saved the Turkish district.

Thou Shalt Not Kill: A personal philosophy that looks especially interesting when pitted against his initial tantrums of, "These people need to die."

Took a Level in Badass: Early in the series, after receiving weapons training from an ex-mercenary.

Trademark Favorite Food: Heckel notes that Tenma thinks that any recipe can be improved with soy sauce. And if the fandom on Tumblr has anything to say about it, sandwiches.

Turn the Other Cheek: Constantly, over and over again. He does this to his fellow doctors, as well as his enemies.

Übermensch: By the end of the series, although he starts out as a very clear-cut Last Man. His personal beliefs evolve over the course of the series. He becomes less conflicted, and more willing to do what's necessary.

Unkempt Beauty: He looks like a hobo and still looks very well. Even most fans think he looks better with the hobo look.

Unwitting Pawn: Used, reused, and subverted. A lot of his actions, even his goal are propelled and encouraged by Johan.

White and Grey Morality: How he sees the world.

Wide-Eyed Idealist: Determinedly and stubbornly so. Tenma is convinced that all life is equal, and that everyone can be saved. His beliefs put him at odds with nearly everyone, as he's one of the few idealists in the series.

Wrongly Accused: The whole plot is to save Johan who framed him in the first place, though he's more concerned about saving him and less concerned about being proven innocent.

source: https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Characters/Monster

#just for fun #and reference #Kenzo Tenma #Naoki Urasawa's Monster #Dr. Kenzo Tenma #Dr. Tenma #Monster tv tropes #Dr. Tenma tv tropes #analysis #op

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pass-the-bechdel · 6 years

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Orphan Black season four full review

How many episodes pass the Bechdel test?

100% (ten of ten).

What is the average percentage per episode of female characters with names and lines?

59%

How many episodes have a cast that is at least 40% female?

All ten have over 50% female casts.

How many episodes have a cast that is less than 20% female?

Zero, obviously.

How many female characters (with names and lines) are there?

Thirty. Nineteen who appear in more than one episode, twelve who appear in at least half the episodes, and two who appear in every episode.

How many male characters (with names and lines) are there?

Twenty-three. Fourteen who appear in more than one episode, seven who appear in at least half the episodes, and zero who appear in every episode.

Positive Content Status:

Nothing particularly awful for once, but nothing very exciting either (average rating of three).

General Season Quality:

An absolute chore to get through. This show has run out all its goodwill and the illusion that it is about anything more than overwrought plot drama just for the sake of it has been dispelled. The show has always given the impression of believing itself to be more intelligent and complex than it actually is, but it seems to have finally reached an insufferable fever pitch.

MORE INFO (and potential spoilers) under the cut:

I’ve said it before for various different shows and for various different reasons, but this, my friends, this is why we evaluate content instead of just writing up statistics. This season churned out not just female-led episodes, but a fully female-dominant piece from end to end, easily the most female-heavy season of tv we’ve had on this blog to date. But that does not fucking make it good television, not entertainment-wise, nor from a representation perspective. To clarify: I’m not suggesting that the increase in female presence is in any way responsible for the drop in entertainment quality, I believe the two are mutually exclusive. Representation-wise, the numbers are relevant insofar as I have definitely seen people try to claim feminist triumphs before on the grounds of ‘there’s a lot of women there’, and realistically we all know you’ve gotta ask for more than that. Being present at the table is only the beginning of the battle: if you are relegated to the end of the table, not given anything to eat (or not fed the same as the other dinner guests), not allowed to speak, or not listened to when you do speak, then your issues persist. Being expected to smile politely and just be glad you were invited at all is not how positive representation works. Orphan Black did not commit a litany of feminists sins this season, but neither did the abundance of women on deck achieve anything on a representational front, and I will not praise it for sheer numbers when it isn’t doing anything good with them.

This seems a necessary time to talk about differing standards of expectation in media, and specifically the rigorous demands placed on female-led stories to be ‘perfect’ or otherwise be derided as ‘proof’ that female-led stories ‘don’t work’. Society likes to use individual films/books/tv shows as stand-ins for all the media of like type that could ever exist - think of the endless supply of recent male-led superhero films, some of them excellent, some of them garbage, some of them wildly successful, some of them total bombs, and yet the spectrum of different qualities and receptions never colours the way people perceive the genre as a whole. Enter Wonder Woman, the first female-led superhero film of the current era, and the colossal make-or-break expectations for it as a movie, and for its female director, Patty Jenkins. All eyes were on Jenkins to prove that women could direct big blockbuster action movies - not to prove that SHE could do it, but that WOMEN could - and by the same token, the fate of any future female-led superhero films hung on the success or failure of that one movie. Now, in tv terms, Orphan Black was certainly not standing alone as THE representative for female-led television series, but as part of a minority movement it was and is still subject to the rigours of expectation; that it be good enough, successful enough to bring about more female-led shows in the future, that it convinces the Powers That Be that they can bank on female-led stories. The irony of raising expectations in order to demand the best is that of course, it stacks the deck. Women having to achieve twice as much as men in order to be considered just equal is part of why feminism exists. I bring all of this up because I am very wary of falling into this trap myself, and I need you all to know that when I judge Orphan Black for its lacking quality, it’s with full awareness of the potential double-standard, and not actually motivated by a frustration with the show for ‘letting women down’.

In last season’s review, I talked about jumping the shark, and I said then that I didn’t feel like Orphan Black had made that leap just yet. After this season, I’m reconsidering that assessment retroactively, and it’s because of Beth Childs. The premiere of this season was easily the strongest episode - arguably, the only strong episode - but it also kinda broke the show for me by revealing the fatal flaw: that they began the entire series by sailing over a rapid succession of Goddamn sharks. One ridiculously improbable event to kick off the whole narrative could easily be shrugged off and forgiven - many shows require such a conceit to get going - and Orphan Black got away with it at first by wrapping all its improbabilities into one package: Sarah Manning. The first and largest conceit is that Sarah just-so-happens to not only be present for Beth’s suicide, but that she has the opportunity to look Beth directly in the face and realise that they’re identical right before Beth face-plants a train. BUT THEN, Sarah takes Beth’s bag with all her ID, which Beth has conveniently set aside, allowing her to infiltrate Beth’s whole life. AND THEN it turns out that Sarah happens to be a gifted con artist of trained-spy proportions, both willing and capable enough to shrug on Beth’s identity based solely on the content of some home videos and a wardrobe change. Conveniently, Sarah is able to learn Beth’s mannerisms and accent well enough to approximate her successfully in front of her intimate partners and professional colleagues of multiple years, and she’s physically identical in weight and muscle distribution despite leading a distinctly less athletic lifestyle. I flagged all of these things back when they happened, but the show got away with them at the time because, after all, Sarah’s hustle is the entry-point into the series, so we go with the idea that we need to make that logical concession, just buy the bit, and we’ll get our entertainment in return. Problem is, season four goes and opens with a flashback episode to the time while Beth was still alive, and that busts the whole concession myth wide open.

For starters, the plot is already in motion before Sarah shows up. We do realise that back in season one as Sarah negotiates her way around the mess she’s gotten into, but again, we run with the idea that we needed Sarah’s entry to make the whole thing work. The flashback episode shows us how completely false that is - Beth has an entire web of intrigue that we could have been watching instead, and if we’d started the show with her it would have been less jumbled and filled with needless drama than the premiere with Sarah. Imagine if the show started with, say, Beth being contacted by MK for the first time. She spends the premiere fielding tips from this new anonymous source, investigating something whack and presumably Neolution-related, and by episode’s end she forces a meeting with her source only to discover that they’re genetically identical. Cue show. It’s clearer and cleaner than all the futzing around with Sarah taking over someone’s life and faking her own death and having family drama and Vic drama and then having a German shot in her car and not getting around to the actual clone-reveal until three episodes in, and it allows the narrative to build from a logical entry-point instead of dropping into the middle and having to field all sorts of technically irrelevant detail in order to sell the whole idea. The flashback episode gives us a vision of what could have been a far better, more focused, more atmospheric, and more character-driven narrative, still full of drama, but LOGICAL drama, the drama of unfolding a conspiracy and trying to work out what’s real in the clones’ lives, the drama of all of them getting to know each other and adjusting to the revelation of their identity, etc, etc.

I have railed often and increasingly at how Sarah creates outrageous and unnecessary drama and often complicates the story instead of helping to drive through it, and it’s such a big part of why the show is swallowing itself slowly: it’s so busy being melodramatic for the sake of it and revolving around a reactive character who generates more trouble than she solves, and that leaves us drowning in the middle of the whole thing when we should be headed for shore. The show doesn’t actually need Sarah, and revolving around her because she’s the one with the magical baby-making womb is kinda grotesque and harks back to the issue of representation, because if your show is about women not because they’re people but because they can (sometimes) birth babies, then you’re conforming to the age-old notion that while men can be anything and everything, women are only worth acknowledging if their biological functions are part of the story. I suspect I may have to discuss that particular issue in more detail once the series ends, so I won’t get into it further just now; the point is, Sarah is a needless complication who required extraordinary machinations in order to be part of the story in the first place, and that first act of shark-jumping set the stage for all the ridiculousness that has come since. The show stacked the deck against itself: it set a precedent of needless hyper-drama designed to make the plot look as twisty and crazy as possible, and it has focused primarily and increasingly on looping around itself with more and more excessive conspiracy and back-from-the-dead characters and medical marvels, as if the early narratives about what it means to be a clone (y’know, the stuff that was more centred on characters and their feelings and stuff? The good shit?) and how that situates you within the world and your sense of self was not good enough. I’m remembering with bitter fondness the season one finale, when it felt like the extravagances of the plot were brought together harmoniously into a thoughtful exploration of the clone situation. What a thing this show could have had if it cared more about having a heart than it does about ~shock twists~. Having had the bubble popped on just how pompously ludicrous it actually is, I don’t expect to ever return to those good times, but who knows? Maybe concluding the show will lead them to introspect and try to bring us home on something meaningful in season five. I have little faith in that, but I’m holding out a glimmer of hope, regardless.

#Orphan Black #Orphan Black season four #full season review #Bechdel Test #female representation

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tryingthisfangirlthing · 7 years

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Summary: On the run, Helen and Nikola pose as a young Swiss couple. They’re good friends, comfortable with one another; surely they can handle this for just one more night... Pairing: Helen Magnus/Nikola Tesla Rating: Everyone (though rating will go up in subsequent parts) Word Count: ~5k Contains: Vague and/or mild spoilers for S1E7 “The Five” and S3E17 “Normandy”, heaps of unresolved romantic and sexual tension, Helen and Nikola showcasing their multilingual skills, very surprisingly no wine this time considering this is Teslen

Many many thanks go to the lovely @tinknevertalks for her unending encouragement, putting up with my whinging as this exploded far beyond my expectations, and beta’ing this monstrosity. Honestly, this fic probably wouldn’t be happening without you. Thank you. <3

I have an amazing beta, but on occasion I’m a stubborn writer and (sometimes mistakenly) think I know best, so any mistakes are still all mine. ;)

This is Part 1 of what will be a multichapter fic, and you will be able to find the other parts on my blog under the tag “undercover teslen monstrosity” once they’re posted.

Helen set her suitcase down beside Nikola’s at the foot of the simple four-poster bed almost too small for two, and smoothed down the rumpled, hand-sewn quilts atop it. Shedding her coat, she hung it up carefully on the back of the door and combed her fingers through her dark, recently-dyed hair. Her companion sighed heavily as he idly tapped the worn, heavy wooden dresser, and cast a rather disparaging glance at the mirror cloudy with age and with a few swipes of dust, as if it had been only hastily cleaned. “I suppose this will do.” His flawless French did nothing to hide his exasperation.

Helen shook her head, switching to English now that they were alone.“They're being very generous letting us stay here, Nikola. The least you could do is seem grateful. Unless you'd prefer to camp outside again?” She glanced pointedly out the window, where the snow was falling even more heavily now, fat flakes catching on the windowsill.

“God, no.” He gave a shudder that was clearly exaggerated, considering he was still buttoned up in his long wool coat. “Really, Helen, hiding a vampire in the high Alps? I still can't believe that's your brilliant plan. You know I don't do well in the cold.”

“It's not as if you gave me much choice.” She shot him a cross glance, though by now this discussion was almost rote. “Switzerland is one of the few countries still neutral in this war. Or would you have preferred trying to pass the front in Africa? Or attempting to cross the Atlantic to South America?”

“Yes, actually.” He set his hands on his hips. “At least then I'd stand a chance of having ruins from one of the great civilizations nearby to study, pieces of my lofty ancestral history to occupy the long years of my impending exile.”

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “Well, it's hardly my fault you decided to send plans for a deadly weapon to all parties already involved in one of the worst wars the world has ever seen. I've done the best I could on short notice. The safe house has a laboratory, so you won't die of boredom, and we'll be there tomorrow. Try for once to make yourself actually useful and stay out of trouble for a while.”

His hand flew to his sternum, a wounded gesture. “Helen, you know I had only the most noble of intentions.” There was some ironic undertone to his voice he rarely seemed entirely able to shake, no matter how earnestly he meant his words, like now.

“You’re not the only abnormal who needs help in times like these.” Her tone softened slightly, without her entirely intending it to. “I have many, many pressing matters demanding my time and attention. I could do without having to rush to your rescue again anytime soon.”

“And yet here you are, with me.” His tone lowered, and she swallowed as he took a step closer. “My dearest wife.” A broad, slightly sarcastic smile spread across his lips as he accentuated the last word.

She rolled her eyes again, though it was a bit flattering exactly how much delight he took in their ruse. “There's no audience for you to play for in here, so you can drop the act.”

Something sad and soft flashed in his eyes, there and gone again so quickly she couldn’t properly identify it. “You never know what carries through the walls…” But he lifted his hands slightly, a gesture of surrender, and turned away to shed the coat, revealing his usual white collared shirt, waistcoat, and tie, somewhat rumpled from travel. He glanced down and frowned, pulling it straight and picking off a speck of lint.

Helen let out a slow breath, the familiar meticulous gesture prompting a wave of affection for one of her oldest friends. Stepping forwards, she laid a hand on his arm, only briefly. “Shall we go down for dinner?”

He offered his arm, as he had so often before — she stumbled out of the theater, nearly tripping on her skirt and holding on to Nikola's elbow for balance, half-drunk from the champagne and laughing far too loudly at something he’d said and not caring a whit, and she didn't quite dare believe that look in his eyes, slightly dazed and marveling and, yes, wanting, as his gaze lingered on her mouth, and she would never admit her own heart beat faster as she wondered what his lips might taste like, even as she guiltily remembered John —

Helen shook away the memory and set her hand in the crook of his elbow. “I see you've decided to be a gentleman tonight.”

“And I see your tongue is especially sharp tonight.” He arched one eyebrow at her, his tone deliberately sarcastic. “If our hosts didn't know better, they might think you didn't actually like me.”

“Then we'll fit right in as a married couple, won't we?” Her cheeky smile prompted a wry one of his own.

“You always were such a romantic, Helen.”

Flowers and a diamond ring from John, wine and a heavy compendium on known arthropods and their toxins from Nikola, given “just so I can borrow it from you later” with a wink... And a blue pendant that matched her eyes that she’d lied and told John she bought herself, though she always felt Nikola’s fingers at the nape of her neck when she put it on.

She tilted her head. “I’ve always found that best left to the men.”

Nikola laughed.

***

Their hosts were an elderly couple, in their sixties if not early seventies. Mathilde, the wife, still spry, flitted around the tiny kitchen like a little bird, putting the finishing touches on the meal — “Meat stew with potatoes, carrots, and onions,” Nikola murmured in her ear after a long, quiet inhale — and talked at least seventy miles a minutes in her heavy Schwiizerdütsch, seemingly heedless of whether or not she was actually listened to or understood. “We are so happy to have the pair of you here! It's good to see young couples here once in awhile — my daughter and her husband moved to Bern for his work — he is a professor, you know, very well-known for his work in physics —” Nikola snorted quietly, and Helen elbowed him — “but we do not see them so much now, especially not with the war on, they cannot travel so easily. I miss seeing my grandchildren, two lovely grandsons I have, strong and healthy — have you seen the pictures? Dieter, show them the pictures! They sat for a photographer three years ago. You did not say you were expecting, did you?”

Helen didn't let her difficulty following the torrent of words show on her face, but her replies were slow. “Oh, no, we're not.” The little embryo frozen in the vault of the London Sanctuary, under James’ watchful care, flashed across her mind, and she glanced away. The cat dozing atop one of the bookcases yawned in her direction.

Nikola laid a hand around her waist, pulling her a little closer against him, and replied in near-perfect dialect, “We haven't been married very long, my dear Sophie and I. And in times like these… We thought it best to wait. Insofar as one can with such things.” He brushed his lips to her hair, and for a moment she turned into the silently offered comfort. “Isn't that right, ma chère?”

Helen nodded, content for the moment to let him speak, and inhaled, resting her head briefly against his chest. She would miss him, these next few years, or even longer, perhaps, miss the way he seemed to always be able to read her, miss his optimistic curiosity, even miss his obnoxious company to distract her from her own thoughts when they took a melancholy turn, as seemed to happen more and more often these days. It was perhaps why she had allowed herself this week to take care of this particular mission personally — goodness knew her operatives, and Nikola himself, were more than capable — to say goodbye to him.

“But my parents are not so understanding. They had much to say about it this visit. I told my mother she ought to be content with my sisters’ children for now; God knows there are already six of them.”

Dieter, Mathilde’s husband, a stout, bearded man with an easy grin, stood from stoking the fire with a short bark of a laugh. “Oh, now you've made her jealous.”

“Over you, you old sack? Never,” Mathilde called from the kitchen, affection audible in her voice.

“Quite right, too: I'm stuck with you!” he replied, an easy grin splitting his face, and gestured for Helen and Nikola to approach. “Come see the pictures.” He seemed to consciously slow his speech a little for Helen's benefit; she offered him a smile of thanks. High German she knew, but the local, heavily accented dialect bore only little resemblance to the standard speech she was familiar with, even if she had been picking it up over the past several days.

“These are our daughter's children. Benedikt was two —” he pointed to the slightly blurry cherub of a boy giggling at someone behind the camera — “and Christoph was five.” The other boy was stocky already, the resemblance to Dieter obvious, but his serious, earnest expression couldn't have been more different. “That was taken six years ago. Our son finally had a daughter a year ago, but we haven't seen her yet. Mathilde is quite sad about that. It is a blessing for you you can travel at the moment. “

“My father is doing poorly,” Nikola lied smoothly, feigning stoicism, swallowing. “A disease of the lungs. It is not easy to travel, or cheap, but it was worth it to me. And I wanted him to have met my wife at least once.” He tightened his arm around her again, just a little, and she glanced up at him, catching a twinkle in his eye he suppressed quickly.

“Yes,” she added, “I was very happy to have met his family for the first time. I hope they felt the same.”

“They loved you, darling,” he drawled in French, his gaze dark and appreciative under hooded lids, and for a moment she thought he might actually kiss her. But he just pressed his lips to her temple, and her heart dipped a rib lower, for a split second.

“Food is ready!” Mathilde called from the kitchen.

The table was already set simply for four, a basket of rolls and salt and pepper shakers in the middle, and Mathilde ladled the stew into bowls and carried them to the table two at a time. Nikola pulled a chair out for Helen, and she thanked him with a small nod and a private, amused smile as he settled into the seat beside her and leaned in.

“Would it be terribly forward of me to rest my hand on my wife’s leg during the meal?” The tips of his fingers just barely brushed the fabric of her skirt, the whispered French words seeming to sear themselves into her skin with his heated breath on her ear.

“Yes, it would, Nikola, and you know it,” she responded, also in French, her tone equally low.

It was practically a rule by now — no unnecessary contact. They could touch, they could act for others, they could even share the bed because he wouldn't hear of her sleeping on the floor but he was liable to shiver himself awake without the warmth of several blankets (and the warmth of her beside him, though he only ever mentioned that in that slightly ironic, solicitous tone that meant he could pretend he was joking and she could pretend she thought he was, too). But they didn't kiss; they didn't indulge in physical affection for its own sake, not beyond a peck on the cheek. Nothing that might have implied them to be lovers.

It was something that had started in Oxford, toeing some invisible line, but they had never quite crossed it, even now that she was free of John, even now that the Sanctuary Network had more or less found its feet, even now that she suspected her lifespan might rival his — or perhaps precisely because of that.

He took her refusal with no ill will, drawing his hand back and sitting up straight as if nothing had happened at all.

Then Mathilde reached for her hand, to say grace, and Helen reached for Nikola’s. He shot her a disgruntled look, but he followed her lead nonetheless as she bowed her head. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ Our Lord,” Dieter recited quickly, rote, tacking on a quick, “And may You continue to bless this couple with safe travel. Amen.” Dropping his wife’s and Nikola’s hands, grabbing a roll, and picking up his spoon, he dug in.

Nikola glanced at Helen, lacing his fingers through hers and holding her hand several moments longer, his gaze practically daring her to say a word after he'd done that for her. His rocky relationship with religion — and with his late father the priest — was something she was well aware of, rockier even than her own. Their exploration of the bounds of science was far beyond what any church would ever dream of, let alone condone, and yet the wonder that their discoveries inspired was a sort of reverence in and of itself, she’d found, much like how she'd always felt in church at Christmas as a child. He didn't feel similarly, rejecting all semblance of piety.

She mouthed him a quiet “merci,” and, feeling almost daring, raised their joined hands to press her lips to his knuckles. His gaze immediately softened at the gesture.

They turned to their meal to find Mathilde watching them with interest. “Your husband is not much one for religion? Dieter is also not the most devout, but he is a good man, and one must take such men where one finds them.” She laid her hand on his leg, pausing for air.

Dieter glanced at her, his tone wry. “That almost sounded like a compliment, dear.”

Mathilde shook her head, running her hand up and down his leg. “Hush, you. You know I love you.”

He smiled to himself as he turned back to his food. “Love you, too.”

“Your husband seems like such a one as well, Sophie. And I remember Dieter learned to appreciate it a bit more over the years.”

Dieter didn't comment on this. Helen took the opportunity to reach for a roll and begin eating. Nikola did the same, though not before murmuring, so quietly even Helen could barely hear him, “I feel like a prize pig.”

“I’m certain you'd come first in the show for dramatics alone,” she responded in kind.

He huffed and turned his attention to pretending he was actually hungry for the meal in front of them, seeming to savor each bite, though she knew he was just attempting to reduce the amount of it he would have to eat. It wasn't that he couldn't eat normal food anymore, but most solids other than raw meat turned his stomach, and with a few exceptions for his very favorite dishes, he only endured it when he had to — like now.

“And it's sweet to see how he's so very obviously in love with you.”

Helen stopped at those words, if only for a split second. Nikola was in lust with her, she mentally corrected, and it was just a habit more than anything else, the remnant of a schoolboy's crush on the first pretty girl to pay him any attention. And he was a good actor, when he wanted to be. That was it. He was hardly in love — sometimes she wondered if he was even capable of that particular emotion. Absentmindedly, she ripped her bread to dip it in the broth, and then realized Mathilde had continued to speak, a certain glint in her eye.

“...reminds me of when Dieter and I were your age. He was quite smitten with me, and I — well, I found him handsome, but I didn't dare give him the time of day for many months.” She paused, for a moment, eyeing them.

Helen felt Nikola shift beside her. “And then what happened? How did you bring her around?” His tone kept its ironic edge, ostensibly out of deference to Mathilde’s presence, but Helen understood it for the provocative little nudge to her it was.

Determined not to react to it, she lifted her next spoonful to her lips. The stew could have used more salt, but she was all too familiar with rationing, and it was otherwise good food, hearty and filling, which was more than she could say for their last two hurried meals.

“Only if you then tell how you became a couple,” Dieter answered with a grin. “Mathilde and I love hearing a good love story and it's been too long since we’ve heard a new one.”

“That's fair. But I think I'll let Sophie tell ours.” Nikola's grin was obnoxious, and Helen was tempted to set her hand on his thigh just to unbalance him again. She settled for a stern side glance, though she knew it would have no effect at all, and was proven right. “She could stand to practice her Schwiizerdütsch, isn't that right, ma chère?” He laid his hand on her arm briefly, swiping his thumb over her sleeve in some semblance of an affectionate gesture. “It has improved over the past weeks, but while we were staying with my parents I or my sister sometimes had to translate.”

“I've not often been to the German-speaking cantons,” Helen offered, tight-lipped, by way of attempted explanation. “My family is from Lausanne.”

“It's understandable. Dieter and I speak no French — we have only ever left the village to visit our children's families. Good that there are people like Nikolas here who speak both. I admire that ability.”

Nikola lifted one shoulder modestly. “It was a function of necessity. Sometimes a young man needs many kilometers and a few years’ worth of space from his parents, and I could not do that only speaking Schwiizerdütsch.”

“Yes, our son thought for a while about emigrating to Italy.” Dieter’s expression clouded, and he exchanged a glance with his wife. “We are very glad now that he did not.”

“That I can imagine.” As Helen finished the last of her roll and began to reach for another, Nikola set the remains of his own on her plate, without taking his eyes off of Dieter across the table. “I would be very concerned for any children living in a nation at war, as well. It is a blessing we are able to maintain our neutrality.”

Helen murmured Nikola her thanks, not missing Mathilde’s broad smile at the sight, though it was for far less altruistic reasons on Nikola’s part than the other woman likely assumed.

“It is indeed. We are not entirely spared the effects of war, but I am far less concerned than I would be if Anna or Ralph were living in France or Germany or Italy.”

“Anna and Ralph are your children, I assume?” Helen asked before she slipped another broth-soaked bit of bread into her mouth. Turning his head to look at her, Nikola followed the food past her lips with his gaze, meeting her eyes and then sliding his focus very deliberately back down to her lips again. She wrinkled her nose at him as she chewed, asking with a quick lift of an eyebrow what he thought he was playing at, whether that was really necessary. His grin broadened, and he tilted his head to indicate their hosts. She shook her head to herself. God, he really was playing this for all it was worth.

Nikola let his gaze linger on her mouth for several quick heartbeats longer; she swallowed, and when he locked eyes with her again she couldn't help the smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“— and Ralph is thirty-one, only a little younger than you, if I may guess?”

Helen realized slightly guiltily that she'd only been half-listening to what Mathilde had said. “Ah, yes, you guess correctly. And my Nicholas is even younger than I.” Helen dragged her attention from the vampire at her side back to their hostess, despite her instincts to the contrary. Playful, gleeful Nikola needed careful monitoring, experience had taught her.

“And how did you meet?” Mathilde asked, ripping another bit of bread off her roll.

Dieter mopped up the last of his stew and scooted his chair back slightly. “Stay with us a little bit longer before you retreat into a book for the evening?” Mathilde set a hand on her husband’s forearm, and he nodded quietly, smiling. She leaned over to peck him on the lips.

Waiting to speak until she had their hosts’ attention again, Helen watched the exchange. She swallowed. If she were honest, she missed that casual, comfortable sort of intimacy. But her life was quite full, thank you very much, and there was James back at the Sanctuary headquarters in London, even if he had returned from that bunker in Normandy far more worn and withdrawn, not entirely broken but with reaching cracks. And yet… they had been growing apart, she knew, even before Normandy, both of them far too similar to one another, and with the Sanctuary Network becoming more established, needing less of her constant time and attention…

The slight brush of fingers against her hand on the table drew her back from her thoughts, and she glanced at Nikola. The frank, honest offer in his gaze — of friendship, comfort, his own vulnerability — was something he granted even her only rarely. She must have let her mask slip more than she had thought. With a soft, grateful smile, she laced their fingers together, allowing herself one split second to bask in the way the touch of his cool skin warmed her like little else she’d felt in the past months.

With a deep breath, she turned her attention back to their hosts, who were now waiting on her with quiet, pleased smiles on their faces. If she were seventeen again, she might have blushed. “You need not stay on our behalf. You've already been more than generous, and we're very grateful. We don't want to disturb your nightly routine.”

“Oh, no, I'm enjoying the company.” Dieter settled back in his chair with a smile. “And I would love to hear your story.”

She didn't exactly want to tell it, but she feigned a small smile nonetheless. “If you insist.” She glanced at Nikola, automatically, though they had both agreed to leave this part of their lies to her. Instead of the broad grin she expected, she found a quiet, attentive sort of longing in his eyes, one he quickly suppressed behind a smirk.

“Go on, ma chère. You always tell it so well.” There was the Nikola she knew so well, and yet… She was glad she'd devised all of this in advance, because her mind wasn't quite in it, haunted by her glimpse of that expression, her pronunciation awkward and halting.

“Well, my father is a tailor. He owns his own business, and Nicholas was — is still — my father's accountant. I'd seen him a few times around the shop, of course. And I thought him handsome, in his own way —” For her own sake, she knew she shouldn't look at Nikola, not right now, but the compulsion was practically magnetic. Their cover may have been a relevant reason, but it was only a feeble excuse for her gaze locking to his — and she found herself for once completely unable, or perhaps unready, to comprehend the look in his eyes. “His hair was always messy, then, from work. He used to run his fingers through his hair when he was concentrating —” She reached out to comb his hair up in the front, biting her lip fondly. He held perfectly still. “—And I don't think he even realized it.”

“I hadn't —” He swallowed. “I hadn't realized I was doing it. I didn’t realize you liked it. Do I still do that?”

She nodded, inhaling, pressing her lips together to hide the soft, hesitant smile she could feel surfacing. Her fingers still rested intertwined with his, and she felt her heartbeats dancing sparks through her veins. They hadn't been this close in a long while, not like this, not since Egypt, or perhaps Vienna, not since that time she had woken from a nightmare to find Nikola gently wrapping her in his arms, and had almost cried from relief.

Abruptly, she turned back to their hosts, clearing her throat. “I didn't think he would be interested in me. I was already thirty when we met, older than him, rather beyond traditional marrying age —” She smiled wryly at Mathilde’s brief, frank look of surprise. “Perhaps you thought a previous husband died in the war. That's not the case; I've simply always been… Well, rather particular, and a bit unconventional, I suppose.”

“She worked with her father, but on her own projects, her own creations,” Nikola broke in. “She's very gifted.” His tone was matter-of-fact and she glanced back at him, surprised to hear praise of anyone on his lips. His frame stiffened, as though he could sense her gaze on him, but he continued speaking to the couple. “Innovative, brave, precise… beautiful. It was through her work I first fell in love with her. The depth of her imagination, and her daring… left me speechless.”

He glanced at her now, and the truth she saw in his eyes made her inhale sharply. Softly, she squeezed his hand, and he nodded.

“I —” She broke her gaze away, but not looking back at their hosts just yet either. “It was at a local dance when he asked if I would dance with him.” She was not normally this ineloquent; he would likely tease her mercilessly later, and she focused on the story again. “When I thought he might actually be interested in me.” A sky-blue dress, heavy blonde curls down her back, standing on the sidelines and trying to not look too bored as she ran through equations in her head and the band played a reel, only here because John had asked her to be — but he was late. A gentle brush at her elbow, Nikola at her side, asking if he might have this dance — she wasn't even aware he knew how to dance, obnoxious brilliant man with his working class upbringing and his head in the clouds so much of the time — agreeing because it would be better than standing and waiting alone. His touch a deft, sure guide through the steps — she couldn't help but compare John’s somewhat heavy-handed fumbles — Nikola for once the perfect gentleman, an awestruck, parched look in his eyes that made heat rise in her cheeks...

“We spoke more often after that,” she murmured. “And then he asked —” Another glance at him, as she drew in a deep breath, suddenly needing air. “He asked if he might court me.”

“Good old-fashioned gentlemen are hard to come by these days.” Mathilde nodded as if to punctuate her own point, her hand now resting on her husband's back. “I'm sure you said yes.”

“Not at first.” A tight smile on her lips, Helen determined to keep her eyes on their hostess for the rest of the story. “I wasn't sure — I'd had a previous beau who was — far less than the man I thought he was.” Dieter frowned briefly, Mathilde clucked her tongue in sympathy, but it was the quiet brush of Nikola’s thumb over the back of her hand that she noticed most. “But we worked together, and he respected me, and made me laugh, and I finally realized… If I wanted to be with anyone at all again, properly — I wanted it to be him.” Exhaling, she pressed her lips together, and tried to smile. That had sounded more like a confession than she had really meant for it to; she and Nikola weren't — they wouldn't work, not like that —

Nikola unlaced his fingers from hers; she looked at him, almost startled. A delighted glint in his eye, he tucked a small strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger on that sensitive spot on the side of her neck, and she shivered.

“You don't have to play quite so much,” she murmured to him in French, but the intended rebuke was absent from her tone.

Still, he seemed to have heard it anyways; he sat up a little straighter, letting his hand fall, the French sliding slightly sharply from his tongue. “I'm not always playing, H—” He stopped himself from using her name just in time. “Was all of that a lie?”

“Nikola…” She herself wasn't sure if it was a plea or a reproach.

The scrape of chair legs on the wooden floor sounded somehow too loud in her ears, and she glanced over to Mathilde beginning to gather up the dishes. “Oh — let me help!”

“No, no, sit with your husband. You are our guests!”

Nikola was already rising, though, handing Mathilde his bowl with a quiet smile, and reaching for Helen's to give her as well. She passed it to him, standing herself. “Are you sure? You cooked already. I'd like to help clean up.”

Mathilde stopped a moment to look at her, a shrewd glint in her eye. “If you really want to, thank you for the help.”

“I would.” Helen smiled at her, gathering up the last of the dishes from the table and following her into the kitchen.

Behind her, she heard the chair being pushed back in against the table and Nikola’s voice, “Yes, I've always been good with numbers. And what is it you do?”

#teslen #sanctuary #teslen appreciation week #tinknevertalks #viennainspringtime #rinari's fic #undercover teslen monstrosity

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