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shihalyfie · 3 years

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@atsoraasayoma replied to your post: “The paradox of the relationship between Takeru and Hikari”

Considering how passionate the fanbase is for Takeru and Hikari as a ship this has been handled very delicately and is very forthright. All things considering I never realized they did not really know each other and got to know each other more until after they met with their jogress partners and actually started opening up more to each other. Now, I have to ask this question because I grew up with the English dub here and did not learn about the Japanese versions of these two since I was much older. I know you have not been particularly fond of Tri as it throws a wrench in the whole franchise, but considering that do you believe their relationship in Tri gives credence even more to the possibility of them getting involved in a romantic relationship? (I have read your extensive critique by the way. Very impressive.) And while I am it it seems to me they do have a large degree of familiarity with each other in zero two and their relationship keeps building in closeness throughout the series. They were merely acquaintances in zero two but a lot of times she has deferred to Takeru for help rather than the others and has great confidence in him (more so in English version anyway but still). As a diehard takari fan myself since my youth (and having no concept of the differences of ages of the characters between dub and sub at the time) I wanted to ask you all things considering the epilogue I had theorized that that since the epilogue does not show who their partners were their was a possibility that they could have actually gotten married, however I learned much later in life the director said in an interview they did not. Considering all of THAT do you think (minus the interview) they might change this if they make a kizuna sequel? Since they do lean heavily towards them being together (in my own warped sense probably yes, but I am not the only one) or if they do if they will leave it still ambiguous (It all depends on the director?)?

I’ll bullet-point my responses here:

I would like to reiterate that my reason for not including tri. in these analyses is that tri. and Adventure/02 are in such stark contradiction to each other (especially in regards to 02) that I will have to retroactively take a knife to the consistency of my own analyses just to make it work. It’s not relevant to my personal sentiments of whether I like or dislike the series; I’d have tried to make it work if I could, even if I disliked it (I have said multiple times that I don’t necessarily agree with all of the creative decisions I analyze, and I even have positive sentiments about Daisuke’s V-Tamer chapter even if it doesn’t track with his character). In this case, tri.’s portrayal of the two characters in question and what makes them “interested” in each other runs contrary to the nature of how they were portrayed in 02, so I honestly feel that I can’t say “tri. says that it’s possible for them to hook up after 02″ because that requires them to completely ditch everything we knew about their characters to make that setup even possible (and, to be a bit blunt about it, I’m frankly extremely doubtful that the higher-up staff on tri. even watched 02 to begin with or referenced anything beyond a SparkNotes-esque summary of it). I have to work with a version of the two characters who are as bad at communicating with each other as they were at the beginning of 02, a Takeru whose behavior and way of reacting to things that impact him run contrary to his portrayal in 02 and everything Iori helped him with, and a version of Hikari whose world revolves around her brother to the point she’d rather everyone die than she get to be with him (which is the exact opposite of the problem presented in 02, that she’d rather doom herself by doing nothing and not burdening others, including her brother). It also requires assuming that the two characters would be able to so cheerfully cut off everything regarding their other friends in 02, when so much of the series’s theme was about how influential the other four were in them opening up. Therefore, if I want to talk about “Hikari and Takeru in 02, and what their future would be like if they decided to take things in a romantic direction”, I honestly cannot believe it would be for the reasons presented in tri. instead of something more consistent with what we saw of them in 02, and figuring out some way to make it work would require mental loops to the degree that I’m not particularly willing to do. Therefore, I will not consider them in the same analysis. If someone else wants to do it, I invite them to, but I will not be the one to do it, because my priorities are with Adventure and 02 and everything that works alongside it.

My last rewatches of the Japanese version of 02 didn’t give me a particular impression that the two of them hold each other in that much regard over the others, to be honest. A lot of the Japanese dialogue revolves around the fact they don’t talk about their feelings or impressions about anything, to the point it’s borderline unnerving because you don’t understand what they’re thinking. That’s a plot point, because their Jogress arcs revolve around the fact that Miyako (who figured that Hikari must be secretly holding something over her) and Iori (who’s initially confused by the duality of Takeru’s “kindness” and sudden explosive outbursts) don’t actually “know” them as well as it initially seemed, and are the right Jogress partners for them because they have the sort of personalities who can break through those initial walls. Yamamoto Taisuke, Takeru’s own voice actor, commented on Takeru being a little “scary” because he’s “thinking about a lot of things” that he’s not being honest about (this presumably being something he can say because he was likely given clear directions to make sure a bit of “dishonesty” came off in his performance of Takeru). Since the English dub added a lot of dialogue in almost every direction (and, through no likely fault of their own, made a lot of assumptions they probably shouldn’t have), it’s probably a major reason for the disparity in impressions we have.

Regarding the epilogue and the infamous interview in question: Kizuna was overseen by Seki Hiromi, the original Adventure/02′s producer (not director), who was the same person who gave that fateful May V-Jump interview and was very firm about the epilogue holding. I don’t think anything she said discounted the idea of them two experimenting with a romantic relationship in the future; it just means that it didn’t end up going forward long-term. Adventure and 02 were very dedicated to modeling human behavior in ways similar to how it works in real life, even if it ran contrary to expectations in media, so the reality of the situation is that “childhood friend” relationships like these very rarely end up in long-term relationships and marriage down the line, because while a long-term partner should be someone you trust and can communicate with through good times and bad, “trust”, “comfort around each other”, “mutual emotional awareness”, and “romantic attraction” can all often be very different things. That two people can have a perfectly meaningful relationship with trust and admiration for each other that does not end up in a long-term romantic partnership is arguably more common than the converse (unless we want to imply that everyone has feelings for their closest friends?) -- real life will give you people with mutually trusting relationships who talk about all of their problems with each other, but have zero feelings for each other at all whatsoever, and then one will develop a crush on someone they barely even know because they’re “attractive”, and then start dating them and figure out the part of getting to know each other after the fact, and there’s no sin in that. I think it’s certainly foolhardy to deny that they had a relationship of good esteem, but whether that necessarily has to imply romance is the question for the ages, and is the likely cause of the divide between those who see it embedded in the whole series and those who don’t see it happening at all. So as a result, to be honest about it, I don’t get the impression that baiting the ship was the 02 staff’s intention, regardless of how it came out -- being really terrible at not realizing that the audience would read it differently is a very common theme with 02 -- and that’s why things ended the way they did (but of course, I don’t think that should stop those who ship it from coming up with their own outcomes).

I am not particularly holding out for a Kizuna sequel at all (as much as I’m apprehensive about how much they love to milk this, they themselves have been hinting that we shouldn’t be holding out for it), and if there were one, I’m also not sure they want to open the wound further after the controversies surrounding ship baiting in tri. and the fact that it’s unlikely they’ll want to depict anything that wasn’t in the current canon epilogue (and look how hesitant Kizuna was to portray anything particularly groundbreaking with the actual canon ships). I think, personally, the biggest fear I would have about a future entry dealing with the ship (well, beyond the fact that I really don’t want to see a future entry at all) would be that it might all too easily end up with an external party doing it to pander to the ship’s fanbase instead of paying proper care to retaining the integrity of their characters and character relationships; for me it’s not really about there being the ship or no ship as much as I care that it’s done in a way believable for their characters and not just for the sake of having it. It’s not that I think an external party making it would necessarily go off the rails -- I think the tri. stage play is a fantastic example of an external product executing this tastefully -- but lack of original staff involvement is now considered a “massive red flag” after tri.-related controversy, and Kizuna having Seki and Yamatoya’s presence was a hugely advertised part of it (and they still couldn’t escape controversy when Kakudou stepped off), so I think Toei is likely to be very cautious about how they go about this from now on.

#atsoraasayoma #tri negativity #shiha's ask box

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barnesandco · 4 years

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White Feathers and Melting Wax

Bucky’s trigger words are redefined with Sam’s help.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2020. Word count: 7029. Square filled: “Mutual Pining”

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Violence, mentions of blood, questionable food preferences (blame Hasan Minhaj), slight language, nightmares, slow burn, fluff that will make your teeth ache, cliche ending.

A/N: This one is dedicated to @searchingforbucky because I saw her post something about how much she loves SamBucky, which gave me an idea for my SSB, and one thing led to another, so long story short, this story is for you, Meg. Thank you for providing an invaluable and unimaginably difficult service to our fanfic community - you’re a real gem.

It’s Armageddon. Hell on Earth, as if its crust has been made to split open, and all that fury and heat and horror, alongside creatures that nobody could conjure in their worst nightmares, is pouring out. Taking revenging for millenium upon millenium of imprisonment, it is biting and scratching and clawing its way through the best of humanity, bringing out the worst of humanity – the murder, the anger, the rage – in the process. Wakandan skies, once bluer than the surface of Lake Tiorati on a July day, are raining ash and smolder.

Sam’s arm is bleeding. A particularly agile alien caught the bared portion of his bicep – stupid, stupid, uniform design – and blood drips as he tries to increase his altitude, and find a better angle. Steve notices him from over the shoulder of his own opponent – of course he does, Steve never misses anything – and frowns in a moment of concern that the enemy recuperates in, because Sam is now a more visible target, but he is also good at math. The risk-benefit calculations are telling him that it’s worth it, and the glint of gun-metal fingers he sees in the distance, the owner of which is struggling to cope with half a dozen demons, confirms that.

Barnes is doing the best he can, teeth bared as he attempts to fend them off with a very impressive, but near-empty machine gun and a dagger that’s doing more harm than good. Moments away from defeat, and from an unholy death. His hair is nothing but a second skin sticking to his face and scalp with sweat and monster slobber. Should’ve tied it back, Rapunzel, Sam has time to think before landing in the thick of it. Growls and roars and snarls mix as he manages to join backs with Barnes, both at each other’s six, until nobody can tell which battle cries are animal and which are human. He must be longing for a fight like the one at Leipzig now.

Within minutes, the horde has thinned, but not ended, seemingly infinite in magnitude and strength, and they’re still fighting. The pain from his arm has dulled to an aching throb, lulled into faint numbness by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and has joined the other innumerable wounds that litter his body. He can hear Barnes’ gun behind him, like bass-boosted fireworks. It’s a square dance – an intuitive one rather than practiced, because he knows his partner as well as he knows what else the cosmos might hold for them - his back against Barnes’ as they parry and spar with each of their individual opponents. A twist and a turn, a lucky, peripheral glimpse at someone trying to blindside the other resulting in as short a tight-lipped nod as they can afford to convey their gratitude.

Sam’s stomach is sinking, he wants to throw up in the face of the evil creature he’s fighting; the scent of ozone an impending warning. They seem to have understood that the winged man and his metal-armed companion are a threat, and a ring of them has coordinated to close in around them. Sam finds a gap in which to press the for emergencies only button on his control panel at the same time as Barnes’ unleashes a series of small grenades in his arm.

The wings leave Sam’s back and turn to lethal blades, spinning like a deadly boomerang around them, and his ears ring when the grenades detonate. In the eye of the storm, Sam and Barnes are safe, but shooting adrenaline-deaf and fear-blind, the battle overcoming their every sense and soul. When the smoke clears, there is a moment of quiet amidst the terror, where sparrow brown meets ice blue, framed by blood spatter, and they quirk the sort of intrinsic, basic, smile at each other that can only emerge from overcoming something inexplicably tremendous as one unit. But then the moment ends.

Barnes shouts – an unintelligible sound of shock - and the sky cracks like an egg.

---

Bucky wakes up in an open field, the sky the color of egg yolks, golden, glistening, nourishing. For a moment, he thinks he’s still in Wakanda, the threat miraculously eliminated, but then he gathers enough strength to sit up and note the absence of obsidian skyscrapers in the distance. He can’t evaluate any other landmarks before his eyes lower to the ground he’s lying on and realize that he’s not alone. Scores of bodies litter the grass; his stomach flips and writhes, and he turns onto his hands and knees and heaves up the contents of today’s – is it still today? – breakfast. Closes his eyes to shut in the water that elicits. When he opens his eyes, the vomit is gone.

Moreover, his hands are clean. Not a trace of blood, dirt, and death on the metal or the accents that run across it like tributaries of a golden river, nor on the white skin of his human limbs. In fact, it looks like it’s been scrubbed pink, his epithelium infused with roses. There is no risk of tears now, the surprise so visceral he knows not how to treat it. It doesn’t lessen when something stirs, in the corner of his eye, and he stills the scream in his larynx just long enough to recognize the shape of Sam Wilson, his dark-brown skin shimmering topaz in the sunlight they seem to be laying in. A sigh of relief – intuitive, subconscious - loosens Bucky’s shoulders. He’s not as alone as he might have thought. Sam is confused, too, and he stands up quickly, reaching for a gun that isn’t there.

Bucky waits, knowing better than to scare him as he reorients himself, and watches as Sam grapples with the black trousers and shirt he finds himself wearing instead of the weapons he’s seeking. Others move, and Bucky – not knowing where this cold peace that fills his lungs is coming from – finds it prudent to speak up now.

“Wilson,” is still all he can say, but it’s enough. That one word, two syllables, six letters – sufficient to erase the taste of rusted blood from his mouth. Sam turns to him as others call for their loved ones, the amber gold of his irises meeting his icy ones. Bucky doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know how he got here, he’s so tired dammit, but if this man – this man who has defied law and land for the people he trusts and the values he holds, this man who he knows nothing about besides the fact that he has a moral compass like the North Star – if this man has his six, they can fight their way out. Sam’s eyes and Bucky’s brain tell him that this isn’t heaven or hell or purgatory. They’ve both seen too many prison walls to not recognize more, be they grey concrete, the insides of their own skulls, or a vaulted arch of sunshine above their heads.

---

Clouds have built and gone grey-black, iron heavy, and are preparing to mourn the loss of a good man, but not a single tear escapes Sam’s eyes the day they bury Steve. Old, feeble, fulfilled Steve, that is, who passed on to wherever noble souls go. Bucky couldn’t make himself give the eulogy, so it was, like the mantle of Captain America, passed on to Sam. Sam, who has spent every other day of the past year on the porch of his house with Steve’s wisdom and wit, and knew him better than Bucky who forced himself to make a trip every week.

Bucky, who now stands in front of his tombstone, head bowed and brow furrowed, couldn’t make himself reconcile this Steve with the one he knew. Sam doesn’t fault him that, would never give himself any right to. They’ve all seen some shit, but he can’t bring himself to even touch the tip of the iceberg that weighs on his companion’s shoulders. He’s tied his hair back into a bun at the nape of his neck, chestnut waves tamed to an orderly presentation. Domestic, even. Sam looks behind him and through the graveyard gate at the sound of a car door shutting, as Sharon gets behind the wheel and smiles at him, her own tears long gone, before making her departure.

Intentions to give Bucky his silent farewell are also interrupted by that background sound, and he turns to look at Sam, whose heart leaps to his throat at the sight of him. He’s been seeing him all day, but the veil of public appearance has fallen, and Bucky – Sam reprimands himself for the morbid comparison – now looks like as much of a skeleton above the ground as those under it. He’s pale, eyes not hollow but sad. His hands clench and unclench, reflexively, protectively, drawing Sam’s gaze. Those knuckles must be sore with how tightly the ghost-white skin over them is stretched. Sam’s own hands are in his pockets, and he looks back at Bucky with the warmth of seventeen bonfires.

A desperate attempt, futile in result and heavy in empathy, to ease some of the hurt, the hurricane that Sam is certain is throwing Bucky’s insides around like a rag doll. Bucky’s recovering, he’s better now, he’s working to be alright, and it’s working, but climbing the glaciers of his trauma is a Herculean task. Which, now that Sam thinks about it, can only be accomplished one step at a time, like any other. Ice melts a drop at a time.

“Hey, man, how are you feeling?” He says, approaching him, clasping a hand on his shoulder. To anyone else, the question might seem insensitive – his best friend, or this new version of him – has just been buried, of course he’s not feeling good, but their language is like that. Straightforward. Blunt and no-nonsense, but layered with understanding that has come to be through shared experiences and an emotional connection that speaks more between them than any words they exchange. Bucky turns back towards the tombstone, and Sam, too, looks at the epithet of Steven Grant Rogers, beloved husband, father, and friend. Human, not superhuman, in the end, the way they all want to be. They way they long to be acknowledged as.

“I’ll be alright, Sam. Just a little confused,” he answers eventually, after a long-suffering sigh. Sam is relieved, because the hope in Bucky’s voice is the best he could want to hear. And the fact that even now, when articulating what he feels must be the hardest thing in the world, he still manages to, as honestly as he can. Honesty is the beacon Sam’s heart searches for, and he’s found it here. It’s incomplete sometimes, and offered in brief words because Bucky isn’t always fond of sharing, but it’s always the truth.

“Me, too. Me. Too.” Sam nods in agreement, thinking of the muddle of thoughts and prayers and desires in his mind, as the first drop of rain falls from a steely sky, washing away old wounds, cleansing their skins for new ones.

---

The mass of blue-black ink that is the night sky is the first witness when Bucky starts writhing under his sheets.

He’s stuck in the cold. Not the glass walls of the cryochamber he knows so intimately, no, he’s buried in snow up to his neck. The unending scene of the icy mountainside stretches out before him, like a postcard from a nightmare, and he can’t move. Tries to wiggle his toes, and the snow bites and nips at his feet. Hands are frozen to his sides, and the panic starts to claw at his chest. Icicles seem to have wedged their way between his ribs, and pain sears through his abdomen.

He screams. An echo. He screams louder, hot tears turning to ice halfway down his cheeks. He screa-

Eyes the color of the first hour of daybreak appear inches from his sweat-stained and misery-sodden face, and he sits up, almost hitting Sam’s head with his own. His breathing is broken, every inhale cuts at the inside of his lungs, and every exhale tears at his trachea. Sam, trying to fix that, takes Bucky’s clammy hand in his calloused, safe one, places it over his chest.

“Breathe with me, c’mon,” he urges in a midnight rasp, exaggerates his breaths, and Bucky follows the movements he is making. Follows the way Sam’s bare chest, dusted silver by moonlight, rises to accommodate the air he takes in. Follows Sam’s eyes, the silent plea they convey to do as he does, holding that breath. Follows the release, pretends that he can hear the breath traverse his trachea, and exit his lips as his mouth parts to release it. Bucky’s calmer now, eyes fixated on how Sam’s tongue peeks out to lick his lips, the lush pillows of light brown now shining wet. It’s only when they start moving that Bucky’s gaze returns to Sam’s eyes, and his words reach his ears.

“You haven’t had one that bad in ages.” It’s a fact. A statement, an accurate observation, but because few serious words ever go wasted between them, it is also an open assertion. An invitation for Bucky to say more, with the option to nod and agree left on the table.

“Yeah, it was. I’ll be alright, though, Sammy. Thanks,” he responds, and Sam nods warily. Sits back on his haunches, knees digging into the mattress.

“Good. Do you, uh…” He scratches the back of his head. “Do you want me to stay?” He asks, and Bucky is suddenly, keenly aware of how close they are. He swings his legs over the edge and stands on shaky knees, hiding the blush that originated from fear and adrenaline and has been maintained by something he can’t name or explain. A nervous laugh as he makes his way to his dresser and pulls out a fresh pair of sweats.

“No, no, I’m going running. There’s no way I’ll fall asleep right now, and it’s almost dawn anyway.” Bucky waits in front of his bathroom door. Hears Sam get up and make for the door.

“Alright, Bucky. I’d go with you-“

“You pulled that muscle yesterday, yeah. It’s okay, don’t worry about me,” Bucky says, and when the door shuts behind Sam, rushes to the bathroom to wash off the watercolor that interaction painted across his cheeks. Gripping the granite vanity with both hands, he watches it drip off, eyes radiating a bewildering plethora of emotions. Hears the nightingale depart from his bedroom windowsill, and fly off into the night.

---

It’s a beautiful morning, punctuated by the dot of the golden, glowing Sun in the distance, but Sam doesn’t have it in him to appreciate the first sunshine after a spell of rain. Sam is disgusted. Horrified, mortified, petrified by this new development. He didn’t think the former Winter Soldier could get any scarier when he wanted to be, but he has grossly underestimated the cruel ways of his best friend. Anyone without a direct line of sight into the cereal bowl in front of Bucky would not know what he’s so upset about. But Sam, standing at the stove on the kitchen island across from Bucky, watches in horror as the latter lifts a spoonful of dry-as-the-Sahara-desert Froot Loops to his mouth, chews, and then takes a sip from a glass of milk.

To say that Sam regrets introducing Bucky to sweet breakfast cereals in an effort to sate his incurable sweet tooth is a severe understatement. When Bucky had disapprovingly forced down soggy, sweet Froot Loops the morning before, and grumbled about the disgusting experience for the rest of the day, Sam did not think that this would be the solution. He thought he’d be forced to finish off the rest of the box, and dreaded the toothache that would follow.

“I’m eating it like this, or not at all.” Bucky finally addresses the outrage written all over Sam.

“I think I prefer not at all,” he says gravely, his tone out of sync with the cheery scent of sunny-side-up eggs that his words waft across to reach Bucky.

“Too late, I love these,” Bucky says through another mouthful of dry cereal. He’s intentionally pushing as many buttons as he can at one time, a master at multitasking his way to maximum irritation. Sam shudders. Puts his eggs on a plate and goes to sit down next to Bucky at the island, one stool between them. Saturday mornings after a good night and a better workout are a good look on Bucky, as much as he hates to admit it.

Aureate beams of bubbling sunlight illuminate his side profile, his cheekbones glowing rose-gold and light dispersing through a bead of water that slides down his temple. All of a sudden, Sam isn’t hungry anymore. The last bite of his first egg feels like clay in his mouth, and he empties his glass of water in one go. Bucky looks up from his almost-empty bowl – thank God it’s almost over - and looks at Sam with concern. It takes all of Sam’s power, and then some, to tear his eyes away from Bucky’s teeth biting into his pink lower lip, and up to his blue eyes.

“You okay, man?” He asks, and Sam nods.

“It’s nothing, just got lost in thought,” he answers, and he’s being truthful. Doesn’t know what came over him, just that the slow surveillance of Bucky’s features led him down a different path than it usually does. They’ve always watched each other cautiously, know each other’s movements with the kind of precision that makes you wonder if the haven’t known each other for centuries rather than years, a couple of which were spent in animosity. Bucky’s eyes flit between his again, and they find nothing to prod at further, so he returns to his cereal.

Sam hurries to finish his breakfast and clean up after himself, before heading back to his room with a half-coherent excuse and a heat in his cheeks too hot to be caused by morning sunshine. Thanks God for melanin and for intimate knowledge of the super-soldier hearing range on his way down to the garage.

The rumble of the car’s engine is a relief, and the first breath he takes off the premises of the compound even more so. A little guilt nibbles at him, but it would’ve eaten him alive if he didn’t know that Bucky intended to work on the plans for the library today, and so he keeps driving.

Sam isn’t stupid. That furnace warmth, the magnetic way Bucky’s being drew his gaze, it’s unmistakable. In his sound head and solid heart, he knows what it is. And that’s why his heart is beating so fast, why it won’t take a goddamn break around those blue eyes and sunny smile. Sam is too self aware to be too stupid, too blind to his feelings. He’s just nervous. A cup of coffee from his favorite place downtown won’t do much to settle, but it will give him room. And he needs room.

Because Sam has never done this before. Never acted on feelings for someone who he can’t afford to lose. Maybe, the risk-benefit balance is not tipping in his favor. However, he can’t say for sure, if he knows what result is in his favor anymore. Is the torment of this schoolboy crush worth not risking his friendship?

Sam exhales through his teeth, and looks out the window. Decides to go flying when he gets back in order to clear his head. Maybe that canopy made from blue satin holds the answers.

---

Birds are chirping on the balcony railing, their silky brown bodies picturesquely contrasting against the cottony blue sky behind them. Pretty enough to frame, and Bucky commits another scene to memory that he might want to paint some day. Closes his belt buckle and then picks up the brush but does a double take at the reflection that looks back at him from the dressing table mirror.

He looks healthier than he has in years, but that’s not what’s remarkable. No, it’s the length of his hair. The brown waves reach his collarbones, and he runs his hand through it with a huff, putting down the brush and leaving his room. Sam’s in the living room, and he can hear Earth, Wind, and Fire playing from down the hall. He enters the room to see Sam lounging on the sofa with a laptop in his hand.

“Hey, Sammy, you busy?” He asks, walking up to him. Sam looks up, turns the music down.

“No. Why, what’s up?” He says, placing the laptop down next to him, and Bucky sees that he was online shopping for clothes.

“I need you to cut my hair,” he tells him, sitting down on the sofa. Sam blinks. Once, twice, thrice. His face splits in a toothy grin of agreement, and it disarms Bucky so much that he forgets completely to be angry at the smug look on his face.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to ruin your hair, Rapunzel, but are you sure you don’t wanna go to a barber?”

“Yes. You do it.” Bucky nods assuredly, willfully ignoring the nickname, relieved to be rid of it soon, too, but hoping that Sam will know, unspoken, what he is trying to say. He’s gotten better around people, around strangers, but he doesn’t trust them. Not with sharp objects, and especially not with handling sharp objects in such proximity to him. And there’s a part of him, perhaps the old romantic, the one who is just a little on the sentimental side, that prefers for such a change – small though it may seem, it speaks magnitudes to someone who craves stability now – to be made by the person he is closest to. So Bucky is grateful, when that person, Sam, agrees, with a nod back.

Fifteen minutes sees them in Bucky’s bathroom, him sitting on a stool in front of the vanity, a towel over his shoulders, and Sam behind him with scissors. He lifts the spray bottle from the counter with his free hand and spritzes Bucky’s hair. It’s cold, refreshing, and gentle stray drops land on his face. Bucky’s hands are clenching around his knees, red fingerprints growing darker on the skin just below where his shorts end. It took him two summers to feel comfortable enough to wear those. Sam has a matching pair.

He raises the scissors to the side of Bucky’s head, just by his right ear, opens them, and then pauses. Moves to the back instead, raises the scissors, stops again. A heavy sigh ruffles Bucky’s hair, and he looks at Sam’s reflection. He looks back.

“I don’t know where to start, man. I have no clue what to do with this,” Sam says, exasperated already, gesturing towards Bucky’s head with one hand and almost running the other over his own head before remembering the scissors he still holds in it. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but throws him a look up and over his shoulder that seems to say You think I do?

Shaking his head, Sam starts again. Bucky closes his eyes, his body hairs standing on edge as the scissors start clipping. A coarse, large, warm hand rests on the back of his neck to steady his head, the point of contact burning.

“I think it’s short enough to use the machine,” he whispers, as if conveying a holy secret. He turns on the clippers and soon, the buzzing sound fills the room. Bucky doesn’t reopen his eyes, lets Sam trim the edges short on the sides and back, and keep it a little longer on the top, as per their pre-determined plan of action.

He starts running his fingers across Bucky’s scalp as he’s finishing up and making the final touches, and every nerve ending of his lights up. When Sam announces that he’s done, and Bucky’s lungs collapse and then swell like balloons at the sight of his new appearance, and his eyes meet Sam’s, the world stops.

They’re inches apart, once again. Eye to eye, nose to nose. Heart to beating, fluttering heart. Thank you’s are glued to his tongue and his tongue is paralyzed in his mouth, his mouth dry and wanting. He counts nine heartbeats, and begins to lean in on the tenth, but the eleventh brings the obnoxiously loud sound of his phone ringing from the bedroom, and the bubble bursts.

Bucky answers Peter’s call with less concern than he usually does, the affection and mentorship for the teenager overshadowed by the almost-moment. The one that makes him want to scream into the New York skyline.

---

Flaming red hair reaches as far as Sam’s eyes are concerned, accentuated by the backdrop of the setting sun, an unusual hour for sparring, but a crucial one today. Nat is visiting from the European headquarters in Budapest, where she is SHIELD’s head of the region. It’s a calmer job, safer than Avengers duty, but she works herself to the bone and lets out her frustration in the gun range or the sparring mat, with the latter making for better quality time with her teammate today. Not that Sam’s much for competition right now, and she doesn’t mince moves or waste time. He puts up as much of a fight as he can, but she has him on the ground in fifteen minutes. A new record.

She helps him up and he passes her her water bottle in return as the sit on the mat. Her outstretched legs prod at his knees.

“You were off your game, Wilson,” she says, as if he doesn’t already know. As if he doesn’t know he was too busy counting days since Bucky’s haircut to counter her moves. It’s been twelve, and every hour exponentially increases the tangible awkwardness between them.

“Distracted.” Sam shrugs truthfully. Nat’s laugh isn’t cruel or taunting, but teasing and friendly, a lightweight windchime.

“Yeah, I can tell. Want to tell me why?” She asks, with another sip from her bottle.

“Like you don’t already know,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes. Tilting her head, she looks at him like a curious robin. Like she’s trying to pluck out the secrets like wildflowers in his head.

“I just know it has something to do with Barnes. You can hardly look at each other.” She says, giving him her hand to take off the boxing tape, and he picks at the edge it’s bound at. Tries to ignore the piercing stare she’s focusing on his head.

Once the tape is off, he tries to drink from his bottle again. His throat is parched, and he doesn’t think it has much to do with the exercise any longer. Natasha’s stare turns to a glare, but eventually, she seems to relent, trying at another joke.

“What, did you kiss him?” She murmurs, reaching for her bottle. Sam sputters, water going in his windpipe, and Nat’s eyes widen as she watches him cough and cough and cough. “Are you serious? Oh my God, Sam, did you really?”

“No, no, no, shit, no. That’s crazy, Nat,” he says, standing and starting to powerwalk to the showers but Nat follows quickly, light on her feet and heavy with her questions.

“Then what was that for?” Nat asks, pointing towards the mat where he just had that undue coughing fit. Shit. Keep digging your own grave, Wilson, keep digging.

“Nothing, nothing, it’s fine,” he says, and she quirks an eyebrow. Crosses her arms. He’s known Nat for too long and too well to not be entirely aware that talking to her is for his best. And Sam is a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid. He follows her back to the mat like a lost puppy, and consoles himself with the fact that he’s reduced a master assassin to near-gossip.

“Well?”

So he tells her. Sam picks at the mat with bitten fingernails as he relays the tale of the five years of pragmatic planning and professionalism under imprisonment in the Soul Stone, during which they talked little but shop and pretended not to see the fear in each other.

Sam avoids Nat’s emerald gaze while he tells her about the first year as Captain America, with the weight of the mantle so heavy that Bucky became the crutch he leaned on, a super-soldier it took everything to put back into the world.

Sam closes his eyes when he recalls Steve’s funeral, and the instant he decided that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a miracle, he was one of the most beautiful people Sam had ever met.

Sam watches the punching bags sway while talking about the warmth that spreads like bushfire whenever Bucky is near, but also about how he is at his coolest and calmest next to him, because he gets him.

Sam sees the sky transition from peach to indigo telling Nat about the moment in the bathroom, where that emotional connection almost manifested itself physically, and how those feelings that he thought were benign became dangerous, boiling under the surface, and how he doesn’t know whether to bury them, or set them free.

---

Icarus. The legend of Icarus and his melting wings, his broken body drowning is the first thing to enter Bucky's mind as the quinjet lands on the helicarrier and Sam is wheeled out on a stretcher and rushed to Dr. Cho's cradle. A trail of blood follows, dripping slowly despite the medics' attentions, and that's what seals Bucky's trance. He doesn't have answers for Hill or Fury - it's a morbid game of Hansel and Gretel, right up to the entrance of the medical wing.

The sterile whites and greys, alongside the vague hum or nurses barring his entry into the trauma bay and Fury's raging demands for answers are secondary sensations. Lost behind the veil. He has to watch through the glass as Sam is put in the cradle, but there’s so much blood. The Director and Assistant Director talk calmly now, suggesting that Bucky get his own wounds checked, but he is blind to their concerns, so they give him the space they see he needs.

It takes an hour to heal Sam. A torturous, unending hour, that has Bucky pacing across the floor, smearing blood and mud across pristine tiles, his mind humming so loud he can’t hear himself think. When it’s over, he has just enough presence to follow Sam’s unconscious body as it’s wheeled to a recovery room, where he sits at his bedside.

However, he doesn’t stay seated for long. Can’t look at his friend’s wounded form, helpless and undoubtedly in screaming pain, although he may not feel it. His body does, and he will feel it when he’s awake. Bucky stands and moves to look out the window. Absently, he scrapes at the clots of blood drying under his nails and in between the panels of his other arm. Part of him recalls the term dissociation, used by his SHIELD appointed psychiatrist, and the consequent recovery techniques. An alert corner of his subconscious is grateful that these episodes aren't as frequent any more. Or as debilitating, most of the time. Just… distracting, with the fog that pierces his ears and diffuses inside his skull until he's numb. Weightless. Recovery techniques. Right. Touch, taste, smell, sound, sight. Glass and metal, blood and sand, jet fuel, whirring engines; open, open, sky.

Bucky likes the sky. Likes to watch clouds form, transform into something new, drift onwards to a better place. A better view than he must present. The infinite stretch of blue. Sometimes, he paints his own clouds on the sky in his mind's eye, but right now that canvas is dripping red - fists clench tight above his thighs - dripping red, white, and blue, Sam is dripping red, white, and blue, and he's falling, Icarus to the ocean.

Falling, falling, falling.

Oh.

Bucky jerks upright. Shakes his head, wipes a blood stained strand of hair back. Forces air into his lungs - it's thinner up here, colder, too, so he has to focus, feel the bite, good - and then: clarity.

He remembers where he is, the smoothness of tiles under his feet, the sweat sodden uniform sticking to his skin, the physicalities of his position return, as does the feel of his beating heart. But there's something new in the way it hammers against his ribs. Something gentler, that prompts a flutter of intrigue, until he realizes what it is, until he can name the newborn emotion screaming to be heard inside his heart.

Hot forehead against cold glass. Hot tears on hotter cheeks. Bucky lets them fall as he tries to face the sky again.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he tells the clouds. Not because he doesn’t want to be in love, or because he is love with a man instead of a woman, or because said man is Sam Wilson, but because it’s just so inconvenient. Because there is no happiness to be found in lives like these, and because it is an impossibility that a man with a heart as pristine a golden could want one with bruises and stains that stretch across every inch of skin. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

And he swears he can hear his Ma answer from the sky: Why of course, you didn’t, my baby boy. No one ever does. Doesn’t mean it isn’t right, or meant to be so. The universe has a way with these things. Knows how to put people together, just like a starling knows to hide her nest from crows. It’s nature, James.

Nobody’s called him James since Winnifred Barnes. Nobody ever will. But “Bucky” doesn’t sound so bad coming from Sam’s voice. Returning to his bedside and slumping into the chair, Bucky hopes he’ll only live long enough to tell him so.

Bucky, post-war, post-Winter Soldier, doesn’t know all that much about fate or the universe, nor does he know a thing about love, but he knows homecoming. And Sam, his eyelashes delicate against skin like gold poured over tourmaline, is home.

All resistance leaves Bucky with a muted sigh. It’s like he can feel the adrenaline, the fight-or-flight, both physical and emotional, evaporate when he takes in the expression of calm that has washed over Sam’s features. He takes half a dozen deep, deep breaths. Allows the oxygen to cleanse him from the inside out, and now, he has enough presence of mind to feel the exhaustion entering his bones. Aside from the scrape on his cheek, none of the blood on his being is his own. He should clean up, he knows that, but he thinks he’ll throw up if he tries to stand up again, so he breathes instead. Breathes in the fact that Sam is alive like he needs that statement to live. So that he doesn’t forget it, and wake up screaming - wouldn’t be the first time - he imprints it into his memory.

Only then do his shoulders stop guarding his neck, relaxing and hitting the back of the chair he’s sat on. The air conditioner whirrs on, and Sam’s breaths are puffs of cotton in the air, that if Bucky focuses enough on, he can envision as clouds. Clouds that turn to sheep, sheep that he counts, and it doesn’t take many of them before he is fast asleep.

---

The day Happy and May get married, Sam almost asks Bucky for a dance, under a starlit sky that twinkles like fairy lights. The months since his injury have been better than those before, contrasting a new smile, and a lighter face, against the tangible sense of will-we-won’t-we. They’re still tense, still have moments where they can’t read each other, still almost talk about it, but their companionship has returned.

This is obvious in the grin Bucky throws him with a roll of his eyes over Nat’s shoulder, as Sam twirls May around like he’s trying to make her nauseous. The poor bride tolerates his hijinks for all of one song before politely excusing herself, as does Nat, pretending that Bucky hasn’t gotten better at dancing again after practicing for months on end. She throws Sam a wink as she leaves the dance floor, and Sam swallows before turning tail and going to get a drink, leaving Bucky to find another dance partner. He quells a bubble of his own nausea as a wonderful girl – Annie something, from May’s work – tries to ask for a dance. To his surprise, Bucky refuses, and then Sam feels guilty for the cheer that goes up in him.

It’s short-lasting, overwhelmed once again by the anxiety that comes with interacting with Bucky. Sometimes, he thinks he sees roses bloom under Bucky’s footstep, the scent of him so alluring. At others, like now, the weight of his gaze is so heavy, he thinks he should drown under it if he doesn’t release the secret in his chest. If he doesn’t tell Bucky that he remembers waking up in that hellicarrier holding an asleep Bucky’s hand, with an asleep Bucky’s lips pressed to the back of his own. And that he liked it.

“It’s a nice party,” he says, tipping back the champagne flute in his hand. He can’t get drunk, and it takes large sips for him to even feel the spark in his throat, the movement exposing a stretch of slender, soft skin. It’s a matter of milliseconds, barely one breath, but Sam’s mouth is dry, useless but for a nod of agreement with a survey of the hall. Nat is wiggling her eyebrows at him from across the dance floor, and Bucky has to repeat his name twice to regain his attention, something that he immediately loses to the color of Bucky’s eyes upon turning towards him. He breaks eye contact and looks away again with another nod.

“Yeah, yeah, it was a great day. I’m really happy for those two,” Sam says honestly, gesturing towards the bride and groom, who are chatting away with Pepper.

“So you’re happy for Happy?” Bucky murmurs and Sam snorts, downing his glass, and shaking his head.

“Ha ha ha, what are you, twelve?”

“You may have to check my birth certificate to find out,” he deadpans, and Sam pinches the bridge of his nose as Bucky cackles. He glares at him, but soon, the corner of Bucky’s eyes crinkling while the sound of his laughter echoes comes into alarming focus against May and Happy swaying in the background, and Sam doesn’t need to wonder what it’s like to feel so much joy and such magnanimous love from someone that you decide to bind yourself to them forever. In fact, Sam decided a long time ago that Bucky was the one person he couldn’t live without any longer. The only difference now is that the emotions that went into that definition have changed. The twinkling sky winks down at him, as if to reaffirm that that realization is correct, and to tell him that he’s on the right path.

---

The city of New York stretches out through the window before them, buildings piercing the dusk that is settling above, and Bucky and Sam sit against the freshly dried paint in the living room of Bucky’s childhood home. It has taken four years after the Blip, four years of newfound stability, of recovery and building up and breaking down and defining his life for his own, to come back to what his life used to be. He thought it only fitting that the man who played the most invaluable part in helping him to his feet be with him at the most magnificent landmark of his progress, of his new life.

The building had, wondrously, been the same one, in that it hadn’t been demolished and rebuilt, only thoroughly renovated. Bucky had bought it several months ago, and Sam had instantly been enraptured by the idea of rebuilding this apartment. Only the furniture remains now, the empty rooms freshly painted and smelling of paint and paper, sawdust and sandalwood and sweat. Bucky looks over at Sam as he closes his eyes, and watches the sunset light his skin like honey on dark silk. Glimmering, glowing.

It hits him like a freight car. The notion that even though his life has been longer than most, it is too short to abandon what you love. Bucky is scared. He’s been scared his whole life. He was scared to go to war that first time, he was scared for his life when he was captured, he was scared for Steve when he went after Hydra, he was scared when he became Hydra, he was scared. And angry. And he doesn’t want to be any longer, even if the alternative is regret and shame. Those would still be new emotions.

That’s what has him turning to Sam, the rustle of his jeans alerting him so he opens his eyes. A question swimming in their content depths. Bucky answers it.

“I love you, Sam,” he says, heart in his throat. Sam gulps, like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to, that there are words lodged in his throat that he longs to set free, and Bucky tells him he knows what they are already. Doesn’t need the words spoken, now or ever, when they’re so visible in how Sam can do nothing but lift his hands and cups his face in them. The I love you, too, is folded like a hidden love note between their lips, passed to Bucky when they meet, and Sam moves his mouth like flower petals over glass. Bucky kisses back. He kisses back harder, tilts his head so they’re like puzzle pieces, his heartbeat taking flight. When they stop, the sky is as pink as roses, the gold accent wall behind them is smoldering, glowering with light. Their foreheads rest against each other’s, Bucky’s hand rests over Sam’s to hold him there, and they fit together like the stars fit in the sky.

Taglist: @suz-123 @mermaidxatxheart @buckyreaderrecs @shield-agent78 @corneliabarnes @readerandcinephileingeneral @stevieboyharrington @notsomellowmushroom @veganfangirl5 @mood-pancakes @lbuck121 @redhairedfeistynerd @geeksareunique @murdermornings

#ayesha writes #SSB2020 #bucky barnes #sam wilson #sam wilson x bucky barnes #bucky barnes x sam wilson #sambucky #fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #fanfic

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sommerstessa · 4 years

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at tessa’s home ft. @samuel-dryden (kind of)

─── saturday morning, around 3:30 am.

She couldn’t sleep, yet again, and by now, it didn’t come as a surprise. Since the shooting, Tessa had been unable to rest peacefully, her thoughts becoming infected by fragmented memories of that day. The images came in brief flashes, a gun here, some blood there, but all of it was enough to have her shooting straight up in bed, her body covered in a cold sweat. Glancing around her room, Tessa’s heartrate only began to settle when she was assured that nobody else was in the room, a new anxiety that had settled as well. It was strange, given that she hadn’t suffered a home invasion like Naomi did or an attack by anyone she knew personally. This was random, and, as the police were saying, an accident. Just some frightened guy who was way out of his league. Logically, Tessa knew the chances of it happening again were slim to none, but that didn’t turn off her mind. Logic had no place in nightmares.

Unfortunately, Tessa’s inability to sleep was compounded by the burdensome feeling of guilt she’d held onto since breaking up with Sam. They hadn’t spoken in a little over a week, the longest either of them had gone without one another since they reconnected in the coffee shop three months ago. She felt terrible, and was thoroughly convinced the blonde man hated her (rightfully so) for breaking his heart. There was much she wanted to say, but she wasn’t sure it would be appropriate to reach out to him. Really, she wasn’t sure she’d actually say any of it even if she did reach out to him. She was scared of making things worse, saying something she couldn’t take back, something that set him farther away from her than she intended. Deep down, she just wanted to apologize, maybe see if there was a possibility for a future friendship. But how awful would that be? He was no doubt in love with her, and she couldn’t offer him anything but friendship.

As these thoughts consumed her brain, Tessa leaned over the side of her bed, feeling for the cold, rectangular object she had tucked beneath her bed the night before. Grabbing the laptop, she leaned back against her headboard and opened it up, immediately going to her safe space: her blog. It was a place where she allowed her mind to unleash itself, feelings transposing into words on a screen. It was a place where she felt most connected to and honest with herself.

Beginning a new post, Tessa sucked in a deep breath of air and began typing.

To the man who offered me the world, I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I shut you out without explaining myself. I wasn’t ready then, and I’m still not, but you deserve the truth.

This wasn’t your fault. The only thing you’re guilty of is loving me for everything I am and you have no idea how much I appreciate that. It’s what every little girl dreams of - growing up and finding their Prince Charming, the man who can fix anything, the man who can turn even the darkest of days into the brightest ones. You were that for me, but the problem is, I was never one of those little girls. I never dreamed of having a man who loved me as strongly as you do. My dreams never revolved around being loved. My dreams were more selfish, revolving around my ambition and accomplishments, traveling the world, building a following, and making a difference in the world. And while the two aren’t mutually exclusive, I never learned how to have both at the same time. I know you would never hold me back from my dreams, but deep down, I also know I could never be the woman you wanted to spend your life with. I would never put our relationship first, like you deserve.

I thought I could do it. I convinced myself you were the person, the person I could have a future with, the person I could settle down with, but it never felt right, even though I wanted it to. God, you have no idea how badly I wanted it. When I was younger, I had the biggest crush on you. I mean, who couldn’t? You’re attractive, intelligent, dedicated, generous. You give yourself so willingly. When we ran into each other that day, I thought, well, isn’t this nice. And then you kissed me, and it was like everything was falling into place. I was beginning to envision what my life could be like with you.

I thought you could fix it. I thought you could fix me.

When I told you what I learned about myself, you had no hesitancy in committing anyway, no matter what the future brought. It was so selfless, and I didn’t think anybody could love me like that. But you did. You didn’t care what my body would look like or what it would or wouldn’t be capable of doing in the future. You dove in headfirst, and I latched onto it. You gave me hope, hope that I’d have a real family one day, a husband and kids, whether they were genetically ours or not.

But I was wrong. I was wrong for putting all of that on you. I was wrong for seeing you as a band-aid, as someone who could fix me. I was wrong for quieting the small piece of my brain that contained doubts. I was wrong for letting you believe we were on the same page for the past three months. I was wrong for letting you fall deeper and deeper, while I felt like I was still getting to know you.

That’s not to say I never cared about you, or that our relationship was a lie, because it wasn’t. On the contrary, I care deeply about you. I want you to be happy. I want you to have everything you’ve ever dreamed of with a woman who dreams of those things, too. But I was never that woman. No matter how happy we were together, no matter how right we felt together, I could sense that we were only fooling ourselves. I could sense that there was something missing, something deep down at our cores that kept us from clicking just right. I don’t know if you felt it, too, but it wasn’t the type of thing that could go unnoticed. I tried to quiet it, I tried to ignore it, but I learned very quickly that I will never be the type of person to ignore feelings, as vague as they may be. I’ve always been incredibly connected to myself and in tune with my emotions. I knew we weren’t right together, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.

I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for worrying you. I’m sorry I still can’t say it to your face. But please know that you are an amazing person, boyfriend, son, brother, boss, and everything in between, and one day, you’re going to make an amazing husband and father to a family who’s perfect for you.

And I’m going to be right there in your corner, cheering you on every step of the way.

My hope for the future is this - I hope that one day, you can see me as Tessa Sommers, the woman who set you free so you could accomplish your destiny. So you could find the right woman, the woman whose butterflies survive the initial honeymoon stage of the relationship, the woman who continues to swoon even after the first few dates. I hope that one day, you’ll see me in town and you’ll smile and wave, and think of me as someone who gave you freedom rather than heartache. I hope that one day, we can be friends, and we can reflect back on these three months as something we both needed for different reasons, a time during which we both learned valuable lessons about ourselves, even though it didn’t work out in the end.

You will always hold a piece of my heart, and I will always be grateful for the pure generosity and selflessness you gave me. Please don’t ever change.

Chewing on her lower lip, Tessa’s finger hovered above the ‘post’ button for much longer than usual. Despite never using Sam’s name, it would be easy for others to intuitively determine who the post was about, especially others living in Wilmington. Sam didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to have his romantic life available on the internet for anyone to read. Although Tessa had made a life decision to lay her personal life out there for the world, he didn’t.

Releasing her lip, Tessa’s finger moved the cursor towards the drop-down menu, where she very carefully selected the ‘post privately’ option, after which she made sure to copy the link and open up a new tab. Pasting the link into an email, Tessa then entered Sam’s email address in the ‘to’ line. The subject read ‘Please read.’ There was a final moment of hesitation during which Tessa pondered the negative aspects of going through with this. Of course, everything she said had the potential to make things worse between her and Sam. But she hoped he’d understand the gesture, understand where she was coming from, and maybe it would give them both some sort of closure.

Exhaling, Tessa clicked send on the email and subsequently closed her laptop, setting it on the mattress beside her and grabbing the remote for the television. There was no chance Sam would be checking his emails at 3:30 AM, but there was even less of a chance of Tessa going back to sleep now.

#tw shooting #tw cancer #tessa

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adamwatchesmovies · 5 years

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My People, My Country (2019)

I'm certain My People, My Country will snag all the awards at China’s equivalent of the Oscars. Jingoistic to the point of being sickening, every frame is spent forcefully celebrating the People’s Republic of China and enforcing government-approved values. Perhaps it would mean more to someone who lives there. For this viewer, it was a profoundly dull - though eye-opening - 158 minutes. Each of this anthology's seven stories come from a different director and feature some of the country’s biggest stars in a variety of roles and genres. There's a lot to say so pardon the longer-than-usual review.

The Eve

Engineer Lin Zhiyuab (Huang Bo) is floored when he learns Tian'anmen Square is being cordoned off before the founding ceremony of the People’s Republic of China on October 1, 1949. As the man responsible for the mechanism that will automatically raise the flag, he must now find a way to anticipate and address any possible issues - without setting eyes upon the flagpole.

Well, doesn't this sound like an exciting intro to a 2-1/2 hour movie? Immediately, you recognize this is a propaganda film. This means it'll be an interesting viewpoint into the engineer's way of thinking... but not the way they meant it to be. Like all propaganda films, this one presents its subject as all-good, all-powerful and forever successful. The lack of tension serves to make the story even less dramatic than it would’ve been normally. It's too short for you to get invested in the characters and the story is one you simply can't be bothered for.

Passing By

In 1964, China is developing nuclear weapons. Scientist Gao Yuan (Zhang Yi) has not seen his wife (Zhou Dongyu) for three years. An incident at work nearly causes a meltdown, forcing Gao to intervene and put his life at risk.

If my country announced it was developing nuclear arms, I’d be outraged; not waving flags and singing songs. Even if your sentiments towards mutually-assured destruction differ, you'll leave this tale flabbergasted. Once we get into the drama between Gao and his wife, it’s a sweet love story. Then, the details hit you. The scientist’s fate is left ambiguous, as the story ends with the country’s victorious display of power. Anyone who knows anything knows only three things come from nuclear tests gone wrong: Superpowers, giant fire-breathing dinosaurs, of agonizing death. I guess we’re supposed to admire the man's dedication to his country, at the expense of his marriage and life?

The Champion

Dongdong (Han Haolin) and his father own the only television in their small village. It’s 1984 and China’s women’s national volleyball team is playing for the gold medal against the United States. While he holds the antenna in place, the village can view this historic match. Dongdong is torn, however. His school friend is moving away. If he doesn’t say goodbye to her tonight, he’ll never have the chance to tell her how he feels.

Of all the stories, this was my favorite. Dongdong wants to step away from the antenna but there are always circumstances pulling him back towards it. It’s got small-town charm and some laugh-out-loud moments… until you begin thinking about the story's real message. It’s the Olympics, sure, but Dongdong is supposed to give up his happiness because he dares to have a little luxury at home?

Going Home

Directed by Sue Xiaolu, Going Home follows a watch repairman tasked with coordinating two watches. The timekeepers will be worn by officials overseeing the ceremony commemorating the return of Hong Kong from British rule to China in 1997.

Yet another mundane story detailing a flag-raising ceremony. With The Champion still in mind, this one seemed even more tedious than it would’ve been otherwise. It takes itself seriously - to a fault. The only time you'll be jolted out of your stupor will be when you spot the actors lovingly gazing at those five yellow stars on that red flag. Seriously, the flag plays such a big role in so many of these stories I wouldn’t be surprised if it got first billing in the end credits - I couldn't read them so I can neither confirm nor deny my suspicion.

Hello Beijing

Deadbeat dad and taxi driver Zhang (Ge You) wins a ticket to the 2008 Beijing Olympics’ opening ceremony. Thinking he can use it to gain the admiration of his son, he flaunts his prize. When the ticket is stolen by one of his fares, he panics.

Like The Champion, Hello Beijing has a more comedic tone than the rest, which is a breath of relief. You take great delight when Zhang realizes his ticket has been swiped. It's an opportunity for him to redeem himself and he does, in a way that’ll make you roll your eyes. By the time the thief’s emotional speech comes in, you're practically nauseous.

The Guiding Star

Two brothers (Liu Haoran and Arthur Chen) are taken in by a kind, elderly couple. Initially planning on robbing them, the boys change their ways when a childhood story of a falling star seen during the day is fulfilled in the form of the Shenzhou 11’s landing capsule.

The longer I go on with this anthology, the less I have to say. This is a basic story. There’s nothing wrong with that, as long as you mix it up a bit. Tying the country’s space program to a prophecy that goes on to change two nogoodniks’ lives? puh-lease.

One for All

Fighter jet pilot Lü Xiaoran (Jia Song) has fought tooth-and-nail to be the best. When she is assigned to be the backup pilot for the Military Parade of the 70th Anniversary of the Victory in the Second Sino-Japanese War, she is initially outraged. As the big event approaches, she learns the importance of setting her ambitions aside.

We started off with a boring story. It's only fitting to conclude with another. The training sequences are cool and the shots of those jets zipping through the air are exciting but by this point, you know what agenda director Wen Muye is pushing onto you and your defenses are robust. There’s no way you'll let One for All "win" and you look down upon it with disdain.

Overall, the film is well made. The cinematography is grandiose, the landscapes majestic, the performances good. I simply couldn't look past the messages being pushed. Give up three years of your life, the chance to say goodbye to your friend, your lifelong ambitions. Do it for your country. Don't expect to be recompensed for your sacrifice; are you crazy?! Take joy in the sight of that flag, the symbol that ties us all together and makes everyone, from the lowliest thieves to aspiring engineers part of a bigger whole whose collective needs far outweigh the inconvenience of a few. Let's throw in a couple of subtle potshots towards the U.S., Japan, and the United Kingdom for good measure too. I didn't want to say too much in my summaries of the stories, but almost all of these take the corniness to an insufferable level. There's overwrought drama abound, the conclusions always go for the cheapest tricks and worst of all, you'll be bored. There’s so much to learn from My People, My Country that I'm glad to have seen it but found it more frightening than inspirational. (Original Chinese with subtitles on the big screen, October 7, 2019)

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scripts4dreamers · 5 years

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Learning to love

Learning to love - the epilogue

Part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight

AN: A Love Story, Interrupted

Characters: Theseus Scamander, Albus Dumbledore, Newt Scamander, Leta Lestrange

Pairings: Theseus Scamander x reader, Leta Lestrange x Newt Scamander

Prompt: “Can yu pls do a Thesus imagine where him and the reader were friends and dating but then they break up but they get back together?”

Warnings: Mention of Death

Spoilers: Spoilers for Crimes of Grindelwald

(This is it guys! This is officially the end. Thank you so much to those of you who’ve left me nice comments and nice messages, they do mean a lot. This final chapter is dedicated to you. I hope you enjoy it.)

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You sat in the metal chairs of a nearby cafe until your coffee was stone cold. You wanted to drink it, you really did, but every time you tried to reach out and grab your cup, you found that you couldn’t move. You were rooted to your seat, trapped by the layers and layers of misery that had slowly been wrapping themselves around your heart since that awful moment in the tomb. Across the table, Theseus was watching you, his blue eyes tinged with concern and softened by love. Three hours ago, you would’ve given absolutely anything to know that Theseus was still in love with you but now, now his love seemed like yet another thing to feel guilty about. Leta was dead and it was all your fault and now you were sitting at a café with her ex fiancé, clinging to his love like it was a life raft. Because of course you were clinging to him. Theseus was the only thing that seemed real anymore, the only thing that seemed salvageable and undamaged.

You were broken but he was whole. You knew that he was being strong for you, that he was pushing his own grief back to help you deal with yours and that, more than anything, was what finally pushed you to reach out and take your cup. The movement took more effort than you could of imagined, but it made Theseus smile gently and that alone made it worth it. You tapped the mug with your wand and watched as it reheated itself and clouds of steam began to billow from it before taking a sip. It was strong and bitter, but it warmed you from the inside out and, slowly but surely you felt yourself coming back to life.

As you shifted in your seat, you heard the crackle of paper and remembered, with a painful stab, that Leta’s letter was still folded up in your pocket. You swallowed hard and pulled it out, placing it gently on the table between you and Theseus. He looked down at it quizzically.

“Leta left it on my bed,” you said, your voice hoarse from a combination of crying and not speaking, “she said-“ you swallowed hard, crushing down a wave of sadness, “she said that she loved me and that she was sorry for not telling me that the engagement was a sham.” You explained, “And she said that you had regretted leaving me from the moment it happened.”

Theseus nodded solemly, “That’s true, I did. And,” Theseus continued, “she did love you, so much. You were like her sister.”

You nodded, pressing your lips together to keep them from quivering. You had a lot to say and you needed to hold it together for just a while longer in order to get it all out.

“She also said,” you started, your voice shaking, “that she was still in love with Newt, and that the whole engagement had been her idea in the first place,” you said. You shook your head slightly, this was the part that didn’t make a lot of sense to you, “it was some kind of….revenge plan, I guess? A way to get back at me and Newt?”

Theseus shook his head quickly and reached out, enfolding your hand in his. Your heart stuttered a little as you felt the warmth of his hand seep into your own ice-cold skin.

“No, not a revenge plan,” he swore, “we just,” he paused; searching desperately for the words that could describe the depth of the mutual misery he and Leta had felt. Unbidden, a memory surfaced: Albus Dumbledore admonishing him in an empty classroom, and he suddenly knew what to say, “it was a way for us to punish ourselves, and one another for the mistakes we’d made with you and Newt. We thought that, by getting married and condemning ourselves to an empty, loveless marriage, we would somehow be forgiven. Like our pain would make up for the pain we’d caused you,” he finished, shaking his own head, “looking back now, it doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

You smiled sadly, the gesture feeling stiff and wrong, “Not really, no.”

Theseus smiled in return, the exhaustion of the day etched into every nook and cranny of his face as he ran his hand through his hair. Suddenly, with almost no warning, he leant away from you and started to cry, the events of the day finally bursting through the dam of will power he’d built to keep them contained. He pressed one hand to his eyes, as though warding off a bright light, his chest heaved with silent sobs and tears streamed down his dirt stained face. You felt your heart pinch and you leapt forward, capturing his hand in both of yours and crouching in front of his chair. You made soothing noises, reaching up and stroking his hair softly. Theseus scooped you up and pulled you close, so that you were half sitting on his lap, with his face pressed into your neck. After a moment’s hesitation, you wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face in his hair, breathing him in. He smelled like soot and evil magic but underneath it all, there was still a faint trace of Theseus, and it was that that you focused on, drawing on every little bit of strength you had left.

With Leta on your mind and Theseus in your arms, you did the impossible: you pulled the broken pieces of your heart inwards and put yourself back together. As the moments passed, you forged a new you out of the ashes the attack on Grindelwald had left behind, a stronger you. A you that could hold Theseus up while he fell apart, a you that could look Grindelwald in the eye, hear his tempting lies, and tell him to fuck right off. In those few, precious moments you became a version of yourself that was both you and Leta all at once. You became a living testimony to the woman who had saved all of your lives and you resolved to carry her with you every day until death brought you together again.

“It’s alright Theseus,” you whispered, willing your words into truth, “together, you and the aurors are going to stop Grindelwald. He won’t ever be able to take the people we love from us ever again.”

“You promise?” Theseus asked, his voice small and childlike.

You pressed a gentle kiss to his temple and hugged him tighter, imagining that the strength of your love, and Leta’s, was turning into a shield and covering you both, protecting you from harm. Absentmindedly, you remembered Dumbledore’s many lessons on the power of love and you smiled gently to yourself.

“I promise,” you said, “and I’ll be with you through every step of the journey, no matter how long it takes.”

Theseus looked up at you, his blue eyes glistening not just with tears, but with a kind of fire, a strength of character that, you knew, he’d momentarily forgotten he had. Right there, in a little café in Paris, not one kilometer away from the Lestrange tomb, Grindelwald had made two very fierce, very determined enemies and all those things that had been broken between you and Theseus, had been healed. Nothing else mattered as much as being together, you realized, as you pressed your lips to his and felt the spark of vibrant love shoot through your numb body. Theseus was all that mattered and maybe, just maybe, he always had been.

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The house was oddly unassuming when one considered the circumstances. It was a simple double story house with four bedrooms, five bathrooms, a cozy and spacious living room, a study and a beautiful kitchen. Everything was decorated modestly, with photographs on the mantle as well as on the walls lining the staircase. Each one featured some amalgamation of the same five or so people. In some, a young Newt wriggled away from his brother, in others you sat next to a pretty blonde whose smile had only just started to come back and her stern, but kind, looking sister. Some photographs featured Albus Dumbledore, his blue eyes twinkling knowingly as he laughed at something someone off camera had said, sharing a glass of wine with you, a cheery looking American muggle and Theseus. Later ones featured children, a boy and a girl at varying ages, sometimes smiling, sometimes not. All in all, it was a very regular house, with nothing betraying the majesty and prestige of the people who frequented it, as well as those who called it home.

Only on the rare occasions in which a guest would be offered a nightcap and would, subsequently, be led into the study, would the truth finally be revealed. Each wall was covered in plaques and awards. There were medals for bravery from almost every European ministry for magic, as well as some muggle goverments, and newspaper clipping depicting you and Theseus both. If one were so fortunate as to get a closer look, one would also see a graduation certificate in your name, welcoming you to the ranks of healers at St. Mungos, as well as a photo taken on the day Theseus was made the head of Magical Law Enforcement.

To the causal observer, these keepsakes might seem odd and irrelevant, considering that you were now quite famous as the head healer at St. Mungos and Thesues was piqued to become the next Minister for magic but what would seem even odder would be the photographs. On every surface they looked up at you, the same pair of dark eyes, the same serene smile. No matter who else was there, the same woman could be seen somewhere in the frame.

Yes, the strangest thing to someone who did not know the story of your lives particularly well would be the tribute that you had created, in your own way, to Leta Lestrange.

Very few ever saw the interior of the study though, because you and Theseus were protective of it. It did not belong to the throngs of people who now knew your names, or who thanked you for your part in defeating Grindelwald. It did not belong to the people whose lives you had both saved, or those who you had freed with your changes in policy either. No, that study belonged to the select few who knew of the sacrifice Leta Lestrange had made, and had grieved her loss.

“Leta, Alastor,” you called from the kitchen, “hurry up, we have to be at King’s Cross by eleven.”

Indistict but mutinous grumbling came from your childrens’ bedrooms and you rolled your eyes, gesturing helplessly to Theseus. Theseus smiled at your teasingly frustrated look and took a swig from his mug, putting his morning copy of The Daily Prophet down.

“Kids, listen to your mother,” he called, “else you’ll be stuck here with us all year.”

Alastor bounded down the stairs, his curly brown hair bouncing with each step. He had your eyes, and your gentleness, but Theseus’ looks and he was endlessly excited about going back to school. Leta came more slowly, her blue eyes wide with fear. People often claimed that she looked like you, but you’d never thought so. To you, you would tell her, she looked like a woman you’d known many years ago, a brave woman who had given her life to protect you and Theseus. Leta, in particular, loved the study, and was endlessly nervous about her first day at Hogwarts. You smiled gently at her as Theseus ruffled her hair and whispered comforting words in her ear. Your heart swelled with love as Theseus met your eye, his infectious smile warming even the deepest and darkest recesses of your mind.

As you watched your children climb aboard the Hogwarts Express, you felt a profound sense of loss. You would miss Alastor, as you always did, but this would be the first year that you did not have even Leta for company and that made the goodbye even sadder. Theseus, as usual, seemed to know what you were thinking, wrapping his arm tightly around your waist and pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. Even now, all these years later, he was often taken aback by how beautiful you were, and how deeply he loved you. In this moment, you were more radiant than he could ever remember and he pulled you into a tight embrace.

“I’m madly in love with you Y/N Scamander,” he whispered, “absolutely madly.”

You smiled, pulling away and pecking his nose playfully, “I’m rather fond of you myself, now that I think of it.”

“Lucky me,” he teased back, lacing your fingers together and bumping his shoulder against yours, “let’s go home, yeah?”

You sighed peacefully, remembering with a pleased jolt, that Newt and Tina were coming over for dinner that night, as well as Jacob and Queenie. You smiled a real, bright, genuine smile and nodded at Theseus, allowing him to lead you away and swinging your laced fingers back and forth as you walked. It was peaceful and quiet and good. Your family was safe and happy, the world was at peace, and, in that moment, you had never been more thankful for anything.

You looked up and closed your eyes, filling your lungs with brisk September air. Yes, it was a good day, and there were many more yet to come.

——————-

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lamgrace1993 · 4 years

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sebeth · 6 years

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Babs-a-thon, Part 5

Warning, Spoilers Ahead…

Oracle debuted in Suicide Squad #23. The true identity of Oracle was a complete mystery – man, woman, group?

Oracle would provide information for the Squad until the mystery was solved in Suicide Squad #38. It was a rather low-key revelation: Amanda contacts Oracle in cyber-space. Oracle questions why Flo (the Oracle’s usual contact) isn’t the one reaching out. Amanda informs Oracle that Flo died on a mission. The next panel reveals a wheelchair-bound redhead, a Batgirl plushie on the desk, mourning the loss of her friend.

I love the subtle revelation of Oracle’s secret identity. No storming the secret lair and gasping in shock. A simple one-panel revelation that relied on the art to provide the clues to her identity. Not that it didn’t blow my mind at the time.

A small pause in the Babs-a-thon to promote John Ostrander, Kim Yale, and the 1980s’ Suicide Squad title. If you haven’t read the Ostrander/Yale run – what are you waiting for? Ostrander & Yale created two of the most unique, groundbreaking, and iconic women in comics: Amanda Waller and Barbara Gordon as Oracle. The Squad consistently had multiple female characters – Flo, Karen, Nightshade, Enchantress, Mind-Boggler, Plastique, Vixen, Duchess, Jewlee, Poison Ivy – all different types of personalities, all written well. The development of the villains was great – Captain Boomerang and Deadshot owed their prominence to this title. Read this series!

Back to the Babs-a-thon –

Barbara had two more prominent appearance in the Squad. In Suicide Squad #48, Barbara visits her therapist. Babs reveals she has a recurring dream – she runs down a corridor to open the door – the identity of the person on the other side changes – it ranges from the Joker, Jim Gordon, Batman, to Batgirl herself. The individual always has a gun and shoots her. Babs doesn’t reveal the multiple choices to the therapist and focuses on the Joker –

“And then I feel the bullet boring its way through my body. My legs give way, useless as my spine is severed. There’s this awful wrench and grinding in my back – like a clutch out of gear – and then pain. There’s a woman screaming for rescue that never comes. And the room stinks of cordite and blood – my blood – and the Joker claws at me. And there is pain. And then the Joker is beating me, and he smells like paraffin and rotten lilacs, screeching I’m not cooperating, and every blow reverberates through my shot-out, shattered spine. And there is pain. And then – then – when he’s – when I’m naked – he starts taking pictures and I can’t stop him! And when – when he’s done – the Joker just…laughs!”

“For six months all I had was pain. They had to build a bridge between sections of my spine just so I could sit up straight. And I will never, never, never walk again.”

The therapy session would be taking place around 2 years after the Killing Joke. The Batman Chronicles story mentioned 6 months of therapy and Babs spent a year training with Richard Dragon, throw in 6 months to establish contact/work with the Suicide Squad = 2 years.

Bab’s paralysis/recovery, Jason’s death/resurrection, the 4 Robins, and Dick becoming Nightwing are all examples of why the New 52 compressed 5-year timeline doesn’t work for the Bat Family. Barbara and Jason’s respective Joker traumas were the defining obstacle of their lives – it took time and much inner strength to overcome. In the New 52, Babs, in a space of 5 years, became Batgirl, was paralyzed by the Joker, created the Oracle identity, formed the Birds of Prey, disbanded the Birds of Prey, regained the ability to walk, discarded the Oracle identity, and regained enough athletic ability to resume the Batgirl role. So, Babs was paralyzed for less than a month? Still traumatizing but it removes the strength and struggle it took for Babs to even create the Oracle role.

The therapist informs Barbara: “You have a right to be angry. It was a heinous act. It was unfair. You need to tell other people about your rage – like your father. Whenever you’re with him, you put on the act of perky, plucky Barbara Gordon. Why?”

Barbara responds: “What good would it do to get mad? He’d only feel more ashamed and guilty. He holds himself responsible. Dad always refused to have an officer of duty guarding us like they do in other cities. Wanted to be more ‘accessible’ to the taxpayers. We were ‘accessible’ all right.”

“But you do blame him – and Batman. Not unreasonably!”

“I mostly blame myself mostly. I should’ve known better than to just pop open the door without seeing who it was.”

“Why? Why should you have known better?”

Barbara leaves the therapy session, worrying that she has “another murderous sociopath stalking me!”

“And whose fault is this one, Barbara? Batman’s? Dad’s? Simon LaGrieve? Uh-uh. You wanted to be a superhero again so you created a computer version and called yourself Oracle. But you weren’t as good as you thought you were. Stop it! No more self-pity. No more playing the victim! Whatever it takes, Thinker, I’ll deal with you – myself!”

Trademark Barbara determination and independence on display.

Suicide Squad #49 was near the tail-end of Babs’ run with the team. Barbara continues to be stalked by the Thinker.

Babs is at the Gotham City Police Department Shooting Range: “What am I doing? I hate guns! Shut up! You know very well what you’re doing! You’re preparing to kill someone. You touched that maniac’s mind! You know what he wants to do! Carmichael’s a sociopath! He wants to kill you, your father – anyone who care’s anything about you! You swore – never again! You’d never be a victim again! Isn’t there any other way? Of course there is – I could just go tell Dad. But that would be the end of Oracle. The only place I have left where I can walk, where I can run, where I can dance is the cybernet! I lost my physical mobility because of one madman, must I lose my mental freedom as well?”

Notice that Bab’s never entertains the thought of contacting Batman or Nightwing. It reinforces the pre-Crisis and immediate post-Crisis canon that Barbara was not an intimate member of the Bat Family. I’m in the minority but I prefer it this way. I love Bab’s as an independent, adult woman, who, while inspired by Batman, carved her own path as a hero – one who didn’t need or require his guidance or approval. I prefer that Batman, amazed by Bab’s intelligence, strength, and determination, brought her into the fold after she created the Oracle identity. I feel Bruce saw Babs as well-intentioned but lacked the “true dedication” in her Batgirl career. He wasn’t wrong as Babs had retired her Batgirl-career pre-Killing Joke. Post Killing-Joke, Bruce realized Babs wasn’t here to play! We shouldn’t underestimate the guilt Bruce felt – not only for the shooting but for laughing with the Joker.

Babs wonders if she can bring herself to shoot Carmichael: “I won’t be a victim again. But does that mean I must become a killer? It flies in the face of everything I was taught – everything I believe! But perhaps everything I was taught to believe is wrong. Don’t we have the right to defend ourselves?”

Barbara hides out at the Hotel Tamarindo. Carmichael storms into the room, yelling for “Amy!”

Babs/Amy claims she only ships computers to Oracle but has never seen the actual person.

Carmichael throws Babs out of her wheelchair and threatens to “rip open her mind” and discover the truth.

Carmichael’s interrupted by Amanda Waller’s entrance: “So there you are, you nasty boy, you.”

“I know you. You’re Amanda Waller! I read all about you in the papers a year or so back! But you couldn’t be Oracle – or could you?!”

Carmichael tries to control Amanda’s mind but fails. Amanda and Carmichael brawl while Barbara grabs her gun: “Stand away from him, Mrs. Waller.”

“You can’t do it, girl.”

“I’ve got to do it! He’s a sociopath – he wants to kill me and my family – my friends!”

“Who you really trying to kill, girl?”

Babs visualizes shooting the Joker, Batman, Jim Gordon, and Batgirl.

“No one. Take this, please, Mrs. Waller.”

Waller knocks Carmichael unconscious and offers Babs continued work with the Suicide Squad: “Also got an offer to make to you. You got a thing about privacy. Fine. I won’t pry. But I think we can be a help to each other if you’re willing to listen.”

“You saved my life and helped keep me from taking a life. All right, Mrs. Waller – I’ll listen.”

I love the mutual respect between Babs and Amanda. Amanda didn’t threaten or blackmail Babs – she simply made an offer and was willing to back off if Barbara declined.

For those unfamiliar with Amanda’s backstory, she came from a poor background, suffered numerous heart-breaking tragedies, and built herself up by pure force of will. I think Amanda sees herself in Barbara – another woman brought down low by outside forces who raised herself up through pure determination.

Barbara would continue to aid the Suicide Squad but I’m switching to Showcase ’94 #12.

“A Little Knowledge” by Scott Peterson and Brian Stelfreeze. The short story takes place during the Prodigal-era of the Bat titles. Babs has stopped working with the Squad and began to make appearances in the Bat titles.

Babs hears a knock on her door – she opens it (using the peephole first), and discovers a rodent impaled by a knife.

“I can’t help wondering if they have to deal with this kind of thing in Metropolis.”

Babs receives a call: “I’ve been watching you.”

What is it with Babs and stalkers?

Barbara continues her work day: “A note from Robin. Great kid. Knows his stuff, too. And he always thanks me for the help. Means more to me than the money they send my way once in a while.”

Yes, Tim is polite and gracious. Unlike Bruce.

“Not that I’m complaining. Their generosity is what keeps me state of the art. Still, as much as I love Robin, I wish I didn’t get the feeling that he and Alfred were the only ones sending the mysterious checks I receive, funneled through dummy corporation seven times removed. Like I wouldn’t find out.”

Sorry, boys, you can’t fool the Oracle.

Babs continues to receive calls and weird notes.

Barbara is out grocery shopping when someone shoots at her: “I’m on my way home when the first shots fired. I see it hit the pavement before I hear it, and I’m already looking for places to dive. Then I remember I can’t dive anywhere anymore. I’m about to be shot. And there’s nothing I can do. Again.”

Babs returns home and receives another threatening call.

Babs has an origin/Killing Joke flashback:

“It was the Batman who made me want to become a hero myself. And even after he made it clear he didn’t want another partner, I kept at it.”

Independent Babs for the win!

“It was fun. Until the night when all the fun went away…forever.”

“I worked with what I had. From my days as Gotham’s head librarian I knew how to find out whatever I needed. If I could do that for citizens, I could do it for colleges, non-profit corporations, private investigators and super-heroes. Having been blessed with photographic recall, I studied a dozen newspapers, four dozen magazines, and my main haunt, the computer bulletin boards. I even hacked into the Gotham Bar Association to take the exam, just out of curiosity. Passed the first time, piece of cake. But the whole time I was improving my mind, I never got over losing the use of my legs. Although, when I think back on it all, I can’t believe I used to fight crime with a brown belt in Judo. A brown belt, for God’s sake.”

Barbara decides to talk to a friend. Enter Batman (Dick Grayson) via Batcave phone call.

Barbara confides in Dick: “The last time I was in a physical confrontation I shot a secret service agent. The time before that I got my spine blown out by the Joker. You can see why I’m a little nervous. Not exactly a great track record. I’m afraid.”

Dick advises: “Barbara, look – it…it never really goes away, you can try to lock it up, you can pretend you don’t feel it, but…but the fear’s always there somewhere. You can never escape it. You just have to overcome it. You have to prove you’re stronger. Do you want help with this guy?”

“No. Thanks, Dick, but…no. I need to do this on my own. I need to know if I can.”

My personal feeling is Barbara was brought into the Bat Family circle during the Knightsend/Prodigal era. I believe Dick is the one that invited Babs into the “family”. Not in a romantic way. Bruce was largely absent during from Gotham during this era and Dick will always be the more social/team-oriented member of the family. I see a reveal similar to the Batwoman/Nightwing moment in Batman: Bad Blood. The twist being that Barbara knows the secret identities – she’s had a lot of time to research since the Killing Joke.

Babs waits in her apartment. She receives another call: “Get ready, little girl. Here I come.” And the lights and phone go out.

Babs uses a back-up generator to access her computers. The security cameras reveal a Nick Riley: “And I finally understand who wants to kill me, and why.”

“I finally push the button. The first thing I installed. The think I hoped I never have to use.”

Riley enters the apartment: “You and me, we’re going to have a whole lotta fun.”

“No. I don’t believe this is going to be very much fun for you at all.”

Babs beats the man into unconsciousness. She then calls out to another man: “You can come in now, Mister Armonk.”

Armonk was sent to jail for murder two years ago with the assistance of Barbara Gordon. Armonk prepares to shoot Babs but she whips out her escrima sticks and knocks him out.

Batman compliments: “Nice job.”

“Batman? How long have you been here?”

“About five minutes. I came as soon as I got your signal.”

“Why didn’t you give me a hand?”

“Didn’t look like you needed it.”

“Hey, you looked good. Really good. How did it feel?”

“It felt good. I hope I don’t need to do that again. But it feels good to know I can. It may not be swinging from rooftops, but…but it’s not bad. Not bad at all.”

Babs would shortly form the Birds of Prey, first as a partnership with Black Canary and later expanding into a full-fledged group. One of my favorite series but it’s simply too lengthy to include in a Babs-a-thon.

Barbara’s other major development of the 90’s/2000’s was her romance with Dick Grayson. I started as a fan of the pairing. Babs – in the immediate post-Crisis era – dismissed Robin as a flirtatious, too young boy. Pre-Crisis, Babs dated Clark Kent and had a lengthy romance with Jason Bard. In both eras, Babs was intrigued by Batman. The point I’m making is Barbara dated adult men because she was an adult.

Shortly after the Prodigal era, Barbara and Dick began to head in a romantic direction. What I wanted, and what was initially portrayed, was Barbara falling for an older, more mature Dick. Dick is an adult and their age difference is no longer an issue for Barbara. Their early romance had touching moments as Babs let down her guard and allowed Dick in. Dick was still healing over the brutal end of his relationship with Starfire, so it made sense to go slow.

It didn’t take long for the pairing to jump the tracks for me. First, Babs is continually de-aged to become Dick Grayson’s one (only?) true love. First, no. Second, why does Babs have to be the one to have her history and accomplishments removed to accommodate Dick? Why does she lose her independence to become yet another sidekick of Batman? Third, Dick’s true love of his teenage/college years is Starfire. It’s Dick’s first intense, full-out love experience.

I could go on for a while about this pairing but I’ll save that for a separate post.

This concludes my Babs-a-thon. The issues mentioned in parts 1 – 5 cemented my impression of Barbara: an intelligent, determined, driven woman. I adored Barbara as Batgirl but it’s as Oracle that she became a force of nature in the DC Universe.

#Barbara Gordon #Batgirl #Oracle #babs-a-thon

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gffa · 7 years

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thewillowbends reblogged this post, but I’m going to stop hijacking keblava’s post and put it on its own, since it’s diverged away. ♥

Obidala is workable in certain contexts (outside of OTP3, I can see it working post-RotS, but yes, the ghost of Anakin is between them), but it doesn’t particularly strike me as compelling for either of their character in that the two of them are fairly similar in temperament and personality. Left to their own devices, they are dedicated and driven to the point of personal expense. Part of why Anakin was good for them (and them for he in the opposite regard) is that he rebels against the idea of personal relationships being subordinate to duty (albeit, when isolated, he takes this to a fault). He gives them the space to indulge personal emotional needs while allowing them to maintain their comparatively superior sense of personal responsibility due to their more matured and nuanced understanding of the complex reality of their galaxy. (Not to suggest Anakin doesn’t bring a unique perspective whose significance is often neglected to the detriment of everybody later on, but he’s no ideological prodigy.) Likewise, Obi Wan and Padmè provide both the emotional stability and stronger moral direction that Anakin desperately needs. It’s the breakdown in that support structure in RotS that primes him for the fall.

In defense of Anidala, though, if shit hadn’t hit the fan, I think they ultimately would have been all right had Anakin left the order (something that I think was inevitable no matter what, voluntary or otherwise). Without a war and given time to connect without the constant duress of potential loss underlining every moment, they would have been able to connect better. Padmè would have been forced to recognize and reconcile how emotionally damaged Anakin was from both his childhood and the toxic (for him) culture of the Jedi Order, and the stress of two dependent children certainly would have exacerbated her realization of how much of the emotional labor she was performing. I can’t imagine it would have been long before she shuttled him along into therapy - which is the perhaps the best thing that could have happened for all of them.

(It’s his relationship with Obi Wan, unfortunately, that I think would have suffered the most in that scenario. Obes is a consummate Jedi, and there wasn’t nearly enough allure in a life external to the Jedi to get him leave the only existence he’d ever known. AND…Obi Wan, while mature enough to overcome it by that point, is more than a tiny bit possessive where the people he cares about are concerned, so I imagine he’d be pretty hurt when Anakin left, even if he understood why. Their lives would’ve inevitably taken them in directions opposite of each other and they’d have faded into the backdrop of one another’s existence.)

I have so many thoughts! ♥ I’ll start with Anakin because, well, ultimately Star Wars was Anakin’s story and I do generally have the most to say about him and, you know, lots of feelings that I need to scream about. ^_~ I think the thing that took me awhile to understand about him was that he didn’t really want to leave the Jedi Order, one of the fundamental things about Anakin’s character is that he was driven to want to change the galaxy, to help make people do the right thing. I think this is why he fell in love with Padme in the first place--yes, she was beautiful, an angel in his eyes, but she was also this Queen of a planet who got shit done by marching up to people and making them do the right thing, he watched as she took matters into her own hands and made the galaxy a better place! That’s exactly what Anakin wanted and has always wanted--I love the idea of him retiring somewhere and having a happy, domestic life, but I don’t think that’s what Anakin himself would ever actually want. He wants to be out there doing things, using his power to save people and make the galaxy a better place in his eyes. That’s why he’s so torn--he desperately wants to stay a Jedi for so long because that’s what he thinks they’re supposed to do (and is angry when they don’t go far enough to achieve more), that’s why he stays with Palpatine after ROTS, because he has always and would always want to be shaping the galaxy. (This is setting aside that I agree that Anakin shouldn’t have been a Jedi, by their standards and his. I love them both dearly, they both have their merits, but sometimes two good things are not always a good fit!)

Also, while I personally think Anakin would benefit from therapy, I don’t think he wanted it and have you ever tried to drag someone to therapy who thought they didn’t need it or want it? I’ve done that twice in my life (family members who really, really needed it and we desperately tried to help support them through it) and it made absolutely zero difference, they were just angry and resentful at the rest of us because they didn’t want it. You have to want to go to therapy before therapy can help you, and I don’t think Anakin wanted it or saw himself as having a problem, not at heart. He says that he knows he wants more and he shouldn’t, but that entire movie is about how he refuses to let go of Padme and looks for every justification to do whatever he feels is necessary, because he so truly does not see his love as being wrong in any way or out of balance. The problem with Anidala, for me, is that they never really knew each other and Padme ended up doing more of the emotional labor than she should have and, honestly, I think they wanted slightly different (but important) things--Anakin wanted that person who set the boundaries down and was his emotional rock, the person he would lean on. Padme wanted someone who was more equal--she wanted someone to hold her like he did on Naboo (and this is when Anakin is really going into a spiral, when he feels he has to be the emotional rock in the relationship, he starts thinking he has to do it all himself, make all the decisions himself, and that is a DISASTER) just as she would hold them. Her ability to maintain those boundaries waned across the series--starting with how she told absolutely no one about all the people he murdered on Tatooine, up to when he was having dreams in ROTS and she knew what that did to him the last time, but still did nothing but tell him, “It’s just a dream.” to when he won’t let her talk about her concerns about Palpatine with him and she just lets that go by. On the other side of things, I think Obi-Wan’s biggest two problems were a) that he believed that Anakin should be independent when Anakin was not built for that and never was going to be (something Obi-Wan would struggle with letting go of) and b) that he was blind to Anakin’s falling, in addition to their mutually being shit at communicating with each other, of course. Obi-Wan is someone who knows himself pretty well (look at how he knows that he would have left for Satine if she’d been ready, he knows that he would leave with Anakin if Anakin had wanted to leave, he knows that he loves Anakin, that’s not exactly news to him), it’s just that he’s a reserved person. And that’s a fine way to be! Some people just are reserved. Their understated words may be less effusive, but that doesn’t mean they’re any less truly meant. The problem is that Anakin needed more and Obi-Wan didn’t see that. He knew Anakin wanted more, but didn’t understand that he needed it instead. He sought to train Anakin to independence, when Anakin should have been trained to realizing that this wasn’t his path. (But, then, Obi-Wan thought the sun rose and set on that guy, so he really believed in Anakin as a Jedi.) Obi-Wan, I think, is tricky where--if he realizes that Anakin needs him? Then he will absolutely leave the Jedi Order (because it’s not about how you can’t love people, it’s about where your priorities and balance are, which Obi-Wan knows would be with Anakin, and that’s what would clash against his Jedi ideals) to go be with Anakin. But if he thinks that Anakin’s better off on that path without him or that he himself isn’t necessary? Then he won’t go and I think that’s where their relationship would suffer, yeah. ): Ultimately, this is why I think Obianidala is the most stable of the possible options--Padme needs emotional support to put those boundaries back down, Obi-Wan needs an interpreter because he doesn’t realize how much what he thinks is clear isn’t always, and Anakin needs two people to handle him and to spread the work across. Both Obikin and Anidala are rich relationships, full of people who loved each other deeply and truly, these are people who could be so good together, if given a little more breathing room and getting away from the stress of the war and Palpatine’s manipulations. They’re both so necessary for Anakin’s character and, given some breathing room to not have their priority shifted to the war and so they could see that, no, Anakin wasn’t like this because of the war, that this was deeper than that, I think A WHOLE LOT could have been so different. Obi-Wan and Padme, for all that they’re similar in a lot of ways (especially in that Anakin is drawn to their structure and moral goodness), they’re also on opposite sides of what Anakin needs--Obi-Wan sets boundaries down too firmly without enough direct emotional softness, while Padme is too much emotional softness without the boundaries (later on) that Anakin needs. The two of them would balance each other out and then provide exactly what Anakin needed, and that’s why I love the three of them together best of all. ♥ (I feel like I should state that whatever criticisms I have of any characters or relationships are done from a place of my love, that I do not believe any of these relationships are worthless or terrible, certainly I don’t believe these people to have been acting out of anything less than what they thought was the best course of action and came from places of intense care and love as well. They’re all wonderful and have such good things about them, Obikin and Anidala and Obianidala all. ♥) (And also I feel like I should reiterate that the intention is not at all that I’m trying to change others’ minds about any of this, but that I enjoy laid back, fun discussions that make me fall in love with everyone and everything all over again!)

#obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #padme amidala #obianidala #text

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