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lunarw0rks · 9 months

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Old Bones | Chapter Eleven

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): PTSD/abuse themes, explicit content (18+), strong language, depictions of nightmares/panic attacks, hurt/comfort, smut, p in v sex, unprotected s*x, hehe

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: Watch by Billie Eilish + Fine Line by Harry Styles inspired this chapter. Not proofread entirely, so don't mind mistakes. Enjoy!

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Watch Me Burn

“Think this is the last of it.” Simon huffs, setting down the last box.

You were finally back there, standing in the middle of the home Cal and you once shared. Selling it was too much of a hassle, and it was decently sized. Perhaps it was a calm before a storm; how tranquil you felt standing in the middle of the entrance hall. Or the kitchen, the dining room, worst of all—the bedroom.

But you were here now, and he was soon to be cremated. There was no room for dwelling, at least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself. And Simon? His awkwardness has been well disguised if there is any left by now.

The drunken kiss—it was just that; a drunken kiss.

With the horrible shit you two had been through to land you here, unresolved tension became the new way of communicating. You began to think you both fed on the chaos like if things were too calm, the world would implode.

“Thank you.” You say, playing with the new house keys. Internally, you were showing gratitude for more than just him moving a few boxes, it was how resilient he had been, despite all your baggage and unpredictability.

He merely nods, reaching into his pocket for his carton of cigarettes. He was going to leave you to do… whatever it was you needed to do in order to be comfortable here. Simon hadn’t expected you to ever want to be back here, to want to spend your new riches on travel.

However, if Simon learned anything about you during these months; life on the road didn’t suit you, especially not with him. And in truth, he had no plans once you got settled here. At first, he was going to move straight to his next op, forget about this one.

It was abundantly clear he was well past self-control, though. That’s what frightened him the most.

You turned yourself in a circle a few times, admiring the high ceilings and decor still left behind. It was the same as Christmas Eve, only the evidence of Cal’s tantrum had been long cleaned up. He really wasn’t here when he was hunting you—he had sent a housesitter, most likely, given the fact that there wasn’t a speck of dust in the main living area.

There were only small reminders; the scuffs on the hardwood, the dents by the china cabinet, and a nasty scratch in the dining table from the night you left. You’d be lying if looking at the damages didn’t paint a vivid image of each blow that causes them.

When you gazed at the scuffed hardwood, you remembered the way he flipped the table the first time you fought. Then, the china cabinet—merely a cabinet of things for him to hurl in your direction. Worst of all, the dining table with a scratch from the knife you grabbed, scraping across the oak when he dragged you across it.

In each small area, you were rewatching the moment as a numb spectator, as if you had a third-person viewing of your fight for your life.

You hadn’t realized, but you had been literally walking down memory lane, physically tracing your fingertips along each reminder. “Found this in the truck, must’ve fallen out of your bag.” His sudden presence startled you, but it was a blessing. Any longer, and you would’ve probably ripped up the real estate papers and kept moving.

He was outstretching one of your necklaces, one you definitely didn’t want to be left behind. “Thank you,” you said it again, a double entendre barely concealed with your wavering voice. His poker face made it hard to decipher his awareness—for all you knew he could be feeling nothing towards you.

Simon’s eyes found the dent in the wall, recalling just how long your fingertips skimmed it, the nauseous look on your face. He debated on this next move, but his feet found a position behind you anyway since you didn’t take the jewelry from him yet.

“I hate the carpet. And everything in the dining room.” His subtle breath was the only thing alerting you of his close proximity, or you probably wouldn’t have even noticed. Two hands came in front of you, opening the necklace and slowly wrapping it around the base of your neck. If you hadn’t just been morbidly reminiscing, perhaps your breathing would’ve changed a bit.

He clicked the necklace in place, his gruff voice gentle and appreciative, “so get rid of it all.” It was almost a whisper like he was giving you the permission you didn’t need but were so obviously asking him for. It was your home to renovate, not his.

Simon’s breath smelled of fresh cigarette smoke, lingering in a cloud around you even after his simple words concluded. A hand lingered on your shoulder, giving it a small pat, before he retreated out to the untouched living room.

There was no sense in keeping the reminders, and none of it was to your taste. It was time to get to work if you had any shot of moving on from Cal.

Once you got started, you found it hard to stop.

Tearing out furniture and ripping up the carpet was surprisingly therapeutic, even with the emotional baggage the material things carried. The place was empty, but not understimulating. To you, it was a pleasing blank canvas you had full power to refurbish and leave the old behind. Cleaning up the mess was just an afterthought, but soothing to your soreness from all the handy work.

Of course, Simon would carry heavy things out, or assist in moving something for you. But when you were aggressively hammering a nail and grunting? He… found it beneficial to stay out of your way, with no clue whose face you might’ve been picturing while doing it.

The kitchen was shockingly tidy; the fridge was empty, as were the cabinets. You tackled that room last, disinfecting and placing the few food items you brought with you. Of course, it was a depressing sight; all those cabinets with only a few canned items and some granola bars. On the bright side, you’d only ever seen Simon eat once, so he wasn’t your worry.

Groceries would be a task for tomorrow. For now, you need to rest your legs and feet.

Simon claimed the spare room, which once was Cal’s office. You peered inside of it when you strolled down the hall—he had already laid out a blanket and pillow on the daybed. It was nice enough, for someone like him, at least.

You were taking advantage of the king-sized bed, though. Not one night in your marriage, did you ever get it to yourself. Sometimes you would snuggle in it, hopeful that this would be the night Cal didn’t come up the stairs and join you—or more commonly, that he would be too drunk to drive home.

He never was, of course; a natural buzzkill and energy vampire.

But it was yours now, the whole master bedroom. It had the nicest view of all the rooms; two large windows above the nightstand that overlooked the street, the bed in between them, and a fireplace seating area in the corner. Not that you ever needed this much room, or could even fill the space with all your belongings, but you had earned the right to spoil yourself. It was your home as much as it was his, even though it didn’t feel that way with Cal.

You practically expelled all the air in your lungs, the second your back hit the plush mattress. You sprawled out, almost in a starfish position as you looked around at your new room. The walls had always been kept white, as did the sheets—allowing you to picture it entirely renovated, to your design taste.

Though, if you had another minute of thinking about renovation, you would’ve lost your mind. You hadn’t even taken off your shoes, and your eyes were fluttering shut. In all honesty, you were too worn out to care about the position you were in, or the shoes still on your feet.

—

You sat up in the bed, feeling yourself in the exact position you had snoozed. You looked at the alarm clock to your right, red numbers being one of the only sources of light.

12:32 AM

Clearly, you needed it, because you hadn’t even moved in your sleep, or pulled the covers up. You reached up a hand, rubbing your tired eyes. Of course, you were now wide awake at midnight. Just your luck.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, embraced by the softness of the bed beneath you. A warm tingle was overtaking you like you were taking a soothing shower or bath. It was perfect… Too good to be true, right?

The bedroom was the same, nothing disturbed. But, as comforting as it was, something was off balance. There was no faint sound of the TV downstairs or the occasional clearing of his throat, only the white noise of the AC.

Now that you’ve moved and gathered your bearings—it was icy cold, more than what could be blowing from the vents. And… there was a mumble growing louder; a man’s voice you couldn’t decipher from your room.

Your legs swung off the edge of the bed, taking an instinctual look over your shoulder as if searching for the source of this ill feeling. There was no monster in the shadows, or a hand from under the bed grasping at your ankle. Not even the feeling of a presence—but you knew there was one. Who was talking, at this hour? The confusion made your brows knit, and your mouth hang open slightly.

Normally, you would’ve just got up and investigated the sound. But, getting to your feet was taking some courage right now, and you were moving about half the speed you would any other time. When you turned your head toward the bathroom, the door was still open—the washroom was nothing but a pitch-black abyss right now.

And the closet? You were too shaky to go in that direction, shaking your head at the idea immediately. That left the door in and out of the bedroom, where the muffle was coming from somewhere in the home.

You fingered the brumal knob, feeling it sting against your steaming flesh. The air was cold, causing goosebumps, but you were simultaneously burning up from a feeling of impending doom. The hinges cracked, almost sounding similar to the low-octave male voice still audible.

The door opened and it was… the hallway. The same way it was when you went to sleep, only illuminated by one of the sconces. Still, the sound was coming from the spare room. When you looked, there was a near-blinding light coming from under the door.

A hushed, growly whisper went past you—no, through you, like a stranger passing you on the street while speaking. You shivered again, eyes darting down each side of the hall. Down the steps, it was like the master bath, a dark abyss you didn’t want to trek through.

That left the spare room in all its blinding glory, and whoever, whatever was behind the door. This time, you pushed forward with all the speed you could muster. Not even a light jog, as if you had the weight of the Earth constricting your joints.

The muffle got louder, even overbearing when you opened the door to the spare room. It wasn’t the empty room with stray boxes and tools—it wasn’t your house at all. You squinted and held up your forearm to shield the light, taking several seconds for your eyes to adjust. It was the large windows—those large windows from the office building. And now, you could hear the voice clearer now.

You turned the corner and saw yourself. The moment Cal was creeping up on you, touching your waist. Though you were watching it from a different angle, seemingly watching it play out the same way it happened—it wasn’t. The woman you were watching, she wasn’t moving, not budging against his hands. She was… just standing there, white-knuckling the glass of whiskey her husband poured for her. He leaned closer, and as he tightened the grip on her waist, you felt two hands on yours, two that felt very lucid. So tight you felt like the assailant had sharp claws.

You could smell him; the stench of whiskey and cruelty warm on your neck. But you couldn’t speak, not scream, or resist. Just like the replay of the day he died, you were standing there like her, the guilt of being weak-kneed made you sick.

He could’ve clawed you in half, how harshly he was holding you in place. It was like a mockery of watching what would’ve happened if you didn’t break the glass over his head—and he was making you watch. Every second, every struggle, every cruel thing Cal would’ve said if you let him touch you.

This wasn’t you. You wanted to bellow at her to fight him, and more so at yourself for not making a run for it. Why couldn’t you move? Despite his hands feeling like they were going to tear you in half? It was pure humiliation—the woman in front of you that once got off the kitchen floor on Christmas Eve, now a face of blood and bone.

You turned around slowly, feeling salty tears go from your face all the way down to your lips.

His sneer would’ve been seen for miles—the sadism written on Cal’s face as if he was still feeding on your tears, even in death, even in your dreams. It wasn’t just his mortal face, it was the one he was left with in death—a spewing bullet wound through the forehead soaking you in his blood.

You could taste it after a few seconds, the metallic taste coating your face and body the closer he leaned in. His lips brushed against yours, just like the day they did in the office. The crimson was filling your mouth, causing you to hack and reach for your throat.

Your shoes squeaked against the marble floor of the office, looking down and seeing gallons of the stuff pooling. You could feel his blood trickle and seep into the fabric of your clothes, in the whites of your eyes with an excruciating burn.

As badly as you wanted to call out his name, your mouth was too coated to get the words out. It was hot, so hot it made you stumble. Your vision was gone—replaced by the blood that flooded your irises. You felt yourself nearly fall, as you ripped yourself from his grip.

You were palming through the ruby of your vision, arms outstretched. Though you couldn’t see, you could still feel him looming over you, watching in amusement as the pools of blood squelched under your feet.

Then, you felt your hands grip something, or someone. You hung on for dear life, blinking away the currant that washed your vision. It still seared, still coated your throat and face, but you could finally make out the figure; Simon.

You blinked rapidly, a chest cough followed by more blood as you watched him. He was staring straight ahead at first, until he felt you beating on his chest, yanking on the fabric of his clothes, just like you had done when strangled. The lifeless version of Cal, he had fizzled out the second Simon approached, nowhere to be seen in the shadows of the office anymore. As well as the alternate version of Cal and you—they were gone too.

Left in the room, it was you and Simon. One soaked with blood, gasping for breath. The other was tattered and seething at the sight.

Simon’s eyes widened as if he had just now noticed you. His hulking, veiny hands are outstretched, cupping each side of your saturated face, taking a step closer to you. Under the mask, you could see the fabric move, like he was speaking to you—but your sound was muffled again.

You plummet from a great height. Adrenaline-fueled rush courses through your veins, instantly jolting your senses awake. The wind roars past your ears with an ear-piercing howl. Your stomach clenches and churns, a sensation that feels like a roller coaster taking a wild descent. The feeling of weightlessness washes over you as if gravity has momentarily lost its grip, leaving you suspended in a free-falling void.

The pit of your stomach seems to drop with each passing moment as if trying to catch up to the plummeting rest of your body.

The blackness seizes hastily—your view is of widened amber eyes, and you can feel the same hands cupping your cheeks, just like the nightmare. The burn in your throat wasn’t from blood, it was from your screaming. The searing in your eyes, it was stemming from the tears streaming down your cheeks.

For the first few seconds, you were still half-in, half-out, pounding on his chest with all the shaky strength you could muster.

“Look at me, look at me.” Simon kept repeating it, only gripping the sides of your face faster. If he wasn’t restricting you, you were surely going to hurt yourself or him, so he had to. You were hyperventilating, still stuck in that dream-like state of terror and the threat of him attacking you. His pressing weight was caging you in place, no matter how much you yelped and thrashed to get running.

In a swift movement, Simon tugged at the edge of his mask, pulling it entirely off his head. “It’s me, it’s me!” He raised his voice, his identity now in your full sight. When he was wearing the mask, he probably appeared more like a masked intruder than a comforting soul—he had to snap you out of this, even if it meant breaking his own rules.

You could see him now; a chiseled jaw and protruding eyes cloaked by years of dark circles, a faint stubble across his chin, and that scar you had touched a few nights ago. It wasn’t an assailant or Cal, it was Simon.

Your hollers halted, now only quiet sobs against his chest. Everything in the dream felt so vivid, so real, lucid enough you were controlling your every movement, but not enough to rid yourself of the threat. The adrenaline you felt during the night terror left you unable to shut your eyes or stop wailing as if you were being actively hunted for sport.

“I’m sorry. It felt too real, Simon.” You whispered against his chest, one hand digging your nails deep into his bicep. His knees were on either side of your waist, anchoring you up enough to use him as a pillow. It seemed the only way he could successfully wake you was to straddle your frame, to cup your cheeks.

What he had done in the present, injected its way into the night terror—perhaps the reason it all felt too real.

“I know.” A calloused thumb stroked your cheek, his head resting against the crook of your neck. He didn’t need to ask the source of the nightmare, and he wasn’t going to. It was a natural reaction, being in this house all day reminded of your worst memories. You tried to hide it throughout the day, but Simon was too observant for his own good.

When he heard your shrieks in the next room, half-asleep on the daybed, he knew. This would’ve happened eventually. Just because Cal was dead, didn’t mean he was dead to you. His ghost still loomed in every room of that place, a constricting weight on your shoulders.

He had witnessed his fair share of adrenaline highs and experienced plenty on his own too. Only then, he didn’t have the luxury of a shoulder to cry on. There was no way in hell he would damn you to that same loneliness he had, no matter how much his inner voice bellowed at him to put the mask back on.

“Sit up, you won’t be so shaky.” Once hovering over you, he eased up, a gentle tug on your wrist to get you sitting up. Eyes still wide, tear stains on yourself and the fabrics of the bed. He looked behind him, seeing the armchair by the fireplace. Simon guided you to it, allowing you to sit down somewhere other than the bed occupied with memories.

He dropped to his knees in front of you slowly, a fist finding your ankle. You flashed a look of confusion, but you weren’t in any position to protest. It felt safe, despite the outward appearance Simon had—broody and dripping with masculinity.

His fingers found the tongue of the shoes you fell asleep wearing, pulling them off slowly.

“Better?” He asks, figuring out the answer quite quickly based on your silence. You nodded in response, wiping your cheeks with your sleeve. It felt the same as it did when you were younger; embarrassed for being afraid of a nightmare. It was just that—a nightmare, but that didn’t mean you didn’t feel every bit of it.

The light from the hallway was the only thing allowing you to see his face; washed out by the golden tint of the light bulb, but pleasing to look at. “Thank you, Simon.” God, how many times you said it that day, probably too many times. He would never accept it, not since the beginning of this road, and especially not after what happened at the apartment.

But, without his mask, he didn’t have his usual safety net of anonymity. His face was as blank as you expected it would be, aside from the slight scowl on his lips. “Stop sayin’ that.” He wanted to get up, but his palm remained wrapped around your calf, gazing at you with confliction.

You tilted your head to the side, leaning against the backrest of the armchair, “yeah, but I meant it.”

“I know you did,” he replied, his speech still a mumble even without the mask, “that’s why I said not to.” Simon didn’t deserve the gratitude, as far as he was concerned. Especially not from you. The last thing on your mind should be thanking him, being kind to him, and even looking him in the eye. But you did—every single day.

“You know you don’t have to stay, right?” You asked, the flicker of the hall light still concealing his pout slightly. You didn’t mean here, you meant in general; he didn’t have to, but he always did. You inhaled sharply, feeling his thumb still caressing your calf soothingly. “And… I’m not upset with you. You have to know that, at least.”

Perhaps it was the fog in your mind or the nerves still working overdrive, but his silence was too still for your liking. It wasn’t distaste, it was his old habits keeping him from indulging.

The hand was removed quickly and placed back on his own knee. You heard the shuffle of his pant fabric like he was going to stand up and leave the bedroom. But he didn’t—his head dropped in the direction of the floor.

“Simon?” Your tone was hushed, eyes squinted with unsettle.

“Stop it.” He grumbled, the whites of his eyes still glowing within the dim lighting. Simon blinked slowly when he met your gaze again, unable to accept the perturb. There was so much he wanted to say, but he didn’t. That much was obvious.

He heard you stammer, a sentence cut short when he spoke so firmly. “Stop being so fuckin’ nice to me.” Though the words themselves were harsh, it was nothing more than a defeated whisper—a plea to halt your tenderness before he lost all self-control.

What he desired was to find the mask he flung only minutes ago, slip it on, and slam the door behind him. His presence remained; a commanding voice, despite being the one kneeling in front of you. And you? Ever persistent, and he despised it with every fiber of his being.

You scoffed, but it was coming from a place of intense empathy. “Am I supposed to scream at you? Beat you bloody?” The question hung in the air for a few seconds, followed by a snappy retort. He would never let himself relax, even feel, could he?

“No, you need to stop treating me like someone you deserve. You’re not that stupid.” Simon hissed with a slight roll of his eye. You clutched each armrest tightly, mouth slightly hung open from his self-pity.

His shell was breaking—the umbrage was just the last futile attempt at restricting you before it shattered completely. When that happened—and it would—he had but a clue about his next step. Why had he remained in this spot for so long, kneeling so closely to you?

“Why did you stay then? The night at the cabin, after Cal?” It surely wasn’t because he had to. You were onto him, and you weren’t going to let him go now, not unless he packed up and left right this second.

His stammer said enough, the tightened grip on his own appendage as if he was squeezing the reply from his own body. If he said what he wanted to, it wouldn’t be something cruel. He couldn’t be cold to you. That’s what frightened him the most.

You hunched forward slightly, a hovering hand on his shoulder. Simon tensed out of reflex, but didn’t physically stop you—he couldn’t anymore. Tonight was a breaking point, and his face had been in your sights for several minutes now.

“Don’t do this.” Finally, he gathered his bearings and clamped a hand around your wrist, the sheer size of his hand swallowing yours entirely. He let out a heavy breath, his glowing eyes burning holes into yours.

Your reply was as simple as blunt as you could muster; a one-worded question you’ve had for a long time. “Why?”

His fingers clenched a little tighter, expecting you to squirm. But you didn’t. “Because I won’t be able to stop myself,” he blinked slowly, eyes drooping with the small sliver of weakness he was showing you right now. Who said you wanted him to stop? In fact, nothing about you did. Not even your reddened eyes, or the tension you carried. It was a simple concept to grasp, but someone as stubborn as himself hadn’t. Yet.

This time, it was you who initiated the intimacy. It wasn’t sensuality; it was reassurance—something Simon needed desperately. You pressed your forehead against his, fingers finding the stubble you could finally touch.

He breathed heavily into the kiss, an instinctual hand protecting the back of your head when he pushed your weight back into the armchair. Somewhere in it, he had stood up again, able to deepen the lip contact by hovering over you. Simon should’ve fought it, but he didn’t. He wanted you to pull away and realize how ridiculous he felt against you, but you did not.

His lips pulled away with a moist squelch, still a hand on the back of your head. The drunken kiss was messy and heated. This was stone-cold sober—much needed and full of feelings. Simon seemed to be searching for hesitance, any excuse to halt his desires. You only breathed heavily from the loss of air, unblinking and desperate for more.

You nodded slightly, an unspoken plea for that part of him that couldn’t stop himself. Though it seemed like you were leading things, you didn’t have a clue what the hell you were doing either. It just felt right at the moment. After the nod, his free hand clasped the collar of your shirt, pulling you to your feet. He scanned the room around him, though he already memorized the layout the first time he walked in. It was as if he was searching for prying eyes that weren’t there—an instinct when his face was visible.

Instead of the sides of your head, his fingers found your waist, digging into them as he backed you against the dresser. Without a struggle on his end, he lifted you on top of it so he could stand between your parted thighs.

It couldn’t be the bed; it was too domestic for the both of you. He needed somewhere you could easily pull away from him and walk away, as he’d convinced himself you were going to. There was no way this act would carry out completely, right? The rational portion of you had to be buried deep in your lust.

Simon’s fingers gave your waistband a tug, pulling your bottoms off entirely. His eyes remained trained on yours the entire time, expecting some sort of resistance. Hell, he was expecting a slap on his cheek that never came. You wanted this; you wanted him.

The pad of his finger found your swollen clit, rubbing paced circles on the nerves. You felt your breath hitch at the sensation, a clench around the wooden edge of the dresser. Despite how much you wanted this, it was like an out-of-character blur. Simon, being the face to match the lustful hands? You never thought of that as a sight you’d see, never in a million years.

His heavy breathing was just as arousing, how lustfully he was watching despite not being the one being touched. Words weren’t coming out, but the language of stares was all the two of you needed right now. Simon could keep searching for refusal, but he wasn’t going to find it. Not while he was massaging your clit so intimately.

The pleasure built rather quickly, as did the pace of your hips rocking against his hands. It had been so long since you touched yourself, let alone a sexual partner doing it for you. When his finger ceased, you let out a small mewl from the emptiness.

From the moonlight illuminating his features, your eyes wandered at the sound of his belt unbuckling. He did it with such haste, such experience. He unzipped his jeans next, pulling them down to his knees to allow access.

Instinctively, you outstretched a hand to palm him through his boxers. It was what you were used to: I do something for you, you have to do the same for me.

“No.” Simon hissed, placing your hands back at your sides. It wasn’t because he didn’t want you to stroke him—he didn’t want the focus on him. You seeing his face was all the focus he could handle right now.

You kept your hands on either side of you, respecting the boundary he had put up, though you didn’t understand its purpose. He pulled down on the waistband of his black boxers, stroking himself for a few seconds, followed by another hiss. Simon stepped back to his original position between your thighs again, only he pulled them further apart—enough for his wide frame to fit comfortably.

You felt his length pressing against your folds, the knuckle of his hand on your inner thigh as he guided it into position. Before he did, he searched for a nod again, or anything, really. You obliged, bracing yourself by clamping down on his shoulder. It had been a long time since you had sex, so it wasn’t going to be particularly comfortable at first. A man of Simon’s stature, no matter the amount of arousal that pooled—you would have to be eased into it.

He guided the tip in first, eyes darting up and down as he slowly pushed his hips forward, his length coated in the lubricating slick caused by his fingers. You let out a pleasured gasp, not yet feeling the stretch that was coming.

When he was sure of the next phase, he placed his lips against your gasping ones, silencing the inevitable whine of discomfort. Still at a snail's pace, he entered even deeper, enough that you needed to sit with him like that for a moment. It was just that; discomfort, not pain. Yet another factor of intimacy you weren’t accustomed to as of late. “Is that… good?” He whispered against your mouth, still only thrusting a portion of himself out—and slowly.

Since he’d given you time to adjust, the discomfort did fizzle away. “More,” you replied, a slight nod of your head. Now, you were arguably enjoying the sensation more than he was.

This time, he didn’t wait for a refusal.

With an abrupter thrust, he bottomed out inside you. It wasn’t roughness, not yet—just his way of ripping off the bandaid. His lips found yours again, allowing you to bite down on his lower lip at the sudden stretch. The angle he was at; you sitting on top of the dresser with your hips slightly raised, and him standing, it felt euphoric, not agonizing.

“Shit…” A guttural groan fell from his lips as his movements began, methodical and pleasuring for both of you. Every sound you made, every little reaction; it made him twitch deep inside you. This is what he wanted when you two finally gave in—you, writhing in front of him and forced to do nothing but enjoy it.

His tip kissed your cervix with each pump, just enough to make your eyes roll slightly. What the hell you two were doing, the consequences tomorrow, none of it mattered. Lust truly did cloud the two of you this moment, and he wasn’t going to stop unless you asked him.

You felt tears prick at your eyes, but it wasn’t from pain or repulsion. It was from how long you had gone without this shared feeling of desire, the closeness of two people. Simon slowed his movements, wiping away the tear with his thumb. He could tell, it wasn’t a fear of him or the past that haunted you—it was pure satisfaction.

You needed this, no, deserved this from someone who truly deserved you.

His experienced hands found your hips, tugging you closer so your chests were touching. You let out another sharp gasp, holding onto him just as tightly. The tug allowed him to hit a deeper spot inside your walls if that was even possible.

The change in position allowed you to raise your knees higher against him, so much you probably could’ve placed your feet up on the dresser. Simon grunted and increased his speed, one hand on your thigh, and the other a flat palm against the wall in front of him. The furniture piece hit the wall with each relentless thrust, the thumb masked by your shared moans of delight. And they were becoming desperate ones, plain desperate.

Your stomach was doing flips, tightening and churning the longer he went at it like this. And Simon, his head leaned back ever so slightly, he was close too. There was no turning back now, too deep in the sensations. But still, you iron gripped him—as if pleading for him not to pull away—something he had no intention of doing.

“Let it out, love.” He rasped in your ear, his hips still going an uninterrupted pound. Love. The unexpected pet name made your already shaking knees turn to putty. You truly would only last seconds at best, especially with that accent smothering you.

What once was a moan with each thrust, now became a growing holler. That breaking point that had been bubbling, the one he gave you permission to, finally struck you—destructively. Each muscle in your abdomen constricted, your head thrown back against the wall at the feeling of euphoria hitting an all-time high. Simon’s hand, once gripping your thigh, was now protecting the back of your head as it thrashed against the wall. His tongue traced along your jaw and chin, the combination of sensations only prolonging the interval.

His fist balled in your hair, just enough to only cause an enjoyable sting. He leaned back slightly to have a better view of his length going in and out of you. The sounds of your high delighted him, the final permission for him to enjoy his own climax.

When he felt a more violent twitch, he pulled himself out, using his hand to finish the rest. Still, he wouldn’t allow you to touch him, you were sure of that. You panted heavily, mouth still agape in awe of the attraction you felt towards this. Your fingers clenched the sides of the dresser once pulled away, feeling the spew of his cum land on your folds.

Simon trembled slightly, giving one of your clothed breasts a yearning squeeze as he drained himself of his seed.

Then, clarity hit him as quickly as his climax did. “You wanted that, right?” He whispered, eyes now full of searching rather than lust. God, his cluelessness would be the death of him before any enemy. You quickly nodded, now slightly more slumped than before. You thought it was obvious, but he did always have a way of shocking you—in more ways than one, now.

Inside, you were shaking your head and smacking sense into him for his own stubbornness.

“Simon,” you panted, tightening your thighs around his waist, “just shut up. Please.” You pushed your head against into chest, using it as a surface to catch your breath on. The sensations you felt replayed already, leaving you sensitive and breathless, but heinously calm in spite of what you two had just done.

It happened so quickly, but it wasn’t regretful or dissatisfying. It was the exact opposite.

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011 @stunkbiggu @bi-witch-bxtch @warm-milk-with-honey @xheera @kiamewrites @01trickster10 @m0chac0ffee @tizylish @midwesternwitchery @ramadiiiisme

#mw2 #mw2 fanfic #call of duty #simon riley #task force 141 #simon riley x reader #ghost mw2 #task force 141 x reader #simon riley smut #simon riley fluff #simon riley angst #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x y/n

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destielshippingnews · 3 years

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Edvard's Supernatural Rewatch & Review: 1x04 Phantom Traveler

In this week’s analysis, I’ll be discussing the unfortunate introduction of Abrahamic mythology, the lamentable gender politics of Dean in his nightwear, and magic languages.

Supernatural’s fourth offering, 1x04 Phantom Traveler, (not a misspelling, 'traveller' is spelt like that in America) is a solid episode. It’s not fantastic, and Supernatural certainly has better to offer, but it’s still an entertaining watch which introduces demons into the Supernatural universe and continues developing Dean and Sam’s characters, making them more distinct.

It is also the first episode Robert Singer directed for Supernatural. I didn’t see much to particularly comment on in the direction for this episode (my two years of Media Studies were not wasted on me at all), but one interesting choice, however, is the tracking shot of Dean’s sleeping form straight after the title card. EscapingPurgatory podcast had a shrewd postulation: the intended audience was heterosexual educated men between the ages of roughly 15 and 39, but a lot of them would be watching with their girlfriends and wives etc, and Dean is the brother who’s available at the moment.

Returning to the plot of the show, the script does itself a major disservice as early as the cold open. This episode was broadcast in America four years after 9/11 (almost four and a half in Britain) and was right in the middle of the decades-long and still ongoing war on drugs. The atmosphere surrounding airfare has changed fundamentally. The air hostess clearly saw the man’s black eyes and was affected by it, and should have alerted somebody on the plane to her worries, because she would have thought he was on drugs of some variety at the very least, and possibly smuggling drugs on the plane. However, for the purposes of the plot she does not act on her misgivings, but simply gasps and goes about her day.

This raises the question of why the demon revealed its presence like that. Demons are usually incredibly stupid on Supernatural, but this level of dumb is difficult for me to believe. The air hostess could have very easily had the man thrown off the aeroplane, and then its plan would be scuppered. The most likely reason was to show the audience that the man was possessed, but the audience was going to find that out in about a minute’s time anyway, so why reveal it there? It breaks the fourth wall in a bad way.

Whilst on the aeroplane and the demon’s plan, the episode never makes the demon’s motivations explicit. Sure, Sam claims that demons like death and destruction for their own sake, but this doesn’t fit well with how demons behave later in the show. They are, forsooth, as thick as poo, but they usually have higher ups telling them what to do. Was the demon’s repeated downing of aeroplanes part of a higher up’s plan?

Before I go on, it’s worthwhile mentioning that this episode is the first one to introduce the idea of an actual Abrahamic Hell in the Supernatural universe. It’s not the only genre show of its kind to have included something like this, with Charmed having the Underworld where the Source of All Evil resided, and Buffy having various Hell dimensions, but those two examples weren’t Hell as depicted in the Bible.

Joss Whedon specifically avoided the idea of a Hell and employed dimensions ruled by demons and demon gods rather than Archangel Lucifer. Charmed used the Underworld as an equivalent of Hell, but it was not a place of punishment for human souls. While Charmed is definitely my least favourite fantasy/horror/sci-fi genre show (Prue notwithstanding), I appreciated that it took a step away from Abrahamic mythology. Buffy/Angel were even better, having their own mythology that had precious little to do with Middle Eastern religions and more to do with Dunsany, Lovecraft or sometimes even Tolkien.

Kripke, however, took the lazy route with Abrahamic, specifically Christian, mythology, a choice which I believe was to the show’s detriment. It’s supposed to be a show about American folklore and urban legends, but that stuff eventually gets thrown under the bus. Forget Native Americans, screw the Americanised versions of Scandiwegian lore, screw the Old West and the Gold Rush and all the tales revolving around America’s history. And Canada? Pfft. What even is Canada? And don’t even think about Mexico. Let’s just have yet more desert myths from 2-3000 years ago.

My distaste aside, this universe has a Hell (and a Heaven), and demons are made by torturing humans until all humanity is gone from them, or by letting the humans off the torture rack if they agree to become the torturers.

Knowing this, two possibilities come to mind. One is that this demon is repeating its own human death for some reason, and another is that it kills people and drags their souls to Hell to make more demons.

Repeating its own death is entirely speculative, but this episode mixes up demons with traits later associated with ghosts and death echoes. Never again is an EMF reader used to detect demonic activity, and unless I’ve forgotten a certain example, demons aren’t shown to act as specifically as this again.

The second option, that of dragging souls to Hell, doesn’t seem likely as it’s made clear that demon deals or trades are required in order for Hell to get its claws on human souls, at least in usual circumstances. There’s nothing saying that demons can’t just decide to drag certain souls to Hell, and there is an implication at the end of this episode that this might actually be the case, but it’s a stretch. If this were the case, however, it would give the demon a real motive and make the episode less of a stand-alone bit of fun with overt X-Files vibes.

Sticking with Hell events on the aeroplane for now, let’s skip to the end and the exorcism. Whilst trying to exorcise the demon, it tells Sam that Jessica is burning in Hell. Dean tries to reassure Sam by saying that demons read minds and that it was trying to get to him, but demons can only know the minds of people they possess. This then leaves three options: the demon was lying and Jess is in Heaven, it was telling the truth and Jess is in Hell, or the demon was just trying to get to Sam, but unbeknownst to him Jess actually was in Hell.

Technically speaking, Jess shouldn’t be in Hell. She didn’t make a deal (that we know of) and it’s established later in the show that most people go to Heaven anyway. But Kevin didn’t, neither did Eileen or Bobby. Mary did, even though she made a deal with Azazel, and she died under the same circumstances as Jess. As Jess is never mentioned as being in Hell by another demon in the show, and as Dean, Sam and Cas eventually visit Hell and find nothing of her there, we can assume Jessica went to Heaven.

The exorcism in this episode is strange compared to exorcisms in the rest of the show. The Doyle (external to the text) explanation is clearly that the writers didn’t know exactly how they wanted things to work yet, but the Watson (within the text) explanation could be that they used a different exorcism ritual. Later in the show, there is no intermediate stage between being expelled from the host body and being banished to Hell: they just go directly down. This version, though, forces the demon to manifest and thereby makes it much stronger and more dangerous. I personally think the version in this episode makes the demons more of a threat because it’s harder to exorcise them, but I can see why it became streamlined later in the show.

The fact the demon possessed the aeroplane, however, raises the question of why it didn’t do so in the first place. Maybe it’s more fun to possess a human first.

Speaking of the ritual, Jared tells us on the commentary that he had to have a Latin teacher from a local university instruct him in Ecclesiastical Latin because he learnt Classical Latin at school. As a language person, I’m left wondering why. It’s the same language, just pronounced differently. Does the spell need to be pronounced in a certain way in order to work? If so, would the Ancient Romans have been completely incapable of expelling demons with their own language? Would they have had to rely on Greek, Etruscan, Gaulish or Sumerian for the rituals? It’s just completely unnecessary, especially as we later see Rowena casting spells in Scottish Gaelic, Irish witches casting spells in Irish, Celtic ‛demons’ performing rituals in Gaulish…

At least the university teacher got a little bit of extra money, I suppose.

Sticking with the aeroplane a little bit longer, Dean’s fear of flying is a welcome expansion to his character, though it was clearly included with the intent of making fun of him. It could easily have been played as such, but Jensen’s comments on the commentary indicate he saw it as an opportunity to provide more depth to Dean, as his connection with Lucas through their shared childhood trauma did in 1x03 Dead in the Water. In these two episodes, Jensen begins taking Dean away from the writers and making him his own: he was supposed to be the sidekick, but Jensen said nope.

In making Dean afraid of flying, but having him so insistent upon flying in spite of it, The Show perhaps did itself a bit of a disservice in its mission of making Sam The Hero and Dean The Sidekick. Dean was terrified, but flew anyway. That is bravery, and it’s what the audience wants to see in a hero.

Sam, however, does not miss an opportunity to make me dislike him (you knew this was coming at some point, don’t look surprised). Not only is he incredibly unappreciative and derisive of Dean’s talents, such as making his own EMF from an old Walkman, but he was also derisive of Dean’s fear of flying.

Sorry, let me reword that. Derisive of Dean for being scared of flying. It’s perfectly rational to be afraid of being in a giant metal bird suspended miles above the ground, but Dean agreed to it anyway in order to save people. And Sam treats him like a child because he’s scared of take-off and turbulence. Dean’s fear is a rational one, something that a person who hasn’t been sheltered from reality would have. Sam’s greatest fear, however, is…

Clowns.

I get it, they’re brothers, and siblings are supposed to rib on each other like this (the siblings I still talk to aren’t like this with me or each other, so I find it difficult to relate to Dean and Sam’s relationship) but it makes Sam come across as an utter cunny-hole. If somebody is clearly terrified of something and on the edge of a panic attack, you don’t sneer and mock, and then demand he calm down. Sure, Dean needed to calm down and Sam was the only one who could do it, but talking to him like a child just reveals how little Sam knows of taking care of other people. He’s the pampered younger brother, and it really shows.

He also shows a lack of judgement when roughly putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder while he was distracted. Dean’s essentially a war child (and suffers C-PTSD) and you just shouldn’t do things like this to somebody like that. That’s how you trigger panic attacks or flashbacks. Ask a veteran, I’m sure s/he’ll agree.

Aside from that, the middle-aged man on the aeroplane winked at Dean – winked – when Dean was walking down the aisle with his EMF reader. A man winking at a man has sexual overtones nowadays, and has done for a long time. How many men wink at a built guy standing over them like that unless they’re sure they won’t be punched in the face? Dean had his EMF reader out at that moment, but he was simultaneously on somebody else’s radar. Something about Dean set sexual bells ringing in cameo middle-aged man’s head. Regarding Sam, there’s two important moments for him in this episode (Jess aside): when he discovers John talked about and praised him in his absence, and when he exorcises the demon. It’s made clear in a few episodes’ time that Sam never felt like he fit in with his family, and that he believed John was disappointed in him. Exactly how he came to this conclusion is uncertain, since John doted on Sam and afforded him liberties he never would have allowed Dean, but it’s clear their relationship is difficult. Going away to university was Sam’s attempt to run away from the dysfunctional family he felt an outsider in and to escape John (and Dean): that he apparently didn’t speak to either John or Dean during his time there says a lot.

He finds out, however, that John praised him, undermining somewhat Sam’s belief that John regarded him as a disappointment. Episode 1x05 Bloody Mary provides another moment of character growth for Sam that subtly changes the way he perceives himself, but all in due course.

Praise from parents is important for children, and it really shouldn’t be hard for parents to tell their children they’re proud of them, even if they don’t say it in as many words. In spite of his difficult relationship with John, Sam gets that by proxy in this episode (whilst Dean’s happily checking out all the men in the hangar) and it changes the way he sees himself and John, even if only slightly.

The other moment – discussed above – is his exorcism of the demon. I don’t mince my words about disliking Sam, but even I can see he had potential. He’s the weird kid who wanted a normal life, but because of cursed blood had that hope denied him. Series 4 shows us the beginning of what Sam could have turned into when his blood magic arc truly kicks off, and it could have been a riveting plotline if written and handled well. Think for example of Willow in Buffy and the journey she went on with her magic powers: there was real darkness in there, and a gargantuan struggle to overcome it and become stronger.

This exorcism reminds me of Willow’s first steps at witchcraft in 2x22 when she casts the spell to restore a certain character’s soul and we see the potential for true strength as she performs the spell with ease. This exorcism of Sam’s should have been something similar, and his demonic powers should not have been completely removed and forgotten about in 8x23. He could have been Supernatural’s answer to Willow, and the Dark!Sam arc in series 3-7 could have been the first in his descent into darkness and his fight back out to take control of his own powers and become the opposite of what Azazel wanted him to be.

But – and not for the last time – three words come to mind. Such potential, Supernatural.

You might remember I mentioned the tracking shot of Dean (and neglected to mention the revealing shot of his thighs and underwear). Paula R. Stiles’ suggestion that the fact the writers and director for this episode were men doesn’t cheapen it is one I don’t understand. Jensen is in my 100% objective and unbiased opinion one of the finest men alive, but exploiting that in order to draw in an audience does cheapen the show.

To be fair, Supernatural is hardly high culture and commercial television is about revenue, but things like that break the illusion of artistic integrity, just like not making Dean explicitly bisexual does because that’d scare away too much of the audience. If having scantily-clad women in a show or film is there for the male gaze and drawing in money, then so too are Dean’s thighs and buttocks, similarly cheapening the show. If the male gaze objectifies women, stripping them of their power and subjecting them to male desires, then the female gaze objectifies and strips men of any power they might have and subjects them to female desires.

If it’s bad for the gander, it should also be bad for the goose.

Neither do I think it matters one bit that the writer and director are men, or am I supposed to believe a woman has never encouraged or coerced another woman to flash a bit of boob in order to get men to empty their pockets? Claiming that presenting a person as an object of possible sexual attraction turns him into an ‛object’ is strange, and that claim’s only ever made when women are being presented for men’s enjoyment.

But let’s stick to Supernatural because I have work in the morning. To be honest, I never notice if a woman on screen is being subjected to a ‛male’ gaze because I have no sexual or romantic interest in women whatsoever: if a woman is supposed to be portrayed as appealing to men’s eyes, it’ll usually go straight over my head because it just doesn’t register as having anything to do with sex. Interesting, however, is that this begins the trend of treating Dean in certain ways that women are usually treated, or associating him with ‛feminine’ traits.

Some people go overboard with for example Dean’s association with and likeness to Mary, his taking on the parental (maternal?) role in Sam’s upbringing, his knack with children etc, and use it as evidence to suggest that any traditionally masculine behaviour – or masculine behaviour at all – from Dean is a performance to keep up an act so that he can hide how feminine he really is.

My take on this is quite different than the condescending viewpoint that a man behaving like a man is performing and pretending. Dean’s ‛feminine’ traits are not his ‛true’ self in opposition to his feigned masculine behaviour. There is absolutely no contradiction between Dean exhibiting ‛feminine’ traits such as being good with children, cooking, or trying his hardest to fill the role Mary would have filled, and being a masculine man who identifies very strongly with being male.

I do think it’s fascinating, though, and the complexity and depth of Dean as a male character is one of the reasons he is one of my favourite characters. We rarely get to see men who are very manly and also incredibly loving, loyal and paternal and who exhibit a normal range of human behaviours and interests, including ‛masculine’ and ‛feminine’. That’s what normal men are like, something television and film seem to have forgotten.

Regarding Dean in bed, note that he is a stomach sleeper (sleeping on your stomach keeps your tummy safe), and this is consistent throughout all fifteen years of the show. However, this early in the show he takes his trousers, outer shirts and shoes off, in contrast to sleeping fully dressed as he begins doing sometime rather soon. He’s alert and cautious this early in the show, but not yet quite so worn down that he can’t be bothered to get ready for bed.

Note also that both brothers have sleeping problems here. Dean knew Sam was still up at 3am, meaning Dean likely slept for less than three hours, having been woken up by Sam at 5:45.

The end of the episode presents the brothers with something to be hopeful about. John has a new mobile phone number, the first evidence they’ve had so far that he is very probably still alive. It’s not much to go on, and John does not answer Dean and Sam’s call, but it’s something the boys can latch on to and keep them searching for John. Whether or not they should be searching for John is another question altogether, though, but at least it got the plot going in 1x01.,

Phantom Traveler is a strong but flawed episode which builds on last week’s expansion of Dean’s character and role, as well as introducing demons and Hell into the lore. The cut scene where Dean has to remove all his concealed weapons before going into the airport really should have been kept in because it says a lot about his character, as does his sleeping with a blade under his pillow, but other than that, I’m happy to leave this episode now on a positive note.

#Michael's Supernatural Rewatch #SPN Rewatch #spn 1x04 #phantom traveler #sam winchester #john winchester #dean winchester #demons #hell #male gaze #female gaze #christian mythology

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djs-random-blog · 4 years

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Chicanery in Formula E:

(A couple of weekends ago I realised I’ve only ever written non-fiction things for school and decided to try my hand at writing about something I’m actually interested in. Plus my English teacher last year was really not into opinion pieces so voila: Here’s my opinion for anyone who’s interested.)

“I don’t think Maximilian Guenther would have been so successful at the start of season 6 had we had more chicanes.”

That’s the opinion I have had since I watched the start of season 6 live at the start of this year, but it’s taken me until now to actually do the research into why I think that. First off, I seemed to think that far more chicanes had been eliminated than actually were. In fact, only two tracks were actually changed so in total we only lost three chicanes; one in Santiago and two in Mexico. I’m going to focus on the removal of the turn 8-9-10 chicane in Santiago.

The first thing to take into account is I have nothing against Guenther. He’s not one of my favourite drivers but I have no reason to hate him or want him to do badly. However, something about having a horrid childhood has made me subconsciously resent anyone who is ever remotely lucky, and Guenther’s first podium was also his first win and his first points of season six. That’s the definition of tinny luck.

But I’m not here to talk about Guenther (at least, not right now) I’m here to talk about chicanes and how much I missed the one at Santiago whilst watching the race in season six.

To start with, we need to talk about the differences in attack mode. In season 5 attack mode was just an extra 25kW whilst in season 6 it has been bumped up to 35kW. Maybe it was because season 5 was the first season I watched of Formula E, but it seemed like the differences between cars in attack mode and cars without was very hard to pick out without the on screen graphics and the halos and it became clear early on that having attack mode whilst the car ahead did not didn’t guarantee that the attacking car would be able to overtake.

However, watching the first races in Diriyah in season 6 it really struck me that you can actually see the difference in power on the straights.

What we take away from this is that having attack mode when your rivals don’t is a much bigger advantage this season.

Now, the new turn 8 in Santiago is actually what this whole piece is about. The problem with having such a big change in attack mode advantage is that overtaking on long corners has the potential to get a bit predictable. Usually that wouldn’t be an issue (this is a Formula E race after all, predictability isn’t a factor) as the chicane split the long corner nicely but it was removed for season 6.

When I rewatched the race I counted at least five overtakes into that corner and the majority of them involved the overtaking car having a speed advantage (attack mode, better state of charge, better battery temperatures etc.) bearing in mind these are the moves they showed on the coverage. There could have been more in the midfield.

A few examples are; when Vergne had damage and wasn’t letting da Costa past, da Costa could pass him into turn 8 with relative ease, even though Vergne was defending incredibly robustly; and of course, the move that solidified Guenther’s victory was made into turn 8, after da Costa had to start lift and coasting massively because of his battery temperature.

Although, there are a few other factors that affected the outcome of the race, one of the most obvious being Evans taking his second (and final) attack mode with 30 minutes +1 lap still left on the clock. This affected how well he could defend in the final stages of the race and as Evans said they, “. . . really shot ourselves in the foot.”

Another factor to take into account is the absolute clownery going on at the Techeetah team at the time. Without even taking into account the mess of the team orders with Vergne having major damage and not letting his teammate past, you’ve got the mess of da Costa’s race engineer not realising that he didn’t have any attack modes left to take, and then the pièce de résistance: da Costa was told his battery temperatures were fine and he should attempt to take the lead from Guenther, only to then have the team turn around after he’d made the move and say, “Your battery is so hot it’s about to spontaneously combust. You need to lift and coast.” (Paraphrased of course.)

Also Wehrlein, who was looking to be a worthy competitor, dropped back from the leading group massively after not being happy with the car and having to lift and coast much earlier than he would have liked. As it was, he managed to bring the car home in P4 but seeing as he started in P3, if he hadn’t had those issues with the car it’s likely he would have been able to cause a bit more misery for Guenther.

Additionally, when Guenther first attempted to take the lead from Evans into turn 1, Evans didn’t simply feed him into the wall. I can think of a couple more experienced drivers who might not have given the younger driver the room and he might have been left with the nasty split second decision of bin it into the rapidly approaching wall or back out.

The only other track that had its chicanes removed was Mexico.

I think removing the T3-4-5 chicane was a good change because that’s where Piquet had that horrific crash last season and that just seems like not only the most respectful thing to do, but also the most responsible.

Also something about that extra bit of track is just so incredibly pleasing to me and I can’t really put my finger on why. I remember sitting on my couch in pitch darkness at about 2am with the volume turned all the way down, so as not to wake my family, to watch the first practice session. I’d seen the track map on instagram but I didn’t really have any strong feelings about what it was actually going to look like.

But something about the shot looking from the double apexed hairpin up towards the rest of the circuit made something click for me. Maybe I’d been lying to everyone I spoke to (and myself) about how road racing is the superior form of racing and my heart sung for the idea of grass runoffs. Maybe it just triggered major déjà vu and reminded me of the tracks my dad used to race his motorbikes at. All I know is I genuinely really love that extra section of track.

The other chicane that was removed was the turn 14-15-16 one and I don’t have as strong feelings about this one as I do the Santiago one. I think other than maybe allowing the cars to get up to higher top speeds on the pit straight; making it harder for the leading car to pick a place to take-off after the safety car pits; and the increased tyre wear on the left hand tyres removing this chicane didn’t really change the whole track overall.

All in all, I believe that if the chicane in Santiago had still been there, Guenther would have had to do more work to get his first win so early in the season and it would have made for more interesting viewing. Chicane’s splitting up the longer corners tend to make it easier for drivers struggling with speed, tyre wear, damage, usable energy, battery temperatures etc. to defend from better faring drivers behind them and means they aren’t at such an obvious disadvantage.

That being said, I do believe Guenther would have won his first race this year regardless, as he has really come into his own since being given the BMW seat. In fact, it isn’t unlikely he would have got his first podium in Diriyah had he not broken the rules about overtaking under the safety car.

I’m sure I wasn’t alone in having many doubts about Guenther being da Costa’s replacement at BMW, but if I truly believed that all his successes up to and including Santiago could be chalked up to luck, his performance in Marrakech would destroy all such thoughts. As I’ve said before, I’m not a massive Max Guenther fan, and it can be argued that Vergne was sick, but the way Guenther sold the dummy to the double world champion and passed him to clinch second even had me on my feet in amazement.

(Thanks to @gingervivilou and @myimaginarywonderland for liking my last post so I didn’t have to like it myself 😅)

#formula e #Chicanes #DJ's Random Blog #DJ writes

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ellsey · 4 years

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Agents of Shield 4x17 Identity and Change

Poor Phil has had his mind blown

“I make my own soap now” hahahahaha conspiracy theory Phil is funny

Mack’s daughter is here noooooooooo :( x 1000000000000000

Mack’s an amazing daddy just like I knew he would be

“I called Hydra on you. My bad.”

Oh Phil

Aida is afraid to show Fitz Jemma’s face, afraid that he’ll remember but she’s done such a number on him that he doesn’t obvs

And she knows it too

But all this passion is false and she has to realize that. All of this is what he feels for Jemma, but just twisted and manipulated into being for Aida. It’s false depth though. Aida may have changed the words and thoughts into being toward her, but the feeling, the real feelings, are all for Jemma. Nothing can change that.

Ha explaining Ward’s relationship with them is difficult.

Yay Mace!

Honestly past me can’t believe I’m cheering for Mace.

Framework!Coulson draws Patriot fanart pass it down

“Make our society great again” GROSS FITZ GO WASH OUT YOUR MOUTH

:( Daisy seeing Hope screaming for her dad.

So Aida has fed Fitz some lines about being in a different world?

This is so confusing but maybe it’s because I just don’t care about what is coming out of Aida’s beautiful mouth

That was a meeeeaaannnn trick May just pulled

Haaaaaaaahahahaha Jemma is such a mood when talking to Radcliffe

“Aida sort of killed me as well” hahahaha I shouldn’t laugh but it’s funny

Aida claims that all she did was take away their one big regret, but Radcliffe rightfully calls her out on that. She’s lying and she knows it. Let’s look at this for a second. For Mack, she took away Hope’s death. I guess that could be a regret. With May, it was saving the child in Bahrain. That definitely counts as a regret. Mace’s regret was not actually being Inhuman I guess. But what about Coulson? Was his regret supposed to be that he became a Shield agent in the first place? I don’t think that’s a regret for him. And Daisy?? What was her supposed regret? Becoming Inhuman? Not hooking up with Ward? Idk. With Fitz she took away...his dad leaving?? That was definitely not a regret he had. More than that she inserted herself into his life where Jemma should have been. Fitz was the one manipulated the most :( Of course she straight up just killed Jemma. Pretty sure LIVING is not a regret Jemma has.

TLDR: Aida is a big robot liar.

How have they not found Ward, Jemma, and Coulson yet? They aren’t even well hidden.

Aida’s people are the worst.

“You were like a son to me” ummmmmmmmmmmm

Like a fool I thought I saw a moment of recognition there as Fitz looked at Jemma

Haha joke’s on me

Mack wants to help yaaaaaaayyyyy

Nope, nothing about this is fun anymore

Everything is bad and I hate everything

I’m remembering now why I’ve never rewatched the Framework episodes. I don’t like seeing people tortured, and that’s basically what’s happening. Honestly this episode rates a 15000000000/10 on the THEY ALL DESERVE BETTER scale. Agnes included. Well, Ward and Radcliffe don’t but this isn’t even Ward it’s some faux Ward idk.

I feel like I need to keep powering through these episodes so I can get them out of the Framework. Let me be clear, they’re not bad episodes necessarily, but they just make me really uncomfortable because they are so unforgiving to so many characters. Blah.

The song for this episode is “Gone” by Day Wave. Oh Fitz. Sigh.

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#aosrewatch #aosrewatchs4 #earth vs space #team earth aos #leo fitz #jemma simmons #daisy johnson #phil coulson #grant ward #alphonso mackenzie #melinda may #agnes kitsworth #holden radcliffe #Jeffrey Mace #aida #madam hydra

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thesuitelifeofjughead · 4 years

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Riverdale Rewatch Review - Season One

Hey guys! So, as everyone knows, there’s like, this big thing happening in the world right now causing everyone to have to stay inside and a lot of people have way more free time on their hands than they know what to do with. I am one of those people. After I finish my schoolwork I find that barely even half a day has passed. What do I fill that time with? Animal Crossing. But also, watching Netflix.

I’ve wanted to rewatch Riverdale for the longest time, and I figure that now is the best time to do it.

So, the way this will work, I’ll give my overall thoughts and review of the season, my favorite episodes, and then I’m going to give you a play-by-play of my thoughts while rewatching each episode under the break. So, without further ado:

Overall Review

Looking at the bigger picture of everything I know Riverdale has come to be, I think the statement stands true that Season One is one of their strongest season, if not their actual strongest (Season Four has been climbing up there for me in fav seasons).

Watching it all together, the drama seemed evenly paced, and everyone seemed to get the same amount of screen time, including characters we barely see anymore like Kevin and Reggie. There are some interesting shots, and I found myself jammin to some of the songs they had the characters sing as well as the background music.

It was clear that they had a plan, and they knew where they were going. Hints of relationships happened WAY before they became official, and it seemed like everyone was on the same page, which is difficult to say for later seasons (which I will also be making reviews on shortly).

For only having 13 episodes, Riverdale did an excellent job in it’s first season hooking everyone in to the drama and the mystery, including me. I believe it was after the second or third episode when this blog was created, and I’ve been here ever since. This season is responsible for why a lot of fans stuck around, and for why a lot of fans left.

Overall, I would say it had amazing storytelling, character development, cinematic techniques, and everything else you could think of. My final rating would be a 10/10. Even if you don’t like later seasons, you can’t deny this one was really good, and had a lot of classic Riverdale moments -insert gif of Jughead saying “I’m a weirdo” here bc I tried to find it but couldn’t-.

My personal favorite episodes: Episode 6, Episode 10, Episode 13

Rewatch Thoughts

Episode 1:

It’s so clear right from the start that Veronica likes Archie oh my god

I love Betty Cooper dance parties and I want more of them

Wow I hate Alice from the very beginning

Fred Andrews was the best parent on Riverdale from the very beginning. Period.

Maybe the show is more consistent than I thought. Archie was dumb since season one episode one for lying to his dad.

Veronica was so supportive of Betty and Archie we stan a supportive friend

Oh my god did we all collectively forget that Archie dated a freaking TEACHER?!

JOSIE AND THE PUSSYCATS MY HEART I love and miss them

Jughead was such a broody lil boy wasn’t he oh my gosh Betty really did change him for the better didn’t she

“Whatever happened with Betty, just talk to her. It’ll go a long way” We stan a king who wants open communication from the beginning yas Jughead

Episode Rating: 8/10

Episode 2:

God, the teacher is so manipulative

Oh god i’m gonna have to relive the dark Betty arc aren’t I

This rewatch is just gonna further my love for Jughead. He was the smartest one since day one

WAIT i completely forgot they changed Reggie’s actor oh my goodness

Episode Rating: 5/10

Episode 3:

there was a mention of Greendale in the VERY FIRST SEASON

The only good thing Penelope Blossom ever did was punch Alice Cooper and that’s that on that

I love the early journalism relationship between Betty and Jughead

Episode Rating: 7/10

Episode 4:

Ya’ll I miss jughead narrating at the beginning and end of every episode

THE TWILIGHT DRIVE IN. I MADE SO MANY FANFICTIONS SET THERE AWH

Jug was so upset over the drive in my HEART. Jughead had a JOB. Am I the only one who forgot that?

He called her Betts and she called him Juggy their already in a relationship let’s face it.

“It’s like my home” AWH JUG IT WAS HIS HOME MY HEART

Ya’ll remember how INSANE the reveal of Jughead’s dad was?

Episode Rating: 10/10

Episode 5:

Why would he have to run away from mommy and daddy? BECAUSE DADDY DID IT JUG YOURE SO SMART

Everyone was so SHADY in season one

THE FREAKING SNAKE IN THE BOX

This was the episode with Jughead’s stupid cute smile in his stupid cute hat and stupid cute tux my heart

Remember when Fred and Hermione had that thing? Yeah me neither I hate it

Episode Rating: 8/10

Episode 6:

Wow makes sense that Polly joined a cult, she’s so fragile from everything that’s happened to her

I love the early music in this show

Betty straight up asks Hal if he killed Jason Blossom. OMG Alice goes “You think he has the stomach or that?” UHM hate to break it to ya but your dad is,,, oof

ITS THE HEY JULIET EPISODE AWH

WAIT THAT MEANS

The little “also” and his voice cracks I’m

FIRST BUGHEAD KISS FIRST BUGHEAD KISS

“In the middle of our moment” ICONIC

Episode Rating: 10/10

Episode 7:

the episode in which we find out Jughead is living in the school

“Don’t tell Betty” they’re already so in love I swear

Jughead walking Betty home is literally the softest thing

The farm was a part of the plot from SEASON ONE oh my god

Episode Rating: 7/10

Episode 8:

I’m p sure this is just a filler episode

Oh wait it’s the reveal to Archie and Fred that FP is a serpent

WAIT ITS THE BABY SHOWER SCENE

“It’s totally on my bucket list” we don’t deserve Jughead

the LOOKS Archie got when he walked into that baby shower

Can you believe how normal it became to be a part of the serpents? And in the beginning it was such a big deal? Like Arch, hate to break it to you, you become an honorary serpent one day

Episode Rating: 7/10

Episode 9:

Riverdale season one really be hitting different. It’s so,, innocent lol, and that’s sayin something

The Blossoms are a cult all their own I’m just sayin

“That was a joke, you hobo” ICONIC

Otherwise known as the episode where Alice throws a rock at a window

The parents really do be acting like teenagers tho

ALSO known as the episode where Veronica rips of her pearls

YOOO remember when Cheryl kissed Archie? That was a moment

Episode Rating: 9/10

Episode 10:

oh my god this is the birthday episode isn’t it

OH NO

lmao Ronnie was Tik Tok dancing before it was cool huh

The movie part of the party was so pure awh

oh god the creepy birthday song

i hate it

I HATE ITTTT

Cheryl arrives to mess shit UP

We love that Bughead took this as a learning experience and Jughead has never had a birthday party since

“In CaSe YoU HaVeN’t NoTiCEd, I’m WeiRd. I’m A weiRDo. I DoN’t FiT iN aNd I DoN’t WaNnA FiT in. HAvE YoU eVeR SeeN mE WiThOuT ThiS HaT oN? THAT’S WEIRD.”

Jughead was so opposed to letting her in my heart

Just let her love you Jug

Dilton’s actor also changed and we just,, let it slide? oof my guys

THE PUNCH. he DEFENDS his WOMAN

the first sign of FP bein a good dad, telling Jughead not to run away from Betty. We stan a father who’s basically responsible for Bughead.

The reveal that Alice lived on the south side was also in this episode.

THE FIRST TIME JUG TOOK OFF HIS BEANIE

their first heart to heart ya’ll I love them

This is the softest scene point blank period

When I said I hated it before? Yeah I lied I love this episode

The episode where Archie and Ronnie also officially got togther kinda?? Wow so much happened this episode

Episode Rating: 10/10

Episode 11:

Hail our fair RIVERDALLEEEE

YOOO you remember when FP literally was an accomplice to MURDER and then they let him become sheriff? Man, what a time

Ya’ll why did they hurt Jughead so much in the first season my heart

Yo THIS is why they have such good communication in later seasons

he’s being FRAMED

Episode Rating: 7/10

Episode 12:

oh my goodness the tollbooth scene

The second time his beanie is off

he looks so SAD ouch

He just stood there and TOOK Cheryl’s punches someone save my poor boy

THE REVEAL THAT THE BLOSSOMS AND COOPERS ARE RELATED AH

They watched the videooooo

Episode Rating: 9/10

Episode 13:

The camera work around this table is really interesting. It’s literally circling them at the lunch table. SPEAKING OF LUNCH TABLES, why haven’t we seen them eating lunch at school for like two seasons lol

“I’m with Jughead now”

God Penelope Blossom is so melodramatic

Can i just say thank GOD Fred never sold Andrew’s Construction

Oh my god the locker scene. The way he cups her cheek and takes her away

Jughead going to South Side High without telling anyone I’m

Cheryl on the ice

Remember when KJ literally broke his arm bc of the dedication to this scene

BURN THE HOUSE TO THE GROUND

the I love you scene my hEART

His beanie is off and the way he says I love you I”M CRYING

Oh god this song

I made so many fanfictions about this freaking scene with the jacket I’m

We all thought it was so BAD to be a serpent and yet they all literally become one over the next two seasons I’m. the fandom had NO IDEA

“Juggy”

The looks they give each other I’m laughing

Cheryl starring into the FLAMES

OH MY GOD WAIT THIS CLIFFHANGER IS SO MUCH MORE SAD NOW NOOOOO. This didn’t age well I’m.

HE SHOOK HIS HEAD HE WAS PROTECTING ARCHIE

But also,, Black Hood Intro? Oof.

Episode Rating: 10/10

If you got this far, thank you for reading my rambles! Season Two rewatch is up next!

#Riverdale #Jughead #Jughead Jones #Cole Sprouse #Betty #Betty Cooper #Season One #Bughead

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ghostbustermelanieking · 5 years

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phantom weights (pt 1 of ?)

season 11, post my struggle iv. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: In the wake of their second encounter, Mulder, Scully, and Jackson reconnect (both by accident and on purpose).

note: i am posting this in parts simply because it is way too long so far, and it’s easier to post it in small chunks instead of a couple big ones. this story basically examines the aftermath of msiv, and how jackson and m&s come together. there are some references to events occuring in��the lies told and praescitum, particularly the scheme that CSM puts on in lies, as it debunks that msiii garbage. (there are some indirect references to a mountain in colorado; it is, of course, AU, but i see parts of it as canon compliant, which make an appearance here.) additionally, i reused some parts of proelium and pervicacia, mostly because i am too attached to these old fics, and didn’t want to change some things. although i promise this fic is different than these two.

warning up front for some slight discussion of suicidal ideation (as shown in MSIV), some references to death and violence, and discussion (in the name of debunking) of CSM’s paternity claims. it’s bullshit, but i had to address it somehow. now let’s forget it lol.

---

He was supposed to be dead right now.

That was the whole plan. He would die for the man who said he was his father, for all the people he'd hurt, for the future he'd never have. For his parents, who they buried without him months ago, who died because of him. He would die in place of Mulder and give his birth mother the chance to start over. (What the fuck would she do if it had really been Mulder and she was stuck with Jackson, great disaster that he is? What would happen to Sarah, to Bri, to anyone else he tries to connect with? What would happen to him?)

But he didn't die. He took a bullet straight to the forehead and sunk deep into the brackish, salty water, salt and copper at the back of his throat, but he didn't die.

He heard the man who shot him—the man he'd thought was his birth father—get shot himself, multiple times. He fell into the water feet away from where Jackson was drifting, his blood in the water, and Jackson was still waiting for death when he felt something like a release. Like something snapped loose in his head, a taut wire breaking, something set free. A weight gone, and something coming in to replace it. A rush of emotions from a man Jackson had never, ever felt before; the grief of the man standing up on the dock, like a crash overwhelming his brain. It hurt, almost worse than the bullet in his head.

As Jackson drifted, waiting for death, he understood suddenly. It all became clear. Mulder wasn't making it up when he said he was his father; he wasn't ignorant to everything that had happened. He was telling the truth.

It was too much to take, and Jackson didn't want to think, and he didn't die. He drifted far away from the docks, the harbor, before rising out of the water like the newly baptized.

---

Mulder and Scully told their story to the police again and again on that dock in Norfolk. Scully was quiet and numb, teary, her head bent forward as she answered questions in a murmur. Mulder would barely answer their questions, tense and nervous and furious. He asked about Skinner several times before he got an answer, his voice rising towards a yell before they finally told him that Skinner was alive and had been taken to the hospital for surgery. Scully sniffled behind her hand, her eyes squeezed shut, swaying slightly in place.

The police gave up and told them that they could go. There was no sign of Spender's body, of course, and no sign of Jackson's, either. If Mulder knew how this works, he suspected that they'd never find the bodies. (He flinched at thinking of his son as the body, as a lifeless corpse somewhere out there in the deep. It felt like a betrayal. It stung, the casualness of it. He couldn't believe he was gone.)

They got into their car, but Mulder didn't move to start it. He had a headache, his skull pounding, tears building at the back of his throat. He was as shellshocked as Scully, his stomach rolling with nausea, his muscles tense with protest. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. He leaned forward abruptly, burying his face in his hands as his eyes welled with tears. It wasn't fucking supposed to happen this way, goddamnit, it was supposed to go differently, and he wanted to shout with the unfairness of it. He wanted to scream until his throat was raw, he wanted to pull this dock apart board by board. He wanted his son back. He wanted his son back.

He'd been hallucinating a little since all of it; he'd had flashes of currents, of freezing cold and salty wetness and the taste of blood in his mouth. Of his son's face, still in the black-green water, a trickle of blood across his forehead. His eyes shutting, he saw it again: William's pale face in the depths of the murky saltwater.

He shuddered, biting back a scream of protest—he didn't want to upset Scully further, sitting quiet in the passenger seat with a hand pressed over her mouth and her eyes wet with tears. He pressed his face harder against his fingers, his palms intended to muffle the sound, and sobbed.

---

They drove to a hotel. Mulder was quiet the whole time, his eyes red, his face pale and streaked with tears. Scully thought, absently, that he was probably mad at her. Maybe he resented her for the things she said, or the things she didn't. Maybe for sending their son away all those years ago.

She didn't have the headspace to process any of this. She was shaking. She was shivering, wrapped up in her coat in the passenger seat, her chin trembling like she was going to weep again. She had a hand instinctively over her belly, but she was mostly not thinking of the baby; she was mostly thinking of him, of her first baby. Her William. And she was also thinking about nothing at all, her mind blank. She was so cold, her jaw quivering, her cheeks wet and salty. She felt scraped raw, stinging; she couldn't breathe.

They drove in silence. A sharp pain began at the center of her forehead and spread, jarring her as it rattled against her skull. When she shut her eyes, she saw water lapping at murky sand, cars and headlights on the highway. She gritted her teeth and shook her head until the pain subsided. A hot tear escaped from under her eyelid, trickling down her cheek.

It wasn't until they got to the hotel, until they entered the room and slid to opposite sides of the bed and Mulder flipped off the light and did not reach for her that she realized what was happening. She was in shock. That was the only explanation for it. She was in shock. She couldn't explain the things she said, the words spilling out of her mouth on that dock, but she knew she did not mean them. She knew almost as soon as she said them that she didn't mean them. She was in shock and she couldn't get warm; she was shaking, huddled under the thin hotel comforter. She felt so nauseous, the pillowcase cool and uncomforting under her cheek; the room was spinning. She wanted her baby. She wanted her son back.

She suspected that Mulder—Mulder, lying on the other side of the bed with so much space between them and a hand pressed to his temple like he had a headache, his eyes squeezed shut—was in shock, too. After everything, she didn't see how he couldn't be. He had killed his own father just a few moments after seeing his son get shot. His son. His baby, who he had only seen twice since the day he was born. His son, who he could not save, who neither of them could save.

Scully made a sharp, keening sound and buried her face into the pillow, clutching it hard. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. They were supposed to be safe, both of them. She'd been terrified all this time that she would lose Mulder all over again, that he wouldn't come back like last time and she would never get to tell him about the baby or do all the things that she was supposed to do with him, but somehow she never really thought she would lose William. Not again. She thought she'd be able to save them.

She kept seeing her baby with a bullet in his head, hearing Mulder's primal shout. She felt the loss of him in a way she hadn't felt in years, aside from the horrific few hours when she'd thought he might be dead before realizing that he wasn't: she was thinking of the weight of William as an infant in her arms, his soft skin and downy hair. A phantom weight she hadn't quite felt since she'd given him up for adoption, yet one she'd still carried with her for years. She couldn't believe the things she said on that dock. That he wasn't their son, that he was an experiment and she was never his mother. The words didn't feel like they were coming out of her mouth. The shock of the things Skinner told her, and William asking her to let him go, and Mulder telling her that he was dead, had manifested into that, but she didn't mean it. She didn't know what she was saying, a betrayal to everything she felt and everyone she loves. She didn't want to tell Mulder about the baby this way.

Her teeth chattered involuntarily as another wave of cold washed over her. She curled into a tight ball, her hand back over her belly before she realized what she was doing and pulled it away. Was it a betrayal, she wondered, to love this child after everything that has happened to her first two? She wanted her son back. She wanted to tell him she was sorry; she wanted it more than anything in the world. She pulled the edge of the comforter tighter around her and wiped tears away, just as another piercing headache hit her.

Scully gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. She was dizzy, her head spinning, but she didn't realize what was happening until she saw it: the darkened road, the headlights blurring like starlight. The coldness, the wetness, the roar of cars echoing in her ears, the sound of wet shoes squelching on the pavement. And a voice, hard and angry and sad: Just so you know. Okay?

She realized all at once what was happening, and the shock of it nearly made her shoot up in bed. “Jackson,” she whispered, gripping the covers desperately, realizing too late that she'd spoken out loud. Beside her, Mulder made a pained, wordless sound and turned over. She pressed a hand to her mouth and tried, I'm so sorry. But she had no idea if he heard.

She needed to tell Mulder. She closed her eyes and crawled closer to the warm mass of Mulder's body. He was tense and rigid, but when she burrowed under the tent of his arm, he didn't pull away. She pressed her nose to his side and whispered, “Mulder.”

He grunted in response, his eyes squeezed shut.

She pressed a hand to his chest, swallowed back her tears, said, “Mulder, I think William is alive.”

He opened his eyes, dark and wet, and looks down at her. “You can see him?” he whispered tremulously. She nodded.

His eyes slid back shut, and he shook his head hard. “Jesus Christ, I thought I was imagining it,” he murmured, gathering her up in his arms, bundling her against him. She rested her cheek against his chest, sniffling and dizzy.

“I-I thought I was going insane. I… I think I've been seeing him, too,” Mulder whispered to her in broken disbelief, and she blinked with surprise. “But I didn't know… I've never seen him before… how is this happening, Scully? I saw him fall, I…” His voice broke; he squeezed her tighter, choking out another sob against her scalp.

“I don't know. I don't know how,” she said, her voice shaking. She was crying again, tears sliding down her face. “I just… I can feel him. He's safe.” She didn't quite understand how Mulder could see William now, and she could barely believe it herself, but she didn't want to question it. He was alive, and if Mulder saw him, too, that made it real. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. Her baby was still alive.

“Thank God,” Mulder breathed, stroking the back of her head. “I didn't believe it when I… I didn't want to believe it in case it wasn't true. I-I am so glad that you feel it, too.” He pressed his lips to Scully's forehead, shaking in her embrace, tears falling on her hair.

She felt a sudden, desperate need to apologize for everything she said to him on the docks. He was the one who met their son, who hugged him, who saw him twice with a bullet in his head (twice, twice now, goddamnit). He was the one who never got to be with him as a baby, who didn't get to hear that his son wanted to know him better. (He had to be William's father. He had to be. She did a test when William was a baby, and she thought that Mulder might've done one again when they were in Norfolk, but she knew she was going to do another one as soon as she got a chance. First fucking thing. But somehow, the fact that Mulder could suddenly, miraculously hear Jackson was comforting to her, was enough to convince her that he was William's father. It had to mean something, didn't it? She held onto that hope tightly.)

She didn't mean what she said, not one bit of it. She was in shock. She didn't mean it. She felt like she was going to throw up. She had already thrown up once tonight, retching over a trash can by the water while Mulder whispered her name helplessly and rubbed her back, and she didn't think it was because of the baby. She heard the gunshots Mulder fired into the smoker's chest, every single one; she'd felt them deep in her bones.

She wasn't going to tell Mulder what Skinner said—especially now that she was nearly sure that Mulder was Jackson's father—but she needed to apologize. She needed to tell him she didn't mean what she said. She needed to tell him right now.

“Mulder, I didn't mean what I said,” she blurted, and his arms went stiff around her. She sniffled, burying her face in his neck. “I didn't,” she murmured, balling a hand in his shirt. “I was scared. I was in shock. But I didn't mean it, Mulder. He's our son. He'll always, always be our son.” She had to believe that, she had to.

His fingers brushed over his spine. “Are you saying this because you know he's alive now?” he asked quietly, and she knew that everything she'd said had hit him hard.

Wincing, she shook her head, frantic and immensely sorry, digging her fingernails into his shoulders. “No,” she said quickly, nearly stammering. “No, Mulder, no, he's our son. For God's sake, he's our son. He's our son.” She was crying again, near hiccupping, clinging to him like he's a life raft. “He's my son,” she whispered hollowly. “He's my baby, and I just… he asked us to let him go. I didn't know what to do. I… I couldn't lose him again.”

“Shhh,” Mulder was saying, his voice trembling. He was still crying. He was stroking her hair again, her back, her neck. “Shhhh, Scully, it's okay. It's okay.”

“I'm his mother,” she said. She was remembering the cold feeling of fear, of surprise and uncertainty just a few days ago, when she took the pregnancy tests and saw the results, sitting on the grimy tiles of a bathroom floor inside the handicapped stall. Of guilt, even. She didn't know how to do this again and it scared the shit out of her. She thought that she might want to do this again, be somebody's mother, but she had no idea how. She was Jackson's mother, even if he would never think of her that way, and now she was a mother all over again.

Mulder clung to her and she clung to him and they cried. She held onto the image of William—of Jackson—walking in the rain, huddling for warmth under a bridge. I'm here, she thought desperately towards her son as she started to drift off. I'll always be here, if you need me. Always.

---

They had breakfast next morning, at the continental breakfast in the lobby. Scully didn't exactly feel like eating, but she made herself. She was thinking about the baby, about proper diets and protein and three good meals a day, when she got a spoonful of scrambled eggs, three strips of limp bacon, a cup of yogurt with berries. She ate gingerly, thinking of the pregnancy tests that she lined up along the toilet paper holder, the rush of emotions that she'd felt when she saw that they were all positives. Her baby. She was going to have a baby.

She could feel Mulder's eyes on her, watching her as gingerly as she was eating. “Honey…” he said softly. He reached out to touch her shoulder, his fingers hovering, before he lowered them to touch her stomach.

She reached down and covered his hand with hers. “I know,” she said. “It's a lot to take.”

“It's… it's wonderful news,” he began, before something like guilt passed over his face and he shook his head. “I mean, I'm not sure how it's… how—how do you feel about this, Scully?”

She looked down at her plate, at their hands together. She curled her fingers around his. “I… I don't know,” she whispered. “It's… it's not what I would've chosen for myself. Not now. Maybe years ago… but… I don't know, Mulder.” She squeezed his hand. She lifted her head to meet his eyes. “I… I think I might want this. I do. I can't not. Mulder, I can't lose another child. I can't.”

“I know,” he said softly, and she knew that he did. They had both lost so many people. They had lost their son again and again, seen him dead far too many times. Neither of them could endure another loss.

He rubbed a gentle thumb over her abdomen, where it was slightly rounding, and she felt like crying all over again. She sniffled, wiping a tear away. “I suppose…” she said in a tremulous voice, “that I should ask you how you feel about this. If… if this is something you want.” She'd considered every possible response when she was trying to figure out how to tell him, and she had tried to focus on the ones where he was happy, but she kept coming back to the ones where he wasn't.

His eyes widened, his thumb moving over her stomach again. “Scully, of course,” he whispered. “Of course it is.” He lifted her hand in a fluid motion to kiss the back of it, and she sniffled again, her eyes shutting.

“I… it's scary,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “The prospect of another child… I think we're both a little apprehensive. But I want this as long as you want this. I've always wanted this with you.”

Her eyes filled abruptly, and she jerked forward in her seat towards him. He had his arms around her immediately, her chin on his shoulder. She made a shaky sobbing sound, one hand over her mouth and the other pressed hard into his shoulder. He put a hand to the back of her head, whispered soothing things into her ear. She knew that people were staring, but she didn't care. She held him tightly, nearly in his lap.

“I-I think we should go to the doctor,” she whispered in his ear. “Right away. To make sure everything is okay.” They both knew all the things that could go wrong, all the possibilities that they wouldn't be able to see this through. She didn't want to say the possibilities out loud; all she wanted was to know that everything was okay.

“Yeah. Yeah, we'll go right away.” He kissed the side of her head. “Everything's going to be okay, honey,” he whispered. “I promise.”

You don't know that, she wanted to say, but she didn't. She just held onto him harder and nodded. It was all too much, too much to process; all she wanted was for them to be okay, for everyone to be okay.

When they'd finally pulled away, when Scully was wiping her eyes with a napkin and taking another tentative bite of yogurt, Mulder spoke again. Spoke in a hesitant voice, as if he was unsure of what her reaction would be. “Scully,” he said, carefully, “do you… do you think we'll ever see him again?��

Her jaw clenched automatically. She looked back down at her plate. All she really wanted right now, she thought, was to go home. To get into their bed together, slip back into that sweatshirt of his and crawl under the covers and sleep for a week. She wanted her son safe and at home, and she wanted her baby to be okay. She wanted her family to be safe and together.

“I don't know, Mulder,” she whispered. “But I hope so. I really do.”

---

Jackson never really wanted to kill anyone.

He kept trying to tell himself that in the wake of his fucked up rap sheet: that he never really wanted to kill anyone. He put on a tough persona—he had to at that stupid school they sent him to—but half of the stuff he'd done was just a stupid prank that went too far. The car accident, the tantrums that exploded (sometimes literally) into chaos, the stupid fucking prank on Bri and Sarah that gutted him to the core. Fucked up pranks, horrible pranks, but just pranks, pranks he would always regret right after he did them.

But he had killed people now. His parents, if only indirectly, and those fucking lackeys who came after him. He killed them; that was him. It was under his control.

He could tell himself all he wanted that his parents’ deaths were not his fault, but he knew they were. They came looking for him, the bastards who shot his mom and dad; if his parents had adopted another baby, they'd be alive and well and probably happy right now. (With a normal kid who didn't play shitty, horrible pranks and destroy half their house, who didn't pout and act sullen, and who told them how much he loved them.) He knew that people blamed him for his parents’ deaths, that people thought he was a murderer. (He had gone to his grandmother's house in Wyoming after a week on the run, and she had slammed the door on his face. She acted like she didn't know him. She accused him of murdering her son, and he'd cried like a baby on her porch before running away in a panic.)

He used to tell himself that he wasn't a murderer, no matter what people thought of him. He might've been something of a monster, but at least he wasn't a murderer. And then he killed those people before they could kill him.

Now he tried to tell himself it was all in self defense. But it didn't work. He still woke up screaming most nights, images of blood and gore and his parents in body bags on either side of him imprinted on his eyelids.

He didn't know where to go. He thought about calling Sarah, that first night sleeping under a bridge, but he couldn't bring himself to pull her into this. Not again. He was going to put her in more danger if he did that. Aside from that, she was probably pissed as hell he didn't meet her, if she didn't think he was dead all over again.

How many people thought he was dead at this point? He knew his birth mother didn't. Scully, Ginger, whatever her name was. He'd showed her he wasn't dead. He thought that he might've showed that guy Mulder, too, if inadvertently. (He didn't entirely understand what the hell was happening with his birth father, but he thought it went something like this: the creepy smoker fucker had put some kind of telepathic block in his mind to keep him from connecting to the Mulder guy. To make Jackson think that he was his birth father. And when he died, it stopped working. He didn't even want to dig too far into that fucking mess, but he was pretty fucking glad that the smoker wasn't his birth father, as far as he knew now.)

He didn't know where to go, so he headed west again. Stole a car from a Walmart parking lot and just fucking drove. Maybe he should head north, go to Canada, he thought at one point. Maybe get out of the country completely. Maybe settle down and get a damn job before he ran out of money. But truthfully, he had no idea where the fuck he should go.

There was a small, traitorous part of him that offered, You could go stay with them. Mulder and Scully, his weird-ass birth parents who called each other by their last names. Who apparently loved him a lot. Who fucking gave him up and never came looking for him, who had no rights as his parents. They gave that right up, and they were not his parents.

No, he told himself furiously. Absolutely not. Only as a last resort. Never. He could not do that to his parents.

So he drove, moving into the Midwest. The furthest he got last time was Wyoming, back to his childhood home, before he turned around and slunk back to Virginia with his tail between his legs. This time, he told himself, he was going to go further. All the way to the fucking Pacific.

---

A few days after Mulder and Scully got home, they went to the hospital to meet with one of Scully's old friends from the hospital to confirm the pregnancy. Just to make sure. Mulder held her hand while the blood was drawn, staying right at her side, whispered in her ear that it would be okay no matter what. Grateful for his presence, she tried her best to believe that.

While they were waiting for the results, Scully slipped downstairs, found another friend and asked her to run William's DNA against Mulder's. She had to know, she had to know for sure. The fact that Mulder could hear Jackson now coupled with the DNA test he ran against both of them back in Norfolk gave her some comfort, but she was still uncertain enough that she needed to check. She had to know for sure. Just to reassure herself.

She hadn't told Mulder about it, and she wouldn't if she didn't need to. The entire idea made her nauseous, made her want to find the smoker’s corpse and put ten more bullets in his skull. It couldn't be true. It couldn't be true. It wasn't true, not until it was proven. She had refused to believe in so much, and she would refuse to believe in this until it was anything more than a rumor. And she wouldn't burden Mulder with it if she didn't have to.

She made the request, spent the next few minutes in a bathroom, forehead pressed into the metal of the stall, breathing uneasily. She went downstairs to find out if she was going to be a mother again.

The pregnancy was confirmed. She was over three months along, the doctor estimated with a cheery smile. Behind her, Scully heard Mulder's sharp intake of breath, felt his hand clamp hard around hers. Her heart was beating too fast.

She insisted immediately on doing an ultrasound to make sure that everything was okay, and it seemed that everything was. The doctor reassured her as she moved the wand over her abdomen, telling her that everything looked good, everyone looked healthy She could see the image of the baby on the screen (her baby), could hear the pulsing whump-whump of the heartbeat, and she couldn't help the rush of tears. She couldn't believe this was really happening. Looking at the screen, she felt a powerful rush of love pulsing through her. This was all happening so fast she could barely process it, but she knew she loved this baby already, without being able to help it. She loved it more than words.

Mulder wiped away her tears, wrapping his hand around hers; he was crying, too, she could hear him. He asked where the baby was, pointing to the screen, and she showed him. She showed him their baby, and she felt his lips press gently to her hair.

---

When everything was done with, she slipped back downstairs to get the results of the DNA test.

It was what she wanted to hear, to her great relief; William was hers and Mulder's. He had always been hers and Mulder's. It was the best news she could've gotten, and she nearly sobbed with the relief of it all. Crumpled the results in her hand, trembling from head to toe. It wasn’t true. It was a lie, a horrible lie, but Jackson was their son. She cursed the smoker in his watery grave, but she felt a little lighter now, the weight of Skinner's confession off of her shoulders. It wasn’t true. William was theirs, and Mulder would never know there was another possibility.

She found Mulder down in the lobby, lingering by the gift shop with a plastic bag clutched in one hand, looking at something on his phone. He looked up at her with soft, relieved eyes when she approached, said, “Hey,” in a gentle voice, and held up the bag. “I, uh… I bought you something. From the gift shop.” Surprised, she took the bag as he explained. “I was poking around in there, and—yeah, that, check it out.” She pulled a small cardboard box out, and he nodded eagerly. “That's the brand you drank before, right?” he asked. “When you were—with William? The caffeine-free tea?”

Scully nodded, stunned, turning the box over and over in her hands. “You remembered?” she whispered in astonishment, although she should not be astonished. Mulder remembered things like that, held onto the memories like they were something precious. She could remember the first time she'd drank it in front of him—wearing his sweatshirt on her couch, him sitting beside where she was sprawled, his hand on her knee as she'd drank from a Georgia On My Mind mug—but she had no idea he did.

“Yeah.” He smiled again, reaching out to touch her elbow. “I couldn't believe they had it. I grabbed three boxes of that, and, uh, something else I thought was kinda cute…” She rummaged to the bottom of the bag and found a small stuffed cat, tiny enough to be tucked into the corner of a crib. “For the, uh, baby. I dunno if you like it,” he continued, “but, uh…”

She cut him off, moving forward to hug him hard. She seized his face in her hands and kissed him thankfully. She was nearly shaking with the weight of it all, of this baby and of their son, out there somewhere, and of every single thing that he missed out on last time. “I do like it,” she whispered, smiling, her face hidden against his neck. “Thank you. Thank you so, so much.”

---

Jackson used to want to travel all the time. He hated Virginia, he'd whined, and he wanted to go somewhere else, somewhere exciting. And then they'd sent him to that school, and it had been anything but exciting, and he'd felt even more trapped than before. He wanted to go places, he wanted to be free and not have to answer to anyone and do anything he wanted to whenever he wanted it.

Now he had that. He was alone, he had no one telling him what to do or where to go, and his future could be whatever he wanted it to be, barring the fact that people were actively trying to kill him and that a lot of people thought he was a murderer. And he hated it. He wanted his parents back more than anything in the world. He kept expecting them to be there, telling him what to do: No, Jackson, don't do that. Don't be stupid, son. Be careful, be smart, be safe. He wanted to ask their advice on things, wanted them to be with him. The one time in his life he wished he was Haley Joel Osment. (In Sixth Sense, not in that stupid Pay It Forward movie.) He'd give anything to be haunted by his parents at this point. He'd give anything to have them back.

He made it all the way to California without any major hitches. It was uneventful; miles of driving on empty roads, stopping to see sights, eating fast food in the driver's seat of his car and sleeping curled up in the backseat in parking lots until some cop told him to keep moving. In Arizona, he considered going covert, dying his hair and getting a bunch of piercings, doing something besides just projecting so he looked like someone else, but the most he did was give himself a haircut because his hair was getting too long. A horrible, horrible haircut that he could practically see his mom cringing at. It looked like he was attacked by a lawnmower. He bought a baseball cap at the next visitor center and pulled it low over his head.

He made it to California. He went to San Diego for no particular reason, and found himself in a cemetery for no particular reason, and that was about when he realized that there was probably a reason he was here. He mulled around the gravestones for a long moment before arriving at a small, shiny one that read Emily Sim. Died when she was three years old, a week after her parents did.

Jackson winced, leaning forward to put his palm on top of the stone. As he did, a rush of images swept over him, images that made him sick with nausea, dizziness. Emily Sim, a little girl sucking her thumb before a bathroom floor streaked with watery blood; Emily on the floor of a children's home, a much younger Mulder and Scully knelt beside her; Emily Sim in a hospital bed, eyes screwed shut, face coated in sweat. Dying.

Jackson staggered back from the headstone, his heart in his throat, coated in sweat despite the relatively cool temperature. He was breathing hard. He knew immediately what this was. He'd had a sister. He'd had a sister who somehow wasn't Scully's, either, and she'd been an experiment like him, and she had died. No wonder Ginger seemed so protective of him, so panicky at the thought of his death; it wasn't just because she was his birth mother, it was because she'd gone through it before. He'd had a sister, an experiment who suffered her whole life and lost both her parents and died before he was even born. He swayed on his feet, fell to his knees in the graveyard. He was crying, and he didn't know why, but it made him furious, that he'd had a sister who was dead now because of these bastards who had murdered his parents. He'd always wanted a sister as a kid. A little sister he could protect, or a big sister who would stick up for him.

Her name was Emily. Emily Christine Sim. He resolved to remember that as he climbed to his feet, brushed dirt off of his jeans. Half his family gone, her entire family gone. A sister he would never know. Emily Sim. He pressed his palm to the stone and thought, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry that this happened to you. I'm so sorry I'll never get to know you.

After that, he didn't want to stay in California. He was getting flashes of other things, of a dark-haired girl that looked like that Mulder guy in pain, running, dying. Bad things had happened here. He looked out over the Pacific, at the great westward spread of the ocean, and then he got into his car and drove back east.

#it's gonna be painful but then it's gonna be not painful i promise #xf rewatch #xf fanfic #i wrote this

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ginsburg-sam · 4 years

Text

TATTOOED HEART | SELF PARA

WHO: Sam Evans (with mentions of @puckermansjake, @thepuckrman, @letsgsantana, @daniharps, @lyricalbowties, @zizeschmizes, @pearhipshummel, @ginscohenchang - yeah a lot of people here)

WHERE: Random frat party

WHEN: November 18th, night

WHAT: Sam goes to a party and makes questionable decisions, feeling guilty after everything that’s happened

WARNINGS: This is long. Also, it includes alcohol and mention of needles

“You’re definitely a loser”

“So you wanna play nice now?”

“Fuck you, Sam”

“I trusted you”

The alcohol had had the complete opposite effect than Sam had hoped for. It made the voices replay every word that had been said over the past few days to him, by the people that he’d cherished spending his time with. The people that had come to mean a lot to him.

What time was it? It must’ve been late, because the sun was starting to rise, and there were only a few people left; some dancing, some sitting on the couch talking, some having collapsed and fallen asleep in the most random places, like the bathtub and the kitchen island.

Sam’s legs felt wobbly as they dragged him through the house of the party, looking for someone that he could socialize with, and actually befriend and keep in his life, without screwing it up. Someone to have a fresh start with.

He was lonely. So incredibly lonely. While he was extremely thankful to still have Jake and Puck in his life, it was limited what he could do with those guys; Jake had his own troubles to deal with, with Lauren, and Puck was more the guy that Sam turned to for a good time - something that he’d taken him up on a lot lately. Santana hadn’t completely turned her back against Sam; maybe it was because it had been clear from the beginning that they were just sex. And whilst all three of them had given him some extremely helpful advice and had been straight with him about the truth, it wasn’t like his friendship with Dani. Or Blaine. Or Lauren.

It had been several days since he’d last talked to Dani. After what had happened at the party, where the two had hooked up drunkenly, he found that there was just this weird and cold vibe between them; and he regretted doing it. He knew, the moment that he woke up and found her naked body next to his that it had been a mistake, and that it was going to get in the way of their friendship. How was he supposed to save that one? There was no going back, they’d done the deed - was there any moving on from that? Sam didn’t know, but he knew that he missed Dani, so much. He missed their drunken adventures and the stories that came from them.

“Fuck you, Sam”

Blaine had been loud and clear about his feelings for Sam, during their fight over the texts. What had happened between them was something that Sam could only have nightmares about; he’d never intended to say the things that he had about Blaine’s relationship with Rachel because it was honestly none of Sam’s business. But Blaine had pushed the young Evans’ buttons enough for him to reveal his thoughts to him; despite how cruel they were. Sam felt that he couldn’t just stand by and get lectured by Blaine about relationships and happiness and hurting someone when he himself constantly looked hurt in his own relationship. The thoughts kept playing in Sam’s mind, and he knew that it was a vicious circle of feeling guilty, but then telling himself not to, when Blaine had said what he had. There was no getting out of that evil circle of thoughts right now. Although, the thought of the two of them hanging out again did make his way into his mind every now and again. He missed their GoT rewatch parties and their sword fighting plans. He missed them, so terribly much.

“So you wanna play nice now?”

What had happened with Lauren was one big misunderstanding. How it had happened, Sam had no clue about. One minute, he was being honest about what had gone down between him and the girl, to Jake, and the next, he was told that it was the worst thing he could possibly do. For three weeks, Sam had been texting Lauren Zizes, talking about the most random, yet amazing things that could ever be conversation topics. He’d grown fond of the girl. They clicked, they shared the same attitude for ridiculousness and there was just no denying that she was so much fun to talk to. Sam always looked forward to Lauren’s reply to his text, because it meant that he would smile, laugh and feel good. That had gone away, all in a few hours. He’d messed it up, because of his own good intentions. How had he messed up something so good up, in such a bad way?

Stumbling into what looked like a study area, Sam saw a person sprawled over a desk, a few people hovering above them, and the last person sat in a chair, their face unusually close to their crotch area. Eyebrows furrowing, Sam stood there for a while, swaying back and forth for a bit, until he heard the buzzing.

Someone had brought a tattoo kit.

He walked forward, hoping to see what exactly was being tattooed. Thankfully, it wasn’t actually a crotch that was being hit repeatedly with a needle, but rather someone’s thigh. Sam grinned at it. It was pretty epic that this person was getting Johnny Bravo tattooed on themself, it meant that they weren’t taking themselves too seriously. But Sam was also way too drunk to tell if it was actually a decent-looking tattoo.

The guy with the electronic needle finished up, slapped the thigh and the person winced before getting off the table. “My turn!” Sam laughed and took off his t-shirt and sat on the desk. In the distance, he heard someone yelling; it was probably a fight between people. “You’re such a fucking loser, Jimmy!”

“You’re definitely a loser”

Kurt’s words rang out in his ears, and the grin turned upside down. Sam had felt like a failure many times in his life, but Kurt’s words especially had printed themselves on his brain - just like a tattoo. He felt like more of a failure. He felt like a loser. He’d lost everyone, acting all high and mighty about his life, and how lucky he was to have all of the people in it. Well, they were gone now. And he felt like a loser. Sam had liked Kurt. He’d really liked him. To the point where he could see his feelings grow deeper and harder for the boy. He’d been patient, he’d been sweet, he’d paid so much attention to Sam and he’d been incredibly affectionate; it was all things that Sam was craving. He was craving that tenderness that Kurt offered. He was craving the want that he felt from Kurt. He was craving giving it all back. And he’d gotten that with Kurt. And it had been so nice.

The needle hit his chest. It felt like a cat scratching on top of a sunburn. Sam grimaced at first; it was a weird feeling. He listened to the buzz. It reminded him of one person.

“I trusted you”

Tina. It was the same kind of buzzing noise that he’d heard after their first time having sex. Of course, there wasn’t any tattooing involved. But it had been so intimate, so erotic, so...passionate and loving, that after Sam had reached his climax and he was in Tina’s arms, that was the sound that was playing in his ears; completely overwhelmed with everything. The happiness that he’d felt that night, falling asleep under the stars, Tina’s naked body pressed up against his was not something that he could compare to anything else; how there were only blue skies and green grass and people smiling when he walked her home the next morning. That had gone away just as fast as it had started, and Sam was angry at himself for not stopping his ‘rotation’ sooner. He was angry at himself for not just going with his gut feeling and just making things exclusive with Tina. He was pissed off with none other than himself. He was the one who’d messed everything up. He was the only one to blame in this scenario. He’d fucked up. And he missed her. He missed her so fucking much, his heart was hurting and aching for her.

The buzzing stopped, and Sam looked down at his chest. He didn’t see what the tattoo was but instead saw blood trickling down his skin. His head suddenly got really light, the room started spinning and his eyes went to the back of his head, as his body relaxed and he fell backwards, his body lying flat on the table. Tina’s text suddenly came into his mind.

“Did I love you? Probably yeah. Is that going to go away anytime soon? Who the hell knows.”

Then everything became black.

#selfpara #selfpara: 002 #tw: alcohol #tw: needles

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blackfodder · 5 years

Text

Gar and Rachel begin to take advantage of Gar's newfound animal morphs. Dick decides he loves it. Until he hates it.

A little 700-word fice that turned into a 6k monster as I rewatched titans and realized Gar was not getting enough emotional development. This was meant to stop at around where you see Donna's name pop up for the first time. But I kept adding and adding to it. Tied it up at this point only because I needed to post before Friday and the new episode rid this all as obsolete.

Proofread by Grammarly at 1AM. Yikes.

They were lying on the floor the first time Dick caught them. Gar was shifted into a large lion, his immense green mane brought a swell of pride to his chest. Months of work, meditation, too many trips to the local zoo to count, but Gar was finally learning to shift into more than just a tiger. They couldn't seem to get rid of the green color, but Dick had figured they could work around it.

Large cats were the first thing he learned how to do. Leopard, lion, and jaguar all came quickly after he made his first shift from a Bengal to a Siberian tiger. But staying in a morph outside of consciousness was a new achievement.

He had come looking for Rachel. Who was late for her one on one session with him. His mind had been made up to come into her room sternly, but when he saw her snoring on the floor, legs propped up diagonally on the rump of the African lion snoring even louder next to her, he decided against it. She had her arms crossed over her chest and an opened book tucked under them.

Just this once they could both have a pass. He carefully walked over to the two teens and pulled the giant paw smothering Rachels's face off and onto the floor. Then with a quick swipe of his phone, he measured the large lion and walked out of the room flicking the lights. He gave the two teens one last peek through the cracked door. One afternoon off would be okay. They deserved it.

The next few times had only kept exciting him and he'd talk Kori endlessly about all the new ways Gar was using his abilities. It had become a mandatory topic as they got ready for bed every night.

Gar turning into a door mouse to grab Rachel's ring from the sink pipes. Gar as a crocodile substituting as a paddleboard for Rachel at the lake. Gar as a macaw helping Rachel set up the twinkle lights in her room. He documented every casual use of power and studied how to adapt the newfound skills into combat or fieldwork. It was exciting and made him feel achieved and useful in his role as the team leader.

He'd found them in the courtyard once, an endless thick green snake lounging peacefully on the metal support beams of the tower. Rachel was seated in between the snakes draped folds, carefully curled up as if she were in a hammock swiping through her phone. He had asked them to get off, not wanting to risk a cracked rail under the weight of them both. But before shooing them away he had Gar stretch across the courtyard and made Rachel help measure him from tip to end.

Another time they'd been at the mall a few towns away from the tower. Dawn had planned the excursion as a treat for the team, insisting Connor could do with more clothes.

It was there that Gar had decided to spend his day in the mall's koi pound, discreetly slipping enough coins into Rachel's hands for two ice creams. It was unnecessary petty theft. But Dick let it slide because Gar had been having trouble retaining instruction as aquatic creatures.

At the end of the day, they'd left the mall with two overpriced waffle gelato cones. Conner who the trip had been for, left with nothing but a bag of milk bones.

The day after that had been the first time it bothered him. It was seven in the morning when he walked into the kitchen and Rachel was already sitting on the island, a plate of strawberry waffles stacked high in front of her.

''Morning!" she chirped at him and he gave her a confused smile in return. She wasn't a moody teen in the slightest unless she was provoked but she was never this chipper either. Especially this early.

"Good morning, Rachel," he turned to pour himself a coffee to avoid her exaggerated grin. It was sweet, but frankly put him on edge, knowing full well the dangers of teenage girls.

Donna's cheshire grins from his childhood coming to mind, the ones that always ended with both of them in ridiculous situations.

When he faced her again she was fully immersed in her waffle, smiling at herself as she poked into the whip cream and berries with a fork.

It was a rare moment where he could still catch a glimpse of the little Rachel he'd first found all those months ago. Despite having grown like a weed overnight she was still so young. Too young for everything she'd gone through in the past year since he'd found her.

She must have felt him starting because she looked right up at him, the corners of her moth lowering down into a straight line.

"What."

"Nothing, just looking at you."

"Okay... weirdo."

"Not against the law to look at your favorite kid."

Her smile came back, but it was more embarrassed than mischevious this time.

"I heard from Donna you kicked ass during your last session with her. I know you were struggling with those reactive kicks." he smiled brightly at her, suddenly feeling quite fatherly.

He knew it wasn't his place to think of himself as a father to her. Donna had told him as much when she'd caught on. It'd only clout his judgment when it came to her. But he couldn't help it.

"Oh yeah, kicking. It's so hard." She rolled her eyes at him, slipping her hand onto her lap to fiddle at something.

"Well, it can be for some people. I just wanted to say I'm proud of you. I think it's important that you're putting so much effort into hand to hand," he waved his mug at her, "It's good to not just rely on your powers. "

She mumbled thanks to that and a faint flush warmed up her face.

Great. All those times Bruce would try to say something kind and then take it one step to far into awkward. Now there he was on the other side of it. So much for being the cool leader.

He cleared his throat and took a long sip of his coffee as he settled on what to say next.

"Has Gar woken up yet?" That was a safe enough topic. "I have him and Jason scheduled in twenty."

Rachel took another forkful of waffle before responding, "Jason went out last night. Said he had some bros and hoes to meet up with. I doubt he even came back home. Gar's right here."

Dick darted his eyes through the kitchen and adjoining sitting room. He hadn't seen any animals. Or heard them for that matter. Although Gar being awake was the only reasonable explanation as to why Rachel had such a large stack of restaurant-quality waffles in front of her.

"Here, where..." He felt uneasy asking, waiting for him to pop out and try to scare him. He stole a glance into his coffee cup. Just in case.

Rachel smirked and put her hand face up onto her waffle stack. One of her strawberries began to move on its own and then slowly two green antennas began to rise out of the whipped cream. An ant. A bit ant.

It moved its way up Rachel's arm carrying a respectable strawberry slice in its large mandibles.

"It's an Elate Camponotus," Rachel began to explain "We saw it on TV, it's the biggest class in the carpenter ant colonies."

The ant suddenly took flight. How had he missed the wings on the back of its body? It was large for an ant but small just the same. The smallest thing Gar had turned into by far and it could fly and carry a bit of weight.

Instead of feeling the excitement he usually did when Gar turned into a new animal, he only felt his stomach drop as the ant landed on Rachels's cheek and dropped the strawberry into her open mouth. Rachel laughed and the little bug moved up to rest on her forehead by her chakra stone. She gave Dick a smug look, proud of their little show.

Dick swallowed, "Shouldn't you be heading down to the gym, Gar?"

"Oh wait!" Rachel pushed a last bite of waffle into her mouth and shoved her plate forward. "I need Gar for like five minutes! He'll be right down!" She cupped the little ant into her hand and ran out of the kitchen before Dick could even register what she was saying.

"I need him in three make it quick!" he yelled after them. But the doors were already swinging shut behind them and all he could hear was there giggling as they stomped down the hall.

It kept happening. Like it always did. But now he hated it. A fat cat nuzzled on her lap while they watched a movie in the lounge. A python wrapped around her leg and waist as they walked down to the ship deck. A koala encircled around her arms as they stood waited outside at a food truck.

The whole time Rachel acting as if he was nothing more than an accessory. An accessory that nibbled and nuzzled at her fingers a little too much for his liking.

He'd come to realize that he barley saw Gar in his human form anymore. Half the time he wasn't even sure if Gar understood what he was saying to him or if the gorilla he was barking orders at during drills was following instructions or following what everyone else was doing.

Rachel seemed to communicate fully with him. He would find them sitting around just staring at each other, silently emoting and reacting as if they could speak telepathically. He wondered if maybe they could. He wondered why they hadn't told him they could if it where true. The thought irritated him to no end.

As weeks went by he only became more and more annoyed by them both; and by both, he knew he meant Gar. Teams needed ground rules. Rules about keeping your hands, paws, hoofs, or wings to yourself.

Dick knew he needed to bring it up to Kori. He'd been going over it so much in his head he knew he couldn't see anything good about what Gar and Rachel were constantly doing anymore.

Was it as bad as he was making it out to be? She'd tell him the truth and be objective. If Gar was getting a little fresh about his powers they'd sit him down for a talk.

Of course, when he finally worked up the nerve to talk to her about her precious Garfield it had to be the day she had him power washing her ship as an elephant. Kori gushed about him all week.

Two months after the waffle moment, as he now referred to it, Gar attempted his clinging with someone else.

They were on a late-night jet to Star City for a meeting on jurisdiction Bruce had set up. It was slated for a quick one on one with the Lantern Corps, but suddenly became a summit with teams from all over the country. The overnight visit became a week-long work trip before he had anything to say about it.

He had decided to bring some of the team along. Donna, Gar, Rachel, and Hank were the lucky chosen. Their newer members staying behind with Dawn and Kori. And of course Jason. There was no way Dick was supervising Jason in a city that big.

A few hours into the flight, with everyone asleep but him and Donna, is when it happened. They were both seated toward the front of the jet going over notes before the first meeting at tomorrows summit.

Donnas was noticeably crabby, not looking forward to all the elbow greasing they where sure to be doing tomorrow, "Dick, if you don't go grab me a coffee or let me go to sleep I'll embarrass you more than I did at Bruces 40th birthday party tomorrow."

"I'll call for the stewardess," he said with a laugh but Donna grabbed his arm before he could press the overhead button.

"No. Go grab them yourself. That poor woman looked exhausted even before this flight started." she nodded her head to the back of the plane where the curtain was already tightly drawn around the steward seat.

He agreed and with an exaggerated stretch pulled himself out of his chair. Donna made sure to take the opportunity to slap him in the stomach as his shirt rode up. They pulled at each other for a bit, acting like a couple of rowdy five-year-olds until he finally got a good nuggie in and quickly dashed toward the back of the plane.

He stuck his tongue out at her once he was out of reach and then just to remind himself that he was an adult did a head check of his team

Each was soundly sleeping in their respective seats even Gar was curled up inside a neck pillow in the form of a small kitten.

Maybe it was the tiny little kitten face or the fact that Gar had been so helpful with loading luggage that afternoon, or maybe that he'd completely kept his body to himself in the past 24 hours, but a smile tugged at his lips.

Starting tomorrow he'd wipe the slate clean with him. If he could turn into seemingly any animal himself Dick imagined he'd be a bit over-eager to climb and cling onto anything and everything he could. He had been harsh. But he could stop that this week.

When he returned to his seat Donna was waiting on him with a pointed look, her finger slowly coming up to point. Dick frowned but followed to where her finger was now moving down. A larger green cat rather than a kitten he saw earlier was sleepily rubbing itself against her legs. Before she could open her mouth to say something the cat jumped onto her lap and attempted to settle itself between her thighs.

"Get off me, you little dweeb," Donna hissed and grabbed the cat by the scruff, quickly tossing it behind her. It let out a surprised yowl as it flew threw the cabin and landed somewhere behind them with a thud.

Dick could do nothing to wipe the indecorous look off his face. He was vaguely aware of Rachel making a noise behind them having been woken up by Donna's outburst no doubt. He quickly sat down sloshing their coffee's in the process in his eagerness to whisper to her, "That's weird right. That he does that."

Donna rubbed down her pants, making an annoyed face at the little tear the cat had made in her sweats trying to cling on, "It's effing creepy it what it is."

Dick stole a glance to the back of the cabin. "He does it with Rachel all the time," he tried to keep his voice low. Rachel was now fully up, looking over at them from behind her headrest. When their eyes meet they both looked away. He angled himself away from her and scooted closer to Donna.

"I've been wanting to say something for weeks but I honestly didn't know if I was overreacting."

Donna took a swig at her coffee, "It's still him. I mean he's basically naked, isn't he? Of course, that's something you should bring up. How would you like it if I just walked around sitting on people nude? You should have called him out ages ago."

Dick frowned, "He only does it with Rachel. Or did. You're probably the only other person I've seen him try it with."

Donna rolled her eyes, "Don't be so sure. I've caught him plenty of times getting carried around by Kori and Rose."

She reached for her coffee and took a long swig, "If you're going to say something I'd do it before the summit tomorrow. We don't need him creeping people out at this summit."

Dick agreed. Their first-team appearance didn't need any hiccups. It was bad enough he knew people were already questioning Bruce's decision to fund a second Titans team.

Donna tapped at their papers in front of them and with that he knew the conversation was over.

But it was enough for Dick. It was vindication. It wasn't just him. Someone else didn't agree with what Gar was doing either.

When they unboarded the plane Gar was safely wrapped up on Rachel's wrist in the form of a small garden snake. He didn't turn back into himself even when Dick was handing out room cards in the hotel lobby.

Hank had the sense to realize something was off and took over for Rachel then who had been carrying both her and Gar's duffel.

"I'll get the kids settled in," Hank told them but made sure to give Dick a dirty look as they walked away. Dick could only exchange a look with Donna. Great.

"Yay, Titans," Donna mumbled as they boarded the elevators.

If Gar and Rachel were a little colder toward Donna the first few days of their trip she didn't let it faze her. But it only made Dick more annoyed than he already was with them both. So much for a clean slate.

Gar didn't morph once during the entire summit. A few people came up to him to ask if he even could turn into anything at all. He had to explain that he could and then awkwardly ask Gar to please morph in front of their peers.

The moment was uncomfortably tense. Gar chose to morph into a duck and refused to change back for the rest of the day.

At the end the week the tension between Dick and Gar was painfully obvious to everyone at the summit, and of course, that now meant Rachel wasn't speaking to him either.

Despite how angry and embarrassed he was, the need to clear the air returned to Dick on the ride home. They'd boarded the plane quietly. All of the excitement that had been there on the first flight replaced with moodiness and muttering as they made their way to their seats.

Dick tried not to think about how Gar had been so excited to meet all the heroes at the summit. He tried to think even less about the fact that he'd made Gar morph under pressure in front of everyone.

When their private car finally rolled into the tower late at night, Gar lept out of the back seat and scurried into the tower as a rat before anyone else could even unbuckle themselves.

Hank made sure to give Dick a hefty shove as he walked into the tower with both his and Gar's duffel. "Nice going bird-tits. You'd think you'd be more tolerant of creepy by now."

So everyone knew. He turned to look at Donna but there wasn't any guilt on her face. She rose her hands up, "I stand by what I said, he can't just go around sitting on people Dick. You need to say something to him. I'll apologize if he apologizes to me."

"I will. We probably all need to do some apologizing." They made their way slowly inside going around to the back of the tower and entering through the cargo doors. Going through the back was an old habit for them.

He remembered the time they'd knocked over a six-foot ice sculpture at a Wayne Enterprises function when they were kids. They'd both swore to Alfred it hadn't been them, but then took the long way back to the manor to avoid Bruce's questioning gaze.

Donna had started picking at her nail beds by the time he was finally inputting the security code to the back door. The telltale sign she felt guilty too. When they finally got the door open and entered into the cargo hold Kori was standing in the doorway, arms crossed with a disapproving look on her face.

She tapped her foot to the ground, "You two want to explain?"

Dick felt his face flush. Gar was 15. And here he was, a grown man in a tiff with a 15-year-old boy sneaking around the tower to avoid talking to anyone about it.

Donna kept her chin up but averted her gaze, "We had a small misunderstanding on the trip between members. I plan to apologize tomorrow." And with that, she bounced away before Kori could get another word in.

Kori let her eyes trail after Donna but didn't say anything else. Instead, she waited for Dick to explain. When he didn't she spun on her heel and walked back to their bedroom, eye mask firmly in place by the time Dick crawled into bed next to her.

The next morning he finally told her. He hadn't meant to bring it up to Kori until after he dealt with it. After an apology to Gar was already set.

He had woken too early in the morning the next day. And of course, his first thought was about how he was to go about repairing his relationship with Gar today.

He tried to shove the thought out of his head for a few more moments. Focusing on the outdated popcorn ceilings of their bedroom instead. How had they not updated those when they did the remodel?

But that only made him think of how Rachel had been feeding popcorn to a ridiculously small monkey seated on her lap a few weeks ago at the movies. Despite being funded by Bruce Wayne himself, Rachel loved sneaking Gar into places under the guise of saving money. Gar, of course, went along with it.

He stole a glance at the clock. Four. No, it was still way too early.

Dick turned his head to look at Kori instead, grabbing her hand and rubbing at her palm producing a small little mewl from her. She kept her eyes closed but brought up her other hand from under the blankets for him. She had on bright green nails. Green. How had he not noticed those last night?

He was going to start hating that color if he didn't clear the air with Gar soon. Dick dropped her hands and groaned, his guilt was firmly planted into his brain and he couldn't stop himself. He needed to talk about it.

"Kori,"

"No, to whatever it is. Unless it's the only thing people should be doing this early in bed," she mumbled from under her eye mask.

Dick smiled and slipped the mask off her face.

"Kori, what do you think about Gar?"

Kori shifted her head up toward him from the pillow but didn't open her eyes, still trying to remain asleep, "What about him?"

"Him and Rachel. Specifically him and all his animals and Rachel." He bit at his lip, hoping that his voice was coming out as calm as he was trying for it to be.

"You mean like how he's always riding on her now?" Her tone was teasing.

Dick felt his neck go hot and Kori laughed, now fully awake and propping herself up. "Wait. Is that honestly bothering you?"

"It's not just me, Donna agrees."

"With what?

"That it's inappropriate."

"Inappropriate? It's their thing."

Dick turned to fully look at her, his voice already betraying him and going shrill.

"It's their thing? What does that even mean, their thing." he pulled himself out of bed already regretting trying to talk about this with Kori.

She loved Gar. She could catch him robbing a Best Buy at gunpoint and find a way to excuse him for it.

"Their thing, you know. Like Hawk and Dove. Connor and Krypto. Jason and his attitude."

She had pulled a blue nail file seemingly out of nowhere and was now working at her green nails. "They're Rachel and Gar. Raven and Beastboy." She scrunched her face at Gars alias. "Still don't get that name by the way."

Dick scoffed as he pulled on his pants. "I don't want them paired off like that. We're a team. Not a bunch of duos."

"Of course we're a team, Dick. But they like each other. They're allowed to interact however they want."

"What do you mean they like each other?

"Don't be stupid Dick you know what I mean. They just like each other. Doesn't mean they're hooking up in the middle of the night in their rooms."

Dick felt a muscle at his face twitch. "They're what?"

Kori propped up onto her knees sensing she'd teased him too far and crawled to the end of the bed, grabbing his arm before he barged into one of the teens' room.

"Dick I'm poking fun. Calm down. Gar wouldn't do that. You know he wouldn't. Rachel wouldn't let him for that matter."

She pushed a hand into his hair, knowing that calmed him, "What's going on. Be honest."

He felt himself relax into her touch and sat back onto the edge of the bed. Kori quickly pulled herself up behind him. Her long legs going around his sides and resting her chin on his shoulder. She waited for him to talk. Not wanting to push him into the topic.

"It's not a good foundation. To start a relationship like this. On a team like this. I never want to think I'll put them through something they can't handle but this line of work isn't guaranteed. People come and go for so many different reasons.''

He knew that's what it was. Weeks he'd been torturing himself over Gar and Rachel not understanding completely why but knowing it was more than him being overprotective. Them becoming closer than they already where would only hurt them more if something happened. He didn't want them to be too dependent on each other. Not any more than they needed to be.

"This doesn't have anything to do with Dawn does it? With what happened between you and her."

Dick reached down and wrapped her arms tighter around him, "You know about that."

"Yeah. I asked Dawn."

"Why didn't you ask me?"

"I wanted to ask her."

He didn't respond. Mulling it over his head. Him and Dawn. He couldn't picture Gar and Rachel in a situation like that. Suddenly not speaking for years after giving into their emotions. Either of them having a tense relationship with a surrogate Hank like figure.

He smiled at the idea of it. No way. Neither Rachel or Gar would end up like that.

"Rachel and Gar are more mature than that. No offense to Dawn."

"I'm sure she'd agree. She gave herself enough share of the blame for what happened between you two."

"You guys talked that much about it?"

"Oh yeah, we talked for hours. After the third bottle of wine, she started to spill."

Dick whipped back around to look at her, Dawn knew too many embarrassing things. Things he wasn't ready for a space goddess he was still having a hard time believing was in his bed to know.

Kori giggled, "I'm kidding. She was a total gentleman in her retelling."

Dick shook his head, "Oh I'm sure she was." he pulled her arms tighter around himself and leaned back into her. He loved that she could take his weight.

"So what happened with Gar on the trip. What was the misunderstanding?"

"He tried to take a nap on Donna's lap," saying it out loud he couldn't help but laugh at how hilarious it was.

Kori giggled into his neck, "Of course he did. So what did Donna do?"

"She threw him off her lap. And then I think Rachel and him overheard us saying it was creepy how he did that to people."

The giggling stopped.

"You did not call that sweet boy creepy to his face without apologizing to him immediately."

"It wasn't to his face. We were whispering!"

"Dick! The boy has ears like a basset hound. You can't whisper around him."

"Okay, I know that now. And I am going to apologize. But he does need boundaries, Kori. If he and Rachel are going to be that close fine, I can deal with that. But he can't just act like an animal when it suits him!"

Kori shoved herself away from him and off the bed, "I mean can you blame him when you practically treat him like one."

"I don't treat Gar like an animal! That's ridiculous!"

"Honestly Dick. All you do is measure him and catalog and figure out a way for him to fight people without biting them. I'm surprised you aren't pressuring him to do that more."

"Okay well, that's my job, Kori! It wasn't just going to be trips to the zoo and watching animal planet forever with him. And you know that. And so did he when he signed up for this!"

"Of course he knew that! But maybe he just thought you'd also give him the same amount of attention you give Rachel! You think he was getting any good mentorship from that last creep he was living with! You don't even talk to him, Dick. You have no idea what he's been through!"

They were fully yelling at each other now and he was completely aware this was their first fight. He was also aware of the fact that they were having their first fight before he had even taken her on a first date.

Kori stormed out of the room the minute she was fully dressed. He was too angry at himself to even try and walk after her. It was way too early for a drink but he went to the minibar in the corner of the room and poured himself something heavy anyway.

He thought about what she had said, that he never talked to Gar. It wasn't true. They talked every day before he had become fully aware of him and Rachel's antics. They talked about his weight, food, his numbers in the gym...

"Great job Grayson," he muttered to himself. A conversation. He had never actually had a conversation with him. Never bothered to ask him about his past or what it was like living in the mansion they had found him in. Why the woman who had been there had practically pulled him into a corner the minute the man they called the Chief was unconscious and begged him to take Gar. He hadn't known how to say no to her when she sounded so terrified. So he agreed and she quickly ran off to gather his things.

Everything after that had been so insane. Everything after that had been about Rachel. He always checked in with Rachel. Even with Connor who'd only been with them less than a year, he made it a point to check-in. Heck. Even Rose and Jason. He'd taken the time to try and talk to those two before Gar.

Dick left his drink unfinished and made his way toward Gar's room. This would end today. He'd apologize. Clear the air. But most importantly he'd make an effort.

When he reached the hall that housed the younger Titans he suddenly wished he'd waited a little later in the morning to apologize.

The bunch of them were notoriously light sleepers. No thanks in part to Dick who insisted they should learn to be in case a mission required it.

He didn't need his entire team hearing this. He'd just have to pull them into a conference room. When he reached Gar's door he decided to take a minute to collect his thoughts.

How would he start this conversation? Gar I'm sorry for the tension between us lately. No. Garfield, I owe you an apology. That wasn't right either. He should ask first to be forgiven instead. Right?

Dick didn't quite keep track of how long he stood in front of Gar's door going over the conversation in his head. He gave his opening line one last run under his breath and straightened up to knock on the door. Before his fist could connect with the door, two entries down at Rachels door, Gar slipped out into the hallway and froze.

They blinked at each other. Dick was aware of the tightness in his chest and the fact that he couldn't seem to get his mouth to close.

"Gar."

"We... there was a movie last night. We all fell asleep in there. Connors inside now you can check" his voice was jumping in every high point. He had to teach him to be a better lier.

"Connor is in there? And you were just gonna leave him in there alone with Rachel?"

Behind him, he hears another swing door open, he tilts slightly to catch which one it is. Connor's. Walking out with Krypto on his heels.

"Mornin','' he yawned at them as he went down the hall. "You guys are being way too loud, did you need me?"

"No Connor, sorry." Dick waved at his door, "Feel free to go back to bed."

"Nah. Already up."

When he turned back to face Gar his face was flushed with red, the familiar hunch in his shoulder present when he was ready to morph. Ready to disappear from their current situation.

Dick raised his hands, "Hey, it's okay. I...uh. It's not my business where you spend the night, to an extent at least.

Gar seemed to relax at that but he continued to shift his weight, like a scared animal getting ready to bolt.

"Can we talk." Dick nodded toward the meeting room at the end of the hall, "In there maybe. Before the rest of you wake up."

"Yeah. Of course."

They took the 20 feet down the hall in silence. Dick awkwardly holding the door open to the conference room for them when they finally arrived. Gar ducked inside making his body as small as possible as to not graze Dick or the door.

They didn't say anything for a while, both with hands shoved deep in the pockets of sweatpants. Gar yawned at one point and Dick realized how early it still was.

"Maybe we should have done this over coffee," he tried to joke.

Gar gave him a quiet little laugh, "Yeah, maybe."

He looked up at Dick then, his big brown eyes showing to much vulnerability. He was scared. It wasn't right to keep dragging this on.

"Garfield, I'm sorry. About what Donna and I said on that plane."

Gar didn't respond. But his face softened, clearly not having been expecting an apology. Dick continued.

"Not just that, ruining the summit for you. The way I've been acting these past few weeks. The way I've acted with you since I've met you really." he took a breath to run his hands through his hair.

"I've been treating you," he bit into his cheek as he remembered Kori's words, "like an animal."

They were silent for a minute until Gar quietly spoke up. "I mean yeah, I am one."

"Well regardless, I don't like how I've treated you."

"Neither do I."

Dick didn't know what to say to such a frank response.

"Right well, I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

Gar leaned forward in his seat, rubbing his palms against his sweatpants. "I know that I've been making everyone uncomfortable lately. With my powers. I'm sorry too. But I don't think it's going to stop anytime soon. So I need you to understand why and I don't know, maybe, you can help us figure out a solution."

Dick frowned, "A solution to what?"

"Rachel's dad. We think he might have done something to me. When he healed me. The working theory is that he planted something inside. Of me that is. And now it's like. Any little thing she tells me to do. It's not that I can't disobey her. But there's just this pull. That I need to."

Dick blinked. What could you possibly respond to that?

"So what. He linked you two... somehow?"

"More like he arranged for a butler," he let out a chuckle, "It's kind of how we joke about it at least."

"Why didn't you two tell me?"

"Well. For starters it slightly embarrassing. Not to add that everyone already thinks we have like, 'a thing', or whatever. We both figured the teasing would suck more than dealing with it ourselves. It's just gotten pretty bad lately. I get this like. I don't know how to explain it. Like an itch, if she's too far away. It doesn't seem to affect Rae as far as we've been able to tell."

Dick took a moment to process, between the dump of information and seriousness of Gar's voice he wasn't used to hearing he felt like he was getting whiplash. This conversation was meant to be about teenage PDA, not indentured servitude.

"How long has it been since this thing has gotten worse. Since you've felt the itch."

"Month or so. We were planning on telling you guys. Honest. But then we could both sense you were annoyed at me and I didn't want to pack it on even more."

"Gar, this isn't annoying. This is a serious concern. I want you both to feel comfortable coming to me with issues or things you don't understand. Especially when it comes to your powers."

Gar bowed his head. He was ashamed of himself, but if they were in this situation it was because of Dick. He should have had more trust in them both.

Dick moved closer and placed a tight squeeze on Gar's arm. "We're gonna figure this thing out okay. The three of us. Or four I should say. I'm gonna have to let Kori in on this. Is that okay?"

"Oh, Kori already knows."

"What."

"We told her last night.

Dick clicked his tongue, of course, Kori already knew. "So that's why she was so upset this morning."

"She's upset!? At me!?"

"No no, she was mad at me. She's the reason anyone communicates around here isn't she."

That got him a smile in response.

"We're gonna figure this out, okay Gar?"

"Okay. Sounds good."

"And no more not talking. Any secrets relating to abilities you share alright?"

"Of course. Even more of an open book from here on out." he crossed across his heart, his demeanor back to his old giddy self.

Dick smiled and stood, pulling Gar up by the arm, "And we're chatting more from now one. Okay?"

"Do you think we can chat about Batman?"

"Let's do breakfast. You make me some good enough waffles maybe we can chat about Batman."

Gar bounced on his feet, excited at the prospect of Dick finally eating his breakfast, "Strawberry or Blueberries?"

"Why not both?"

"Oh man, yes! We can go berry crazy!"

"Okay well, maybe not too crazy. Minimum three berries."

Gar only laughed, already skipping backward towards the kitchen, "Minimum three! But a surprise fruit makes an appearance!"

Dick laughed. "Fine. With a surprise fruit."

Living in this tower. What was one more surprise?

#titans tv 2018 #fic #bbrae #gar logan #rachel roth #titans tv #pre season 2 ideas #titans fic #beast boy #raven dcu

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elizabethrobertajones · 7 years

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I have not peeked into my dash AT ALL since the new episode, mostly just scrolled a few blogs to catch myself up on gifsets etc, but I wanna put down a few more thoughts from rewatching 13x01 and 2 today - which was hours ago so I'm not sure how much I have to say -

- in 13x01 *Sam* says that they "need" Jack - thinking of course about his portal opening abilities, and next episode is the one to start poking him about what else he can do, seeming really interested for the teleporting. He also has the conversation with Donsmodeus where he has already been researching what Jack can do and completely misses "Donatello"'s flip on Jack about moulding him because now Donssmodeus is talking his language about that, all of which vaguely worries me. I know there's a discourse about Dean the Bad Parent out there but only from 2nd hand chat that it exists so I just wanna weigh in. 13x02 hammers home that "needing" people is BAD (which I covered a little more in my notes about the episode about how "i need you" is now a bad phrase and hopefully that loops back around to where it became such a hot subject in the first place and Dean says something more about wanting or loving Cas than needing him when he's back, but Lucifer said it about Mary and Michael said it about Lucifer, and Sam said it about Jack. So. It's not all sunshine over there even when it's adorable and Sam is so supportive and I am loving every moment of him and Jack).

- Sam talks about how Kelly and Cas thought Jack was worth all the fuss, and "so do i", aligning himself with Jack's parents etc etc he's now morally responsible for Jack as a guiding figure. Dean had no such conversation and was not included in this conversation which was started BECAUSE Dean had said horrible things about Jack. I don't think at the moment Dean's on the level of "parenting" Jack, at least in the same way I don't think Mary in season 12 can possibly compare to John for their entire upbringing when having a bad parent conversation. You can condemn her treatment of them and complain about how she should have reached out more or not left or whatever (I mean I'm pretty supportive right up to "lying about working with the BMoL" and then switch to sympathetically understanding while agreeing it's a mistake but blah blah those power stories and that's how we learn and grow around here)... But yeah none of it can possibly scar them like their entire youth spent with John's version of parenting.

Granted literally all of Jack's issues pretty much stem from Dean, whether it's activating his memories of Lucifer reaching out to him and getting our first "I'm good" which means "I'm not good" which is SUCH a loaded statement about not just wellness but ethical morality levels (e.g. was that the first chink in Jack's goodness where he has warring influences on him now - though I still of course think his core is completely good/neutral) and of course saying all the stuff about Jack to make him think he's not worth it and then be so horrified and confused about his own life and abilities we get that last scene. Asmodeus barely managed to make a dent in Jack's self-worth except for teaching him trust and wariness, but even then a better pep talk about God and all would have avoided the problem entirely if the Winchesters were forthcoming with their issues with faith and religion and explained the shittiness of this world's Creation properly instead of being uncomfortable about explaining Lucifer and Chuck and the myriad issues they cause.

But yeah, I think Dean's fucked Jack up immensely but he's just not in a place to care or understand and he has not stated Jack is his responsibility in any other way than protecting other people from him, because he can't see him properly yet. Another thing I caught while thinking about the framing of this all and Jack from Dean's POV is that Jack looked enraged to see Dean at the police station when he was running from the angel radio, and to Dean it seems like *only* Sam taser-ing Jack avoided Jack attacking Dean again and he has no way to say whether Jack would have or not. We had already seen so much more of Jack's nice side by that point we can assume he was just scared and running and overloading, but Dean does not know that. He's also in no place for Sam's attempts at sensitivity training to work, but Sam has already attempted to call out the problem Dean has a few times, to no avail but at least he's putting the words out there, bridging the problem between them by making it clear they need to be on the same page, and trying to get Dean to cooperate.

(I haven't seen the discourse about this but I wonder if the haste we have to assign them all as family members to Jack while the show is taking a slow approach to having Dean own any responsibility for Jack while Sam has dived straight into being the Best Uncle Ever has made this more of a problem because it's hard to have Sam in one place with Jack and Dean in another and NOT see the connection to Sam and Cas automatically making him uncle or step father to Jack by proxy, while the earned family philosophy means Dean has not chosen any connection whatsoever to Jack except the one he already made clear, that he still sees Jack as a monster and a problem and even with deeper sympathy and understanding after spending time with him, he can't credit Jack his human side or trust him to control the angel side... the 10x09 mirror conversation between them (or 2x11 if he's seeing Jack as Sam and putting himself back in the season 2 mindset aka ranked one of his worst ever and proportionately THE worst) just goes to show his problems even more. He didn't trust himself back in season 10 and wanted Cas as a failsafe to throw him into the sun. He's probably looking up how to do that right now :P)

- but to get back to Asmodeus and Jack, the big fuck up the Winchesters made in preparing Jack for the world was not warning him that having any sort of destiny was a Bad Thing. Asmodeus made it up completely but it goes in line with Kelly believing there was a higher purpose for Jack and Cas's utter defeat about the idea saying it was all just random happenstance; though it was a circumstantial lie I find it interesting in the wider metaphorical picture in the same way Kelly praying to Sven for help in the open of 12x23 is circumstantial but fascinating in a wider picture :P Obviously there's a massive Destiel barrier to communication in the room specifically in the general area of Donatello talking about having a direct line to God or not, because on a better day Dean could have been regular old bitter about that and snarked enough of a warning for Jack to get the idea that no such thing exists and God doesn't care... And I hate that's the HAPPY day for them, but there you go, Dean was still so fucked up about that prayer not being answered a couple of days before that he does the thing I saw a gifset pointing out from Sam's same page speech about just shutting down completely when it comes to the subject of Cas and his death and Sam's hope and God not helping and all that in general.

...

I'm pretty sure I've mis-explained all of these thoughts horrifically so my inbox is always there for me to get back to this maybe on Monday or something... it's my birthday then and I love random meta asks from people confused about what I meant about something giving me a chance to write an even longer post. I'm genuinely excited to research up the table post I need to make about the final Bunker kitchen scene on me bday >.>

#13x01 #13x02 #season 13 spoilers #my stuff

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keepaimingviii · 7 years

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Emma’s tattoo and the Captain Swan Proposal

Am pretty sure a lot of you are not happy about the C$ proposal in this episode. But let me tell you this fellow Swen: it was benefit for Swan Queen. When I first saw this scene I was like Ew… here it is. Then, I watch it again and again because something was actually off.

First of all, of course Hook proposed without telling the truth to Emma, even if he wanted to. Does it mean he has changed? No. He still choose the easy way again, he choose to be Captain Hook, and not Killian Jones. When he was talking with Archie, he did say that he wanted to say the truth, but didn’t know if he should. Then he remind the cricket that “Captain Hook doesn’t get cold feet”. He called himself a pirate again, when the previous episode he was worried David saw him like that. He tried to tell Emma that he killed her grandfather, but Emma didn’t let him talk. We can see the exact moment when he decided to propose instead of reveal his secret.

What did we see before that?! Emma giving him the ring and a clear shot of her tattoo. This was supposed to be a romantic moment right? Then why was it portray as the opposite?!

When I see the tattoo on her wrist, I remember that it was a while since we saw it so clearly and in an only shot. Another fact, the music in the background. When I first heart it, it triggered me, really. I dig a little, knowing that I hear it before and BOUM! I found where! Episode 8 season 5, when Emma transformed Hook into a Dark One. Same music. The saddest, the darkness all mixed up. Why play a music so sad for a proposal on a supposed True Love couple? Because they aren’t True Love. 5x08 was the moment Emma became the Dark One because she choose to ignore Hook’s wish to die, and not became that. To be a Dark One, or to complete the processus, you have to make an act of darkness. So Emma choosing to betray Hook last words and letting him go, lead her to become the Dark One. She betrayed him. Remember that we have a clear shot to of her tattoo when the pirate ask her to let him go. It was a sign that she wasn’t going to. It was the clue.

The proposal was the same scene as in season 5.

We have Emma not wanting to listen to her lover who was trying to tell her something. Yeah I’m taking his defense, bear with me. She went straight for the ring that she found, and instead of choosing to ignore it, went to push Hook into proposing. The music not only symbolizes Emma’s betrayal to Hook, but Hook’s betrayal to Emma, too. The scene was a resume of their relation, and remind us of what it based of: lies and betrayal. By pushing the pirate to propose to her, the blonde keeps choosing her title as the Savior. Remember that Emma is afraid of being in love, like I explained in this post, here. So she dives head first into a relationship with someone she is certain to not fall in love with. Hook is the perfect choice for her. He’s been pursuing her for a long time. She is still in denial. That’s explain why she wear hideous floral patter this season.

So Emma keeps running. In 6x11, when she was fighting Gideon, she asked Regina to stay back, not Hook. Keep in mind that she always protect the people that she loves (her parents, Henry and Regina). There the reason why she didn’t tell them about her fate, except when the Evil Queen push her to do so. Hook was in the same room, and if you rewatch the scene, she exposed her secret to him, looking at him and not the others. Emma was distancing herself from the ones that mean the world to her. Hook wasn’t this qualification. Emma tells him that she was fated to die, and that all Savior die. She’s basically telling him: “I’m gonna die, so enjoy the time we have left”. In this scene, she’s protecting her family, not him. She let him the weight of her death on his shoulders.

The proposal was a replay of Emma and Hook in 5x08, same music, same result. The tattoo has to be taken as a clue, that the betrayal is coming. It was a Shady moment for the couple. The betrayal of Emma in 5x08 lead Hook wanting to kill her family in 5x11.

Now, I want to talk more about Emma’s behavior here. She seemed of, and that bother me. First, she points out he didn’t drink water, which was clearly a reproach on her part, and a way to show us he didn’t listen to her. In the previous episode, Emma told him that she knows he was keeping something from her, and that he was lying du to her superpower. But her lying detector is off with him. Why?! She shut it off in season 4 episode 14 if I’m right, when she choose to see the best in him and didn’t ask about Ursula’s backstory. So when he starts to explain, she cuts him and leads the conversation to another topic. It was not a misunderstanding! Emma chooses to ignore Hook attempt at saying the Truth.

“Well I can make it easier.”

Sure you did Emma. She’s telling him somehow that she doesn’t want to know and choose not to see the lie. And when the pirate tries to go back to his secret, she bring the ring. Changing the matter. She is pushing him to propose to her. Emma is running away from her fate.

“I’m fated to die. I will die. But not today.”

She is rushing things because her fears are catching to her. Being the Savior leads to protect the people that she loves, so dying, she can’t do that anymore. Being the Savior means distancing herself from the one she love the most in order to do her job. In 6x11, Emma clearly states to August that in Storybrooke, her job is being the Savior, and she has to protect the people she cares about. She could have say that she was the Sheriff. But no. This season, we didn’t see Emma being at the station, or wearing her badge, or being the Sheriff, we only seen her being the Savior.

So marring Hook means protecting the people she loves the most. Henry and Regina. Marring the pirate means scarifying herself in order to be the Savior and not let go of this title and meaning. The Savior is her counterpart, just like the Evil Queen is Regina’s nemesis. The Savior is in a way, the part of Emma that link her to the fairytale world, to her parents.

“It’s just you and me”

Emma didn’t include Henry or her parents because she is distancing herself again from them. And well Regine brought the forest guy back so. Wait why does it sound familiar?

Season 3: Regina kissed Robin → Emma kissed Hook Season 5: Regina asked Emma to saved Robin → Emma transformed Hook into a Dark One Season 6: Regina brought WishRobin back → Emma got engaged

“No walls, no secrets”

Why saying this looking straight into his eyes and with tears in her eyes? Simply because she knows that’s not the truth, and Hook never pass her walls, and they lying to each other. Giving up her freedom for the people she loves. And BOUM, RING AND TATOO in the same shot, plus their hands. And the last line “What do you say?”, pushing Hook into action. Emma knew that it would push him into action. The music starts to play… the saddest part of it.

On last thing. Emma’s outfit in the scene. She was wearing she closest thing to what we were used to in season 2/3. The Emma we saw, was in fact the one in touch with her instinct. She was the bail bond person, the one who can play her role. Her attitude reminded me of some sort of the first we saw her into the pilot. At the same time, she is wearing the ponytail more often, which is a sign that she isn’t being herself. Her outfit explains my opinion on this proposal. Emma is aware of Hook’s lies but she decided to still be the Savior and answer Yes, even to marry him.

In the second part of the season we are witnessing our ladies fighting their demons:

Regina → The Evil Queen Emma → The Savior title

Except that for now, neither of them is doing a great job at it, and keep using past method… Let’s see how Regina deals with her dark part in the next episode.

#swan queen #emma swan #regina mills #dumb positivity #OUAT speculation #anti hook #anti oq #anti cs

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amtushinfosolutionspage · 6 years

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DGB Grab Bag: Ovi Face, June Hockey History, and Stop Lying about Start Times

Three Stars of Comedy

The third star: Connor McDavid makes his Cup final pick – Wait, is this an option? I really should have been doing this all year long.

The second star: Matt Niskanen’s big night – You know what, I believe him. There isn’t much else to do in Las Vegas.

The first star: Alexander Ovechkin’s face – I enjoy watching Ovechkin watch playoff games.

And that was just one of several reaction shots from this week. In fact, the only thing he apparently doesn’t react to is getting hit directly in the face with a puck:

Be It Resolved

The Golden Knights hosted the first two games of the Stanley Cup Final this week, and as you’d expect, they went all-out on the spectacle. Wednesday’s second game featured an opening ceremony that including a knight, some archers, laser drummers, and a concert by Imagine Dragons, and if you’re disappointed that you missed it then you’re in luck because I’m pretty sure it’s still going on.

We’ve covered the question of the Knights’ pregame festivities before, but let me reiterate my stance here: I’m fully on board. I’m all in. Let Montreal and Detroit and whoever else deliver solemn ceremonies that honor the game’s sacred traditions. We put a hockey team in freaking Las Vegas. Let them get weird.

But maybe, just maybe, they could remember to work in the actual game too.

This is a recurring issue with NHL games, where the start times have drifted off over the years to the point where you just expect everything to be 20 minutes late. It’s not a Vegas problem; they’re just making it worse. Or maybe better, since if you have to wait around you may as well be entertained. I’d rather watch a knight fight an airplane than listen to the broadcast team go over line matchups for the third time, and I’m betting you would too.

But I’d also rather watch some hockey, at least eventually. If that makes me the fun police, then OK. That’s kind of a weird stance for a hockey fan—”Oh, this guy actually wants to watch an NHL game, he must hate fun”—but fill your boots. I don’t doubt that this is all great if you’re one of the thousands of people in the building. But there are also millions of us at home who are patiently waiting for puck drop while this rock band works through their fourth iteration of Generic Arena Sports Anthem, so maybe get to it already.

To be clear, I’m not saying the Knights should rein in their pregame fun when the series returns to town next week. Hell, I want them to take it even further. It’s the Stanley Cup Final, so go all out. Have Wayne Newton do a set. Have David Copperfield fly around the arena. Have one of those weird puppet guys that nobody has ever heard of but have like nine giant billboards all along the strip do whatever it is they do. Find that 50-foot tall Michael Jackson robot that was supposed to be wandering the desert and let it loose. Send out Mantecore to eat Tom Wilson. You’re Vegas. There are no limits.

Just, you know, maybe figure out a reasonable start time for the game and then work backwards. Start the ceremony right now if you need to. This may end up being a once-in-a-lifetime experience, so enjoy all of it. Just don’t forget the hockey part.

Obscure Former Player of the Week

There’s a chance that this will be the last Grab Bag of the playoffs, and that by next Friday the Final will be over and we’ll have crowned a champion. If so, somebody will have scored the Stanley Cup-winning goal, joining a list of players that includes Gordie Howe, Rocket Richard, Bobby Orr and Mike Bossy (twice each), and Wayne Gretzky.

That list also includes a handful of obscure players, including this week’s pick: Wayne Merrick.

Merrick was a big center who tore up the OHL for the Ottawa 67s in the early 70s. That led to the Blues making him the ninth overall pick in the 1972 draft, which was kind of terrible apart from Bill Barber and Steve Shutt. Merrick wasn’t quite as good as those two guys, but at least he made the NHL, which is more than we can say about that year’s tenth overall pick, Al Blanchard.

Merrick debuted with the Blues that season, scored ten goals, and became a regular contributor until he was traded to the Golden Seals early in the 1975-76 season. He finished that season with a career-best 32 goals, although his numbers fell off after the Seals moved to Cleveland. So did pretty much everyone else’s, come to think of it.

Merrick lucked out in 1978 when he was traded to the Islanders in a deal for J.P. Parise (Zach’s father). That Islanders team was about to become a dynasty, winning four straight Cups from 1980 through 1983, and while Merrick was hardly a star, he played a key role while centering the “Banana Line” with Bob Nystrom and John Tonelli. He’d end up playing 95 playoff games with the team, scoring 18 goals. One of those was the Cup winner in 1981, as Merrick’s goal held up in a 5-1 win over the North Stars in the Game 5 clincher.

Merrick played for the Islanders until 1984, then retired. He finished his career with 191 goals in 774 games to go along with those four Cup rings.

Debating the Issues

This week’s debate: The NHL is 101 years old. But is it fun to learn about the league’s history?

In favor: Oh for sure. Over the course of its history, the NHL has provided us with all sorts of fascinating twists and turns, both on and off the ice. I can’t think of anything more interesting than learning all about the key moments that shaped the league we have today.

Opposed: All of that is undoubtedly true, my friend. But history can be so dull and boring. Nobody wants to comb through some dry textbook just to learn about something they enjoy.

In favor: Ah, but history doesn’t have to be dry. What if you could retrace a century of key events, but in a light-hearted and easy-to-enjoy format that placed the focus on the fun and the funny?

Opposed: That sounds great! But does such a thing exist?

In favor: Wouldn’t it be great if it did?

Opposed: Hey wait, is this feeling kind of … off? This isn’t the usual tone for this section. The whole thing seems kind of forced.

In favor: Imagine sitting down with a history of the NHL that was written for the average fan, one who wants to read all about the great moments and the bizarre ones, and everything in between.

Opposed: Like, nobody talks this way. We sound ridiculous right now.

In favor: I know I’d pay top dollar for just such a book!

Opposed: Wait, is this all just some stupid plug?

In favor: But who? Who could write such a book?

Opposed: This is pathetic.

In favor: Well, there’s good news!

Opposed: Let me guess…

In favor: The Down Goes Brown History of the NHL was announced this week, and is available now for pre-order in both Canada and the USA. Hockey fans will delight in this whimsical retelling of the league’s history, with an emphasis on the weird and wonderful. From The Rocket to Mr. Rogers, The Down Goes Brown History of the NHL tells the full story of the world’s most beautiful sport, as presented by the world’s most ridiculous league.

Opposed: Did you honestly just say “whimsical”? Literally no real person has ever used that word.

In favor: In this fun, irreverent, and fact-filled history, Sean McIndoe relates the flip side to the National Hockey League’s storied past.

Opposed: You literally just cut-and-pasted that off the book cover.

In favor: Look man, I spent a year writing this thing. I barely saw my family, I almost went blind squinting at old newspaper clippings, and they’ve sent me “one last round of edits” like six times in the last month. And after all of that, the whole thing still isn’t completely finished because the stupid Golden Knights came along and wrecked one of the last chapters. So help me out here.

Opposed: Sigh. Fine. You do what you have to do.

In favor: Thanks.

Opposed: But can we go back to complaining about instant replay review soon?

In favor: Next week after the Cup-winning goal gets waved off, I promise.

The final verdict: Well gosh, looks like we’ll all be getting our Christmas shopping done early this year!

Classic YouTube Clip Breakdown

Today is the first day of June, and there was a time when that meant that the hockey season would have been long over with. Not any more, of course—the playoffs have stretched into June for years now. So today, let’s welcome the new month by going back to the first NHL game ever played in June.

It’s June 1, 1992 and we’re in Chicago for Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Final. The Penguins are up 3-0 in the series and looking for the sweep and for their second straight Cup win. As a side note, they’re also looking for the 11th straight win in a single postseason, which would tie the record previously held by [checks notes] the 1992 Blackhawks. Huh. Maybe 1992 wasn’t the best year for parity. I’m sure nobody enjoyed it.

Our clip begins with a vaguely weird aside about how the legendary Chicago Stadium will soon be torn down and replaced with a modern arena. The Stadium really was an amazing place to watch hockey, but the weird part is that it wasn’t actually replaced for two more years, so the somber tone here feels a little premature.

Speaking of the end of the Chicago Stadium, it was the Maple Leafs who shut it down, and they did it with a 1-0 win. Eat that, Hawks fans. I’m sure nothing has happened in the ensuring quarter-century that you can throw back in my face.

The scoring starts less than two minutes in when Jaromir Jagr rips a shot that makes Eddie Belfour do an adorable pirouette. Wow, one goal, I wonder if Mike Keenan will pull him, we all joke to ourselves. Yeah, hold that thought.

The Blackhawks tie it up a few minutes later, as Dirk Graham cuts across the zone and beats Tom Barrasso. I know that whenever we do these old 80s or early 90s games, we always beat the whole “goaltending was terrible back then” observation into the ground, but go back and rewatch this goal. Graham basically moves from the inside edge of one faceoff circle to the other—like maybe ten feet total—and Barrasso is reduced to having to do a sideways bunny hop to stay with him, then falls down as soon as he makes the first save. And remember, Barrasso was a borderline Hall-of-Famer. This is just how goalies moved back then. In hindsight, it’s amazing every game didn’t end up being 13-12.

On a related note, the previous game of this final was a 1-0 Penguins win. I’m not sure anything about early 90s hockey made any sense other than Mario Lemieux was good and if you fought Wendel Clark your face would explode. Other than that, you were on your own.

The Penguins come right back a few seconds later with a Kevin Stevens goal. “Ah, look out Loretta.” Did I mention that our play-by-play guy here is Mike Lange? You probably figured that part out on your own.

The Stevens goal spells the end for Belfour, which gives us the opportunity to remember that their backup was goofy European weirdo Dominik Hasek, who at this point is 28 and not very good. Two years later he’ll win the first of six Vezinas. Seriously, my “early 90s hockey made no sense” theory might be on to something.

Lange is telling us a story about Hasek being drafted in 1983 “when it wasn’t real fashionable to draft people,” at which point the Blackhawks score to make it 2-2. I know the goal interrupts Lange just as he was going to make a point about drafting Europeans, but I prefer to imagine he had completed his thought and that it was just unfashionable to draft anyone at all in 1983. (For one team, that was actually true.)

The Penguins regain the lead as Lemieux and Hasek perform a short play entitled “What the Nagano shootout should have looked like.” But Graham comes right back with his hat trick goal, and we’re tied again. At this point we have one of those fun old-hockey-highlights moments where you realize it’s still the first period and remember how much fun this sport is when everyone’s defensive strategy was “Screw defense, I’d rather score.”

Rick Tocchet somehow overcomes the ferocious backchecking of a young Jeremy Roenick to make it 4-3 early in the second. But Roenick makes amends with a fluky goal late in the period, and we head to the third tied again.

It’s always fun during a high-scoring highlights package when the guy putting the clips together is like “Oh yeah, I should probably work in one save.” In this case it’s Lemieux getting a breakaway, only to be robbed by a sprawling Hasek. Maybe scratch that thought about if Mario had been in Nagano. Not because of this save, just because I realized Marc Crawford probably would have had Eric Desjardins shoot instead.

Larry Murphy gives the Pens their fifth lead of the game, and this time they manage to pad it when Ron Francis “beats goaltender Hasek like a rented mule.” The good: Mike Lange. The bad: Every play-by-play guy from the next 25 years who convinced himself his catchphrases were as funny as Mike Lange’s.

Roenick makes it 6-5 off a feed from Stu Grimson with nine minutes left. Why yes, The Grim Reaper was still getting a regular shift with nine minutes left and his team trailing in a Cup Final elimination game. And it paid off. The early 90s. Sense made? None.

But that’s all the Hawks would get, as we cut ahead to the dying seconds. Lange does that wonderful play-by-play thing where he starts in with his “we win” call but then realizes he’s a few second early and has to backtrack. But he makes up for it with his all-time classic “Lord Stanley, Lord Stanley, bring me the brandy” call.

Wait, is it me or did he actually say “get me the brandy”? I’m pretty sure he did. This is like finding out that Sherlock Holmes never said “Elementary, my dear Watson” in any of the books. I swear, if it turns out Lange never asked us to sneak up and mutilate him with a hacksaw I’m going to question everything from my childhood.

And that’s it for our clip. The Penguins win the Cup, and the season ends just hours into June. And in case you were wondering why the season stretched on so long in 1992, it’s because there was a ten-day player strike just before the playoffs. A work stoppage, hockey being played in June, and a Blackhawks/Penguins matchup? Man, no wonder Gary Bettman couldn’t wait to get on board a few months later.

Have a question, suggestion, old YouTube clip, or anything else you’d like to see included in this column? Email Sean at [email protected].

DGB Grab Bag: Ovi Face, June Hockey History, and Stop Lying about Start Times syndicated from https://australiahoverboards.wordpress.com

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flauntpage · 6 years

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DGB Grab Bag: Ovi Face, June Hockey History, and Stop Lying about Start Times

Three Stars of Comedy

The third star: Connor McDavid makes his Cup final pick – Wait, is this an option? I really should have been doing this all year long.

The second star: Matt Niskanen's big night – You know what, I believe him. There isn't much else to do in Las Vegas.

The first star: Alexander Ovechkin's face – I enjoy watching Ovechkin watch playoff games.

And that was just one of several reaction shots from this week. In fact, the only thing he apparently doesn't react to is getting hit directly in the face with a puck:

Be It Resolved

The Golden Knights hosted the first two games of the Stanley Cup Final this week, and as you'd expect, they went all-out on the spectacle. Wednesday's second game featured an opening ceremony that including a knight, some archers, laser drummers, and a concert by Imagine Dragons, and if you're disappointed that you missed it then you're in luck because I'm pretty sure it's still going on.

We've covered the question of the Knights' pregame festivities before, but let me reiterate my stance here: I'm fully on board. I'm all in. Let Montreal and Detroit and whoever else deliver solemn ceremonies that honor the game's sacred traditions. We put a hockey team in freaking Las Vegas. Let them get weird.

But maybe, just maybe, they could remember to work in the actual game too.

This is a recurring issue with NHL games, where the start times have drifted off over the years to the point where you just expect everything to be 20 minutes late. It's not a Vegas problem; they're just making it worse. Or maybe better, since if you have to wait around you may as well be entertained. I'd rather watch a knight fight an airplane than listen to the broadcast team go over line matchups for the third time, and I'm betting you would too.

But I'd also rather watch some hockey, at least eventually. If that makes me the fun police, then OK. That's kind of a weird stance for a hockey fan—"Oh, this guy actually wants to watch an NHL game, he must hate fun"—but fill your boots. I don't doubt that this is all great if you're one of the thousands of people in the building. But there are also millions of us at home who are patiently waiting for puck drop while this rock band works through their fourth iteration of Generic Arena Sports Anthem, so maybe get to it already.

To be clear, I'm not saying the Knights should rein in their pregame fun when the series returns to town next week. Hell, I want them to take it even further. It's the Stanley Cup Final, so go all out. Have Wayne Newton do a set. Have David Copperfield fly around the arena. Have one of those weird puppet guys that nobody has ever heard of but have like nine giant billboards all along the strip do whatever it is they do. Find that 50-foot tall Michael Jackson robot that was supposed to be wandering the desert and let it loose. Send out Mantecore to eat Tom Wilson. You're Vegas. There are no limits.

Obscure Former Player of the Week

There's a chance that this will be the last Grab Bag of the playoffs, and that by next Friday the Final will be over and we'll have crowned a champion. If so, somebody will have scored the Stanley Cup-winning goal, joining a list of players that includes Gordie Howe, Rocket Richard, Bobby Orr and Mike Bossy (twice each), and Wayne Gretzky.

That list also includes a handful of obscure players, including this week's pick: Wayne Merrick.

Merrick was a big center who tore up the OHL for the Ottawa 67s in the early 70s. That led to the Blues making him the ninth overall pick in the 1972 draft, which was kind of terrible apart from Bill Barber and Steve Shutt. Merrick wasn't quite as good as those two guys, but at least he made the NHL, which is more than we can say about that year's tenth overall pick, Al Blanchard.

Merrick lucked out in 1978 when he was traded to the Islanders in a deal for J.P. Parise (Zach's father). That Islanders team was about to become a dynasty, winning four straight Cups from 1980 through 1983, and while Merrick was hardly a star, he played a key role while centering the "Banana Line" with Bob Nystrom and John Tonelli. He'd end up playing 95 playoff games with the team, scoring 18 goals. One of those was the Cup winner in 1981, as Merrick's goal held up in a 5-1 win over the North Stars in the Game 5 clincher.

Merrick played for the Islanders until 1984, then retired. He finished his career with 191 goals in 774 games to go along with those four Cup rings.

Debating the Issues

This week’s debate: The NHL is 101 years old. But is it fun to learn about the league's history?

In favor: Oh for sure. Over the course of its history, the NHL has provided us with all sorts of fascinating twists and turns, both on and off the ice. I can't think of anything more interesting than learning all about the key moments that shaped the league we have today.

Opposed: All of that is undoubtedly true, my friend. But history can be so dull and boring. Nobody wants to comb through some dry textbook just to learn about something they enjoy.

In favor: Ah, but history doesn't have to be dry. What if you could retrace a century of key events, but in a light-hearted and easy-to-enjoy format that placed the focus on the fun and the funny?

Opposed: That sounds great! But does such a thing exist?

In favor: Wouldn't it be great if it did?

Opposed: Hey wait, is this feeling kind of … off? This isn't the usual tone for this section. The whole thing seems kind of forced.

In favor: Imagine sitting down with a history of the NHL that was written for the average fan, one who wants to read all about the great moments and the bizarre ones, and everything in between.

Opposed: Like, nobody talks this way. We sound ridiculous right now.

In favor: I know I'd pay top dollar for just such a book!

Opposed: Wait, is this all just some stupid plug?

In favor: But who? Who could write such a book?

Opposed: This is pathetic.

In favor: Well, there's good news!

Opposed: Let me guess…

In favor: The Down Goes Brown History of the NHL was announced this week, and is available now for pre-order in both Canada and the USA. Hockey fans will delight in this whimsical retelling of the league's history, with an emphasis on the weird and wonderful. From The Rocket to Mr. Rogers, The Down Goes Brown History of the NHL tells the full story of the world's most beautiful sport, as presented by the world's most ridiculous league.

Opposed: Did you honestly just say "whimsical"? Literally no real person has ever used that word.

In favor: In this fun, irreverent, and fact-filled history, Sean McIndoe relates the flip side to the National Hockey League's storied past.

Opposed: You literally just cut-and-pasted that off the book cover.

In favor: Look man, I spent a year writing this thing. I barely saw my family, I almost went blind squinting at old newspaper clippings, and they've sent me "one last round of edits" like six times in the last month. And after all of that, the whole thing still isn't completely finished because the stupid Golden Knights came along and wrecked one of the last chapters. So help me out here.

Opposed: Sigh. Fine. You do what you have to do.

In favor: Thanks.

Opposed: But can we go back to complaining about instant replay review soon?

In favor: Next week after the Cup-winning goal gets waved off, I promise.

The final verdict: Well gosh, looks like we'll all be getting our Christmas shopping done early this year!

Classic YouTube Clip Breakdown

Today is the first day of June, and there was a time when that meant that the hockey season would have been long over with. Not any more, of course—the playoffs have stretched into June for years now. So today, let's welcome the new month by going back to the first NHL game ever played in June.

It's June 1, 1992 and we're in Chicago for Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Final. The Penguins are up 3-0 in the series and looking for the sweep and for their second straight Cup win. As a side note, they're also looking for the 11th straight win in a single postseason, which would tie the record previously held by [checks notes] the 1992 Blackhawks. Huh. Maybe 1992 wasn't the best year for parity. I'm sure nobody enjoyed it.

Our clip begins with a vaguely weird aside about how the legendary Chicago Stadium will soon be torn down and replaced with a modern arena. The Stadium really was an amazing place to watch hockey, but the weird part is that it wasn't actually replaced for two more years, so the somber tone here feels a little premature.

Speaking of the end of the Chicago Stadium, it was the Maple Leafs who shut it down, and they did it with a 1-0 win. Eat that, Hawks fans. I'm sure nothing has happened in the ensuring quarter-century that you can throw back in my face.

The Blackhawks tie it up a few minutes later, as Dirk Graham cuts across the zone and beats Tom Barrasso. I know that whenever we do these old 80s or early 90s games, we always beat the whole "goaltending was terrible back then" observation into the ground, but go back and rewatch this goal. Graham basically moves from the inside edge of one faceoff circle to the other—like maybe ten feet total—and Barrasso is reduced to having to do a sideways bunny hop to stay with him, then falls down as soon as he makes the first save. And remember, Barrasso was a borderline Hall-of-Famer. This is just how goalies moved back then. In hindsight, it's amazing every game didn't end up being 13-12.

On a related note, the previous game of this final was a 1-0 Penguins win. I'm not sure anything about early 90s hockey made any sense other than Mario Lemieux was good and if you fought Wendel Clark your face would explode. Other than that, you were on your own.

The Penguins come right back a few seconds later with a Kevin Stevens goal. "Ah, look out Loretta." Did I mention that our play-by-play guy here is Mike Lange? You probably figured that part out on your own.

The Stevens goal spells the end for Belfour, which gives us the opportunity to remember that their backup was goofy European weirdo Dominik Hasek, who at this point is 28 and not very good. Two years later he'll win the first of six Vezinas. Seriously, my "early 90s hockey made no sense" theory might be on to something.

Lange is telling us a story about Hasek being drafted in 1983 "when it wasn't real fashionable to draft people," at which point the Blackhawks score to make it 2-2. I know the goal interrupts Lange just as he was going to make a point about drafting Europeans, but I prefer to imagine he had completed his thought and that it was just unfashionable to draft anyone at all in 1983. (For one team, that was actually true.)

The Penguins regain the lead as Lemieux and Hasek perform a short play entitled "What the Nagano shootout should have looked like." But Graham comes right back with his hat trick goal, and we're tied again. At this point we have one of those fun old-hockey-highlights moments where you realize it's still the first period and remember how much fun this sport is when everyone's defensive strategy was "Screw defense, I'd rather score."

It's always fun during a high-scoring highlights package when the guy putting the clips together is like "Oh yeah, I should probably work in one save." In this case it's Lemieux getting a breakaway, only to be robbed by a sprawling Hasek. Maybe scratch that thought about if Mario had been in Nagano. Not because of this save, just because I realized Marc Crawford probably would have had Eric Desjardins shoot instead.

Larry Murphy gives the Pens their fifth lead of the game, and this time they manage to pad it when Ron Francis "beats goaltender Hasek like a rented mule." The good: Mike Lange. The bad: Every play-by-play guy from the next 25 years who convinced himself his catchphrases were as funny as Mike Lange's.

But that's all the Hawks would get, as we cut ahead to the dying seconds. Lange does that wonderful play-by-play thing where he starts in with his "we win" call but then realizes he's a few second early and has to backtrack. But he makes up for it with his all-time classic "Lord Stanley, Lord Stanley, bring me the brandy" call.

Wait, is it me or did he actually say "get me the brandy"? I'm pretty sure he did. This is like finding out that Sherlock Holmes never said "Elementary, my dear Watson" in any of the books. I swear, if it turns out Lange never asked us to sneak up and mutilate him with a hacksaw I'm going to question everything from my childhood.

And that's it for our clip. The Penguins win the Cup, and the season ends just hours into June. And in case you were wondering why the season stretched on so long in 1992, it's because there was a ten-day player strike just before the playoffs. A work stoppage, hockey being played in June, and a Blackhawks/Penguins matchup? Man, no wonder Gary Bettman couldn't wait to get on board a few months later.

Have a question, suggestion, old YouTube clip, or anything else you'd like to see included in this column? Email Sean at [email protected].

DGB Grab Bag: Ovi Face, June Hockey History, and Stop Lying about Start Times published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

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ghostbustermelanieking · 7 years

Text

everything changes but the sea

summary: He’d never once considered being a father. (extended backstory on CSM)

part of my series i rewrite as i rewatch txf. 3x24: talitha cumi, 4x07: musings of a cigarette smoking man, 4x23 demons (flashbacks). wc: 8k

note: this sprung from interest in the backstory hinted at in demons and talitha cumi/irritation that moacsm didn’t cover that instead of all that villian mary sue bullshit. warning for csm’s usual creepiness and bullshit. disclaimer: the views expressed in this fic do not at all resemble the views of the writer.

“It struck me as I was sitting here… everything changes but the sea.” -CSM, 3x24 Talitha Cumi

He’d never once considered being a father. Not after his father. Not after the criminal his old man had been. The orphanages he’d grown up in had turned him off of children permanently--all the loud shouting, sharp elbows in his face, sticky fingers and stifled sobs and unintentionally (or intentionally) knocking his books into the mud. He had no interest in that for the rest of his life; children had always seemed a burden. But somehow, inexplicably… it happened.

Bill Mulder had come back from leave, telling everyone that his wife was pregnant, and he’d known. He’d just known. He hadn’t had to call Teena for confirmation, hadn’t wanted to. Things were better, it seemed, if the baby remained Bill’s. No risk of embarrassment for either of them. He’d wanted to forget it, but had found it impossible. He found himself considering things in the middle of the night, lying awake with his thoughts stealing to Teena, the baby, as much as he tried to push them away. Bill had gone on leave again and returned, showing everyone pictures, the picture of an excited young father. Spender had dutifully looked at the snapshots of the new baby (who was staring at the photographer with huge dark eyes), thumped Bill in the back in congratulations. Waited till everyone was gone before muttering, “What a stupid fucking name.”

He tried not to think about it. He focused on his drills, on his books. Holed up in his hard mattress turning pages and didn't think of the baby. He didn't want to be a father. He didn't want to think of that night with Teena. He stayed focused, did his duty, told himself that Fox was Bill’s son and it didn't matter.

Bill invited him to come visit on their next leave, when the baby was six months old. He rode up the coast in Bill's car, the radiator rattling with military-like precision. Teena looked different than he remembered, hair falling over her face and hiding it from view as she bent to scoop up the baby. Her hair had been short when he'd known her, and now it was long and loose and wavy. She was a mother now, holding her baby gently and looking down at him before everyone else.

The baby was always crawling, always on the move. Once, he tugged Spender’s pants cuff, and Spender looked down on the baby with what he hoped was detachment. You're Bill’s son, he told the baby silently. He reminded himself that the baby had a stupid fucking name. The baby gnawed on his fist and stared up at him with the eyes he thought he could remember his mother having, a long time ago.

He could blend into the background of the house; Teena rarely, if ever, spoke to him directly, and they both seemed wrapped up in the baby. Spender did what he usually did and read a lot, feet propped up on the ottoman so he wouldn't block the baby's crawling paths. He shouldn't have come.

On his last night, he ran into Teena as she folded laundry in the living room. Bill had driven into town for some groceries. The baby was asleep. Teena didn't look up as he entered. “There's leftover chicken if you're still hungry,” she said briskly, crisping the edge of a sheet between her fingers.

“I'm fine, thank you.” He sat across from her, back ramrod straight, and lay his palms flat on his knees.

Teena sighed, wearily, and set the sheet down on the pile. “What do you want? I'm very busy.”

“I'm sure,” he said calmly. “Your son seems to be very healthy.” This seemed like an understatement to him; every time the kid cried, it was earsplitting to the point that the house seemed to tremble on its foundation.

Her shoulders tensed; she stared hard at the wicker laundry basket. “Thank you,” she finally replied, stiffly, as she folded a washed diaper.

“May I ask you a question?” She gave no indication of permission. He plunged on anyway. “Why Fox?”

“That is none of your business,” said Teena coldly.

“I think it's very much my business,” he tried. Teena still wasn't looking at him, routinely stacking diapers. “Teena.” He lowered his voice. “I assume he's mine. After that night…”

“That night never happened,” she hissed. “We agreed.”

“The timing is right, Teena.” He lowered his voice and used her middle name, the name she'd been trying out when he'd known her in college, the name he'd whispered to her that night. “Elizabeth…”

“He is my son,” she said firmly. “Mine. And that's the end of it.” She finally looked up, dark hair slipping around her face. She held his gaze with a cold steadiness.

Somewhere in the house, the baby started wailing. He winced delicately; the constant crying was terribly annoying. Teena got to her feet, scooping the diapers into her hands, and rushed down the hall. He could hear her soft soothing under the baby's sobs as he went back to the guest room. When they left in the morning it was early, before Teena or the baby were up.

It seemed easy to forget, after that. He threw himself into drills, his duties. He read books. He kept talking to Bill Mulder. Months passed, and before he knew it, he was being summoned to General Francis’s office.

“My one-year-old just said his first word,” Bill said as he stood to leave, and Spender shoved down the usual burn of jealousy (the origins of which weren't exactly clear). He hadn't even known the kid had celebrated a birthday yet.

Bill showed him the snapshot, of Teena holding the baby on her lap. “What was the word?” he asked, somewhere between politeness and actual curiosity.

“J.F.K.,” Bill said fondly. He smiled, and Spender smiled too. He wasn't sure why. He went to the office and accepted a top-secret assignment that would change the course of history, and thought about his son's first word as the details became clear. It was like a strange twist of fate, or destiny. Maybe his son subconsciously knew what his father was destined for.

He went back to the bunk to pack his things. “Where you going?” asked Bill from his bunk, sprawled across the scratchy blanket.

“Reassignment,” he said, latching his suitcase shut.

“Where to?”

“Classified.”

Bill made a sound of understanding, getting to his feet. “I think it's safe to say we'll all miss you around here,” he said, extending his hand. Spender took it, shook it. “Good luck.”

“You, too.” He thumped Bill on the back before stepping away. “Take care of that boy of yours, Mulder,” he said, lifting his bag off of the bunk. Bill nodded at him as he left.

Bill hadn't noticed when he'd grabbed the picture of Teena and the boy from the bedside table and stuck it in his suitcase. It was something.

---

Time passed. Bill and Teena had another child, one that was definitely not his. He spent the majority of his time in shadowy, smoke-choked rooms or in his shabby apartment, hunched over a typewriter. He kept the picture, even though the child had grown into a knobby-kneed toddler. Bill still seemed to consider him a friend. He was invited to visit the Mulders at Quonochontaug during the summer, and he accepted. He wanted to see the children and Teena; and besides that, his supervisors had an interest in Bill Mulder. “Particularly his children,” they told him. He didn't dare mention that they both weren't his.

He went to the seaside house at Quonochontaug and was greeting by more crying, this time the higher shrieks of a little girl. Bill greeted him at the door with a strong handshake. “Good to see you,” he said heartily, motioning him in. “It's been too long.”

“It has,” he said, putting out his lit cigarette in the ashtray by the door. In the open door to the living room, he could see Teena pacing with a sobbing dark-haired baby on her shoulder. No emotion rose at the sight; he felt no connection to this one.

“Teena, he's here!” Bill called, leading him into the living room. Teena turned and forced a smile to the surface, but he saw the wary look on her face. The baby, whose crying had tamped off into hiccups, stared at him with big brown eyes, curls frizzing all over her tiny head, and he was reminded of how Fox had been bald, even at one. “This is Samantha,” Bill said proudly, reaching out to tickle her tiny bare foot. Samantha giggled, kicking and wriggling in her mother's arms. Of course, he thought, of course they'd give Bill's child a normal fucking name.

“She's very beautiful,” he said stiffly.

Teena narrowed her eyes and turned, saying, “She needs to go down for her nap,” as she went.

Bill waved goodbye to the baby before turning back to him. “Oh, and you haven't seen Fox in a long time, have you?”

“No,” he replied in that same stiff, polite voice. He hadn't see Fox in that long; he'd refused to spy like that. All he had was the stolen picture. “How old is he again?”

“Four,” Bill said proudly. “He's growing up so fast. He's probably off watching television somewhere…”

They went into another room and there he was, sprawled on the floor in front of the television and playing with what looked like army men. The kid looked up at them uncertainly, his eyes fixing on Spender. “Who’re you?”

He ignored the prickle of annoyance at the boy's words, and said, “A friend of your father's.”

“Mr. Spender is going to stay with us for a few days, Fox,” Bill was saying. “I expect you to be polite.”

He was watching the boy. His hair was as dark as Teena’s, his eyes the same as when he was a baby. The boy gave them an uncertain look before mumbling something of acknowledgement and sweeping over a line of army men with his arm, yelping loudly as he did so. Spender raised an eyebrow as he imitated explosions, tossing the little toys around. The television droned on in the background.

He turned and touched Bill on the arm. “Mulder, there's a business opportunity,” he said quietly. “The one I left the military for. One I think you'd be interested in.”

“What kind of opportunity?” Bill asked, watching the boy sing along to the theme song of the show that had just come on.

He didn't answer. He put his hands in his pockets and said, “You work for the State Department, right?”

Bill looked at him, then, face blank. “Let's talk outside,” he said finally. “I can show you the boat and the water skis.”

They talked down by the water until the sky was painted orange with the setting sun. Teena called for dinner and Bill called back that they would be inside in a minute. Nearly an hour later, she came out with the children. She held the baby on the porch while the boy ran around the yard, patting the baby's back and watching them instead of the boy.

Bill Mulder shook his hand just as the sun sunk under the horizon, and it was done. He wouldn't know the full details of the assignment until later.

In the darkening twilight, Bill went up to the porch to talk to his wife. He stood on the lawn and watched them argue, heads bent close together. Teena stood abruptly and went into the house, the baby asleep on her shoulder. Bill followed, the screen door smacking shut behind him. He watched, silence but for the sea churning before him. The sea, and the sudden ear-splitting cry behind him.

He turned and saw the boy on the pavement, sobbing like he hadn't grown any since the last time Spender had seen him. He drew closer, kneeling beside the boy and asking, “What happened?”

“My knee,” the kid wailed. Under the hand he had pressed to his knee, there was a slight trickle of blood.

Spender tapped the boy's hand in an indication to move it so he could see; when he didn't, Spender pulled the fingers back himself and studied it. Just a scrape. He'd seen a lot worse. “It doesn't look serious,” he said sternly.

“It huuuuurts.” The kid snatched his hand back and rubbed his eyes with his fists, sniffling. “Where's Mommy?”

“Fox, my goodness.” Out of nowhere, it seemed, Teena appeared and knelt on the other side of the boy. He latched onto her immediately, and she pulled back slightly to get a good look. “It's just a scrape, sweetheart, calm down,” she soothed immediately, smoothed his dark hair. The boy sniffled and threw his arms around her neck. She scooped him up and stood. She hadn't looked at Spender once.

“Lucky I was here,” he said, standing as well and brushing dirt off of his suit pants.

“Yes,” Teena murmured to the top of her son's head. “Fox, say thank you to Mr. Spender.”

“Thank you,” the boy sniffled into his mother's neck. Teena turned and carried him into the house.

He turned to watch the churning sea. Inside, he could hear the baby wailing.

Samantha and Fox. They had different fathers. And that, it seemed, would determine their fate.

---

When it was determined that he would be committing another assassination, he was already seeing Cassandra. Three days after his meeting, she showed up at his apartment in the midst of his work on his novel and told him she was pregnant.

A combination of excitement and worry flashed through his mind. This child would be his, someone he could raise--but his employers would certainly be interested in his child, watch his family the way they had watched other families. (He had a file full of names and addresses in his cabinet: the Browns. The Fowleys. The Hendricks. The Youngs. The Scullys. The Kryceks. The Mulders, of course; that was his assignment specifically.) It was inevitable; they'd have an interest in his child. The most he could hope for was to gain some control in the situation.

He proposed to Cassandra and promised to give her a ring and a house. He was called to a meeting the night later. His employees were interested, just like he'd known they would be. They didn't know that Fox Mulder was his, but they knew about Cassandra already. Incredible. He and Teena had hidden things well.

“We have an interest in this child, as I'm sure you know,” they said. “It's your duty, remember.”

“I know,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I'll agree, under one impression. I supervise. I'm the child's caretaker. They stay with me, the baby and Cassandra both, when they're not taking parts in experiments.”

They said, “You won't feel sympathy? Your bias won't come into play? You won't change your mind and take him away?”

“Duty comes first,” he said. “My child should be proud to serve our cause.”

“If you prove to be trustworthy,” they said, “we agree. But be warned. We'll be watching.”

He took a long drag off of his cigarette and said, “I know.”

It was a boy, another son. Cassandra named him Jeffrey. Looking at his son, he felt a rush of pride. Somewhere he had another son who was seven years old who he didn't know, who he only saw when he briefly visited Bill in Massachusetts or Rhode Island. Here was his new son, his son. Surely Cassandra wouldn't keep him from Jeffrey the way Teena had kept him from Fox. Surely things would be different.

He still had to do his work observing the Mulders, and it unfortunately wasn't something he could do with Cassandra and Jeffrey around. He and Bill were close because of work (they still hadn't told him that he'd have to give up one of his kids) and Bill had seemed more than open to the suggestion of the Spenders joining them at their summer house, but Cassandra didn't like the Mulders. The four adults had been to dinner, once, and the awkwardness had been palpable, especially between Teena and Cassandra, who'd never met. They were different as night and day, Cassandra light-haired where Teena was dark, Cassandra free-spirited and ditzy where Teena was serious. He hadn't dared told Cassandra that Teena was the mother of his other child. That would not go over well. He did what he could, encouraged Cassandra to make friends, but Teena was even less interested in the whole prospect than she was. It was useless. Still, he did what he could. Jeffrey and Cassandra would go and visit her mother in the summer, and he'd drive up to the Mulder summer house and spend a week or two with them.

Teena still distrusted him at first, but the more he was around (without acting too fatherly towards Fox), the more she loosened up. The three of them would spend hours out on the porch smoking and sipping wine. Teena didn't talk much, but the tenseness in her shoulders faded away until they both could laugh at Bill's stories. It was good, he thought, that they trusted him. It would help.

Fox grew into a gangly child through eight, nine, ten, who would disappear for hours outside with their black lab and reappear with a dirty face and scratches along his arms, waving a stick as he recounted his adventures to his mother. He and Bill didn't seem particularly close, however, and he never acknowledged Spender unless he had to. (Fox didn't seem to notice Spender watching him, almost out of the corner of his eye. He noticed what the boy was reading; he seemed to have an interest in science fiction. To say that Fox talked a lot was an understatement; he never shut up, rambling on at dinner, waving a forkful of potatoes or peas or chicken back and forth while his little sister whined about how she never got to talk. He watched the boy, looking for signs of himself or his other son or the mother he barely remembered. Looking for signs of pride.)

The little girl, Samantha, he barely noticed. She always wanted to tag along with her brother, but it usually ended in a yelling match and tears on Samantha's end. She played on her own a lot--dolls, make believe, riding her tricycle (and later bicycle) in the driveway and up and down the street, tea parties with her stuffed animals that she always begged her parents and brother to attend. She was bright-eyed and physically fit, exactly the type they'd be looking for. She'd skip around the house, shouting nursery rhymes in a sing-song tone until Spender thought his head would explode. Bill really, really loved her--more, maybe, than he loved Fox. He wondered if Bill knew, somewhere in his self-conscious. He knew, every time he looked at her, what awaited her if he had his pick. Samantha herself had no idea; she mostly ignored him but was nice enough, offering him plastic teacups full of water every now and then. Certainly politer than Fox was, he mused.

Mostly, the kids ignored him. He was “Daddy's friend”, who didn't talk to them and spent half the day in his room, typewriter click-clacking. Fox seemed a little suspicious of him, but it was only a little. When he arrived the year Fox was eight, the boy had come rambling up to his mother and talked at a rapid-fire pace. Teena had instructed him to say hello, and he'd ground out a rushed, “HelloMr.Spender,” before continuing to talk to his mother like he didn't exist.

His other son, Jeffrey, kept growing as well, and the older he got, the more clear it became that he was entirely like his mother. He had a serious demeanor that Spender saw in himself, but otherwise he was all Cassandra. They were the closest in the family, Jeffrey always clinging to Cassandra’s side or climbing up into her lap. She read him his story, every single night, and half the time she'd fall asleep in his room and not bother coming to bed. One night, he'd come to Jeffrey's room and offered to read his story, and Jeffrey had shaken his head wildly and said, “Want Mommy to do it,” around his thumb. Well, then. He did what he usually did and went out to the porch to have a cigarette. It seemed like bitter irony that both his sons loved their mothers more than him.

One night, Jeffrey wandered out on the porch in his striped pajamas and climbed up on the porch swing next to him. Surprised, he said, “Hello there, Jeffrey.”

“Hi, Daddy.” It was easy to forget how tiny Jeffrey was, only three years old, until he was right next to him like this. He swung his legs back and forth, looking around at the stars and the outstretched lawn before looking back at Spender. “You smell, Daddy,” Jeffrey said, matter-of-factly.

He could remember thinking that about his mother, vaguely. It had been the reason he'd stayed away from them, before he tried them and got hooked. “It's the cigarettes,” he explained.

Jeffrey wrinkled his nose. “They're groooooss.”

“I think they smell nice,” he said and his son giggled in delight. It was a nice sound, he was surprised to find. He imagined, for a minute, every night being like this: his son being delighted to be near him, laughing at things he said, looking at him like he was some sort of a hero. And for a minute, his mind delved towards his other son. Imagined Fox sitting beside them on the swing, the same respect and amazement aimed towards him, their father. Better than his old man had ever been. Fox and Jeffrey could be brothers, real brothers the way he himself had never had. Fox could take care of Jeffrey, play with him. They could be a family; he could raise his sons to be good men.

(One time, months later, he was in Massachusetts to gather intel on the Mulders. He sat outside their house watching, got lost in a bottle of booze and the pack of cigarettes on his dashboard. He saw the light on in an upstairs room that he suspected was Fox staying up to read, and all of a sudden, he got an uncontrollable urge. He imagined stealing into the dark house and waking Fox and Samantha, leading them out to the car and driving away. He could deliver the girl to the facility and bring Fox home to Jeffrey and Cassandra. They could be a family. He was ready to do it, had his hand on the door handle. But he'd ended up passing out. When he woke up, the entire thing seemed insane. He drove home with a pounding headache and slept it off.)

---

The time came two years later. Jeffrey had just turned five. He was called to meet with his employers, and they stared at him through the smoke swirling the room. They all smoked, constantly. He took a long drag off of his cigarette and flicked the ashes off of the end.

“This November, there will be an abduction at the Mulder house,” they said. “It is time.”

He coughed into his fist, said, “I know.” He'd expected this for a time.

“Has Bill Mulder been made aware? Has he made a choice yet?”

Samantha, he thought. Samantha was the only choice. For a time, he'd thought about convincing them to choose Fox, so his son could come to live with him, but he'd reconsidered after seeing some of the experiments for himself. Besides that, if Jeffrey was destined to be involved in the experiments, than it was better that only one of his offspring was involved. It was only fair. He couldn't make all the sacrifice, and Bill Mulder required a sacrifice of his own. Even if he'd raised Fox as his son, the fact remained that he wasn't. Samantha was the only choice.

“No,” he said aloud.

“We will tell him,” they said. “But you are to oversee the whole process. You are to oversee his choice.”

Bill was called. He waited outside the room while they met with Bill, going through cigarette after cigarette. Bill shouted and shouted, but it was to no avail. Two hours later, he stumbled out of the room, face white as a sheet. “You okay, Mulder?” Spender asked, standing to greet his friend and stubbing out his cigarette on the wall. It left a black mark on the wall.

Bill rubbed his eyes, leaning against the door. “Fuck,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Cigarette?” he asked, extending one to Bill.

“I hate the smell of the damn things. I need a fucking drink,” Bill said through clenched teeth.

They went to a bar. Bill drank and drank, eyes squeezed closed. He smoked and watched him, thinking of Jeffrey and the day he'd have to go away. Thinking of what Cassandra would say.

“They want me to sacrifice one of my children,” Bill finally slurred, hunched over his fifth glass of Scotch. “My children.”

No, he thought, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Not all yours.

“If I don't,” said Bill, rubbing his eyes, “they'll kill them all. Fox. Samantha. Teena. Me.” He gulped the rest of his drink. “What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to choose?”

He took another drag on his cigarette. “I suppose,” he said, “that you have to look at it strategically, Bill. Who will bring you more out of life? Who could you stand to lose? Who will go further in this world, your son or your daughter?”

“Fuck you,” Bill slurred. “Fuck you. You have no idea what it is to choose. You'll never understand.”

He swirled his drink in his glass, tapped the ashes into the ashtray. And said calmly, “Someday, I'll take my son in for their experiments. I have no choice. Jeffrey is the only choice. My wife may hate me. I don't know what will happen to my son. But I'll do it, because it is my duty. Our duty, to our country.”

Bill was quiet, his face stony still. He stared down into his glass. “You'll still have a child left at the end of the day,” Spender said. “Who will it be? I think it should be your son.” My son, he thought. Mine. And as much as I hate it, he'll be safe with you and his mother.

They drove to Rhode Island, Bill mulling over it the whole time. By the time they reached the house at Quonochontaug, he'd decided. “Samantha,” he muttered. “I'm going to let them take my little girl.” He buried his face in his hands, mumbling, “Oh my god.”

“It'll be okay,” Spender said from the driver's seat. “Come on, let's go to sleep. We can enjoy the time left with your daughter tomorrow. You still have a few months, remember.”

“No,” Bill said, muffled by his palms. He looked up, some kind of grief-crazed determination in his eyes. “Teena. I need to tell Teena. I need to make her understand.”

He started to argue, but Bill was up the porch stairs and in the house before he could stop him. By the time he reached inside, Teena was trying to steer him into the bedroom. “Bill, settle down, the kids are asleep in the loft,” she hissed. “They'll hear you. Come on, let's go to bed…”

“No, Teena, no, we need to talk,” Bill insisted. “We need to talk.” She froze, eyes stealing to where he stood in the corner. “Here, sit down, sweetheart, sit down,” he said, nudging her onto the couch.

She obliged, looking between them uncertainly. “Bill, what's going on?” she asked, face white with fear as she looked between the two men.

Bill took an uncertain breath, paced around the room. “We… we have to give up one of our children.”

He didn't think it was possible, but she paled even more. “What?” she whispered incredulously.

“We have to, Teena. For our country. For ourselves… they said they they'd kill us if they didn't.”

“They?” Teena’s voice sharpened. “Who is they? Is it… is it him?” She jabbed a finger at where he was standing in the corner.

“No, Teena,” Bill snapped, running his hands through his hair. “It's not him, of course it's not. It's the people above us.”

“Your… employers? Your employers want you to give up your… child?”

“Yes,” Bill said wearily. “Yes, exactly.”

“I don't believe you,” she said simply.

“Well, you'd better start,” Bill snapped. “I could lose my job, Teena.”

“I don't give a damn about your job!” she shouted. “I'm not giving up my children, Bill! I'd leave you before I would give them up, either of them!”

Bill stiffened, spine straightening. “You wouldn't,” he replied coldly. “You'll be a single mother. You can barely handle a day alone with them, Teena, how could you…”

“They are my children, I carried them, I've done more for them than you ever have!” Teena snapped, furious, hair wisping around her face. “I didn't choose to sacrifice them! I'm not letting you take them! Either of them! I'd die first!”

“You may have to. They'll kill you,” said Bill coldly. Teena clasped her hands together tightly, tears springing to her eyes. “They'll kill us and take them both. Or maybe they'll kill them, too, they have no mercy. How would you feel, with Fox and Samantha both dead?” Teena moaned, closing her eyes, but Bill plunged on. “This way is better, you have to understand. We have no choice. This way we still get one child. One of them will be safe.”

Teena moaned again, burying her face in her hands. For a minute, all they could hear were soft sniffles. And then a murmur: “Which one?”

Bill sighed. “Samantha,” he said. “They'll take Samantha.”

She stiffened immediately. Bill went to her side to comfort her, and she cried out, “No!” He sat beside her and tried to touch her. “No!” she wailed. “My baby!” Bill touched her shoulders, and she shook him off. “Get away!” She got to her feet, storming across the room to where Spender stood, and hit him hard in the chest. “Not Samantha!” she roared, hitting him again. “This is your doing, isn't it? You want to take her away from me!” Again and again, tapering off into sobs. “You want to ruin everything! Well, you're not going to! Not my baby, not Samantha!”

She went in to hit him again, but he grabbed her by the shoulders. She froze, terror across her face. He could remember once when he'd held her lovingly, when he'd thought she might love him, too. He loved Cassandra, but there were still times when he remembered Teena, dreamed of her and Fox. He'd thought if she left Bill, with Samantha gone, maybe his dream could come true, but clearly not. She hated him. She despised him.

“You'll still have your son, Teena,” he said easily, ignoring the our son at the back of his mind. “You'll still have Fox.”

Anger flashed across her face and she pulled away, storming out of the room. “You just had to make things worse, didn't you,” Bill hissed at him, coming close in the same matter that he and Teena had been standing a few minutes ago. He looked ready to punch him. “Don't you dare touch my wife, and you stay the hell away from my family!”

“It's unavoidable, Bill,” he said simply. “You know that.” He smiled at Bill. “But I'm your friend, Bill. I'm here to help.”

“Like hell you are,” Bill snapped, and then he was gone too, gone after Teena.

Defeated, he went into the kitchen for a smoke, cracking open the window. He could hear flickers of the argument in the next room--Teena saying, “How can you do this to our family?”, heated and sad and furious. And then he heard the footsteps in the hall.

Curious, he stepped into the doorway and watched as Fox crept down the hall, towards the room where Bill and Teena were fighting. Bill was saying, “I'm not doing it! It's not just me. These orders are coming down from…” Bill turned and saw Fox watching and slammed the door shut.

“You're a little spy,” he said, amused, stepping towards him with the smoke still billowing from the end of his cigarette.

Fox turned towards him, terrified. He was the same gawky kid that Spender remembered, dark hair and long-sleeved striped shirt and pajama pants he was too tall for. Spender was amused at the sight; maybe he was his father's son after all.

“I want to know why Mom and Dad are fighting,” Fox said bravely, although there was an audible tremor in his voice. “What's going on?”

He took a long drag off of his cigarette. “You shouldn't be out of bed, Fox.”

“You can't tell me what to do,” Fox snapped. “You're not my dad.”

Anyone else might have flinched. He simply smiled knowingly.

“Fox?” said a little voice behind them. When he turned, he saw Samantha in her long white nightgown staring at them nervously.

“I told you to stay upstairs, Samantha,” Fox hissed, irritated.

He chuckled with amusement, stubbing out his cigarette. “That's okay, Fox. My goodness, Samantha, I haven't seen you in a long time. You've certainly grown.”

(If they were awake, they may have heard. What game were they playing? Did they know what was going to happen? Did they even understand?)

“Mr. Spender?” Samantha asked uncertainly.

“That's me. I'm glad to hear you remember me.” They'd told him he would be Samantha's caretaker when her time came. Might as well start getting to know her now, his best friend (if he could call Bill a friend anymore) and former lover's daughter. He smiled toothily at the girl. “You know, I've wanted to get to know you better for a long time now. You're the children of my best friends, you know. By default, I consider you my children as well.”

Fox snorted loudly behind them, the picture of a sarcastic adolescent. “Really?” Samantha asked nervously. Her hands twisted in her nightgown.

“Of course, sweetheart.” He extended his arms for a hug. “I hope we can be friends, Samantha.”

She looked uncertain, but she stepped closer slowly. He pulled her in, head landing under his chin. “Samantha!” Fox said with disgust. It was clear his son didn't trust him, the father he didn't know he had.

The door opened behind them, and Teena and Bill were at his side before he realized it. Teena looked disgusted. Samantha pulled away and clung to her mother's side. “He says he wants to be friends, Mom,” she whispered. “But he smells gross.” Not unlike what Jeffrey had said to him two years ago.

Teena stroke her daughter’s curly head but didn't look at her. “Kids, go to bed,” she said, looking straight at him. It was a look that could cut diamonds, a look that burnt him to the core.

“But, Mom…” Fox started.

“Now,” Bill said sternly. Samantha scampered away from her mother and down the hall, Fox on her heels. He cast a wary look at Spender as he went, one that suggested that he had witnessed the fight in the living room. The adults listened to the kids climbing the ladder, the squeaking of the floorboards until it was clear they were in bed.

Teena waited until it was quiet before turning on him, nearly shaking with rage. “I want him out,” she hissed. “I want him out of my goddamn house. I'd kick you out too, Bill, if it seemed possible, but at the very least I want him gone.”

He chuckled, pulling a cigarette out of his breast pocket. “That's a lot of hostility, Teena. When I was so polite to your children.”

Her hand cracked across his cheek in a hard slap. He didn't flinch, just looked at her. “Teena,” said Bill wearily.

“You don't get to talk about them, you don't get to look at them, you don't get to lay any claim to them at all,” she growled, fists clenching. “That is not your right. Now get the hell out.”

He left. His cheek still stung from the weight of Teena’s palm. He gulped down half of the bottle of booze in Bill's glove box before walking onto the road to town. He could find a hotel and get on a bus in the morning.

---

Things were being put into motion. Contact was being made, sacrifices. They called him in and told him his wife was next. “You must bring Cassandra to the airbase when it is time,” they told them. “She is extraordinarily important to this Project.”

He would've been lying if he said he wasn't expecting this. He could've argued, but everyone required sacrifice. He knew this was coming. He told Cassandra he wanted to have a night alone with her, got a sitter for Jeffrey, and drove off to save the world. When it was over, they told him they had a house ready for him and his son. “The next part is starting,” they told him.

He went home and packed up the house. Jeffrey watched him from the couch, thumb in his mouth. He was still wearing his pajamas, the shirt buttoned wrong from where the sitter dressed him for bed. “Where's Mommy?” he wanted to know.

“Mommy had to go away for a little while,” Spender told him as he stacked picture books from the nearby shelf in a cardboard box. Damnit, Cassandra had bought entirely too many of these; at least they could be used to calm Jeffrey (and possibly Samantha) down.

Jeffrey sucked on his thumb, staring down at him where he was kneeled. “What are you doing, Daddy? Are we going somewhere?”

“We're going to a new house,” he said, trying to make his voice nice and comforting. He was in no way equipped to care for young children, honestly. Maybe he should've suggested Fox for abduction; how would he care for the girl? “At an air base. April Air Base.”

“April means Easter!” Jeffrey swung his legs in excitement. “Will Mommy be there?”

“Eventually,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “There might be someone else there, too. A girl for you to play with.”

“But what about my Thanksgiving play at school? I'm a Pilgrim, Daddy. I can't miss school, I won't get to play with Danny and Gerald. We're gonna play tag at recess,” Jeffrey said in a long whine.

“You can go to school at the airbase,” he said, but he was mostly guessing. He regretted sending Cassandra away in the moment; Project or not, Jeffrey needed his mother.

They managed, somehow. Jeffrey was very quiet, sucking his thumb a lot and asking about Mommy every few hours, but they managed. At the new house, his employers had a nanny waiting for him. He could focus on his work, on his writing. “The Mulder girl will be here in a few months,” they told him. They put together a girl's room in the house. Jeffrey watched from the hall, sitting on the floor and playing with model cars. He asked if he was getting a sister. “Sort of,” Spender muttered as he watched two people in coveralls carrying in a bed. It looked nothing like Samantha's bed back in Massachusetts, but then again, it wasn't supposed to be.

On November 27, 1973, Samantha Mulder disappeared from her home. Her older brother was found disoriented on the floor with no memory of the incident. A search began, but it was noted in the police report how uninterested the father seemed in looking for his daughter. How listless and defeated the mother seemed at coming home and finding her missing, reportedly saying that she was gone and there was no use looking for her. (He had expected this. Bill had demanded to know when she’d be taken and they had refused to tell him. The Mulders were given no warning whatsoever. The past few months had shattered them completely.) The police interrogated Bill about Samantha’s disappearance and were fully convinced of his innocence when he broke down in the little room. Reportedly, the boy disappeared for hours one night and was brought home in the back of a police car wrapped in blankets, a flashlight in one hand and his father’s gun in the other. “I was trying to find her,” he reportedly kept saying as he was lead into the house, into his mother’s stiff embrace and father’s disapproving stare. “I’m her brother, I’m supposed to protect her. I have to find her.”

The search was called off at the end of December. Spender signed the order himself.

---

He didn’t see Fox in person after that, not for a long time. He was worried the boy would make the connection to the fight that summer night in Quonochontaug, and besides that, Teena wouldn’t permit him in the house. He was always watching, though. Once, he'd considered himself above spying, but that was before he was used to seeing his son every summer, and now there was no other way. He had considerably less dignity than he once did. When his wife was returned and abducted again, when his son received a new person to press his hands into cement with, he would leave periodically and fly cross-country to watch his other son. Fox spent long hours walking the streets, the woods, the beach. He holed up in his room but he didn’t read science fiction anymore. He threw pencils at the ceiling, stared blankly at the wall. He’d pause and screw his eyes shut before entering a room sometimes, leaving Spender to wonder what all that was about.

(He knew. He knew where Samantha was, what was happening to her, always, and he never told any of them. He didn’t believe they deserved to know.)

Their employers kept Bill in the know about Samantha, but he started to edge out of the Project, developed a listless disinterest. Teena left him a year and a half after Samantha disappeared, moved to Connecticut and took Fox with her. He went to Bill’s house to try and comfort him, but Bill waved him out of the house, not even bothering to get out of his chair, said I'll kill you if you come any closer. He saw the bottles lined up on the counter and thought, This is how you ruin a man. He concluded that he must be stronger than all of them.

He left Bill alone and went to visit Teena next, rang the doorbell sometime after Fox must’ve been asleep and waited. He was surprised to feel a gun poke hard into his ribs as soon as the door opened. There was Teena, dressed in a nightgown and bathrobe, graying hair braided back, and poking a handgun into his ribs. “I suggest you get off of my porch,” she said evenly.

He didn’t make a move to leave; instead, he slid his hand into his breast pocket for his pack of Morleys. “Your hostility confuses me, Teena,” he said. “Can’t a man visit an old friend?” He pulled one cigarette out before extending the pack. “Cigarette?”

Teena didn’t move, but a muscle in her face twitched. “We were never friends,” she ground out, jabbing him harder in the ribs with the small pistol. “Whatever transpired between us was a mistake. I realized soon after you disappeared that you never loved me. You never cared for me the way Bill did.”

“Funny thing for a divorced woman to say.” He lit his cigarette.

“He still stood by me for fifteen years,” she growled. “Bastard that he was, he had more honor than you ever did.”

“Funny you should say that.” He took a slow drag and smiled at her. “Well, then, even if a man can’t visit an old friend, doesn’t a father have a right to visit his son?”

“You are not. His father.” Teena’s finger curled around the trigger. “You didn’t aid in his raising. You haven’t done anything for him as far as I’m concerned, outside of shielding him from the people who took my daughter, and it seems to me that the only reason you did that was to hurt Bill and me.”

“I’ve always had the boy’s best interest in mind,” he said around the cigarette in his teeth.

“Then you should understand that you are the last thing he needs.” Teena poked him with the gun at the end of every sentence, talking in a rapid-fire pace: “Do you know what this has done to him? Losing his sister like this? He blames himself, you know, and he’s in a horrible place. You ruined our family, you ruined my son. You are no father.”

“And how can you equate yourself to a mother, in that line of thinking?” he said easily. She paled horribly, but he kept going. “I’ve seen, you know. The way you ignore the boy now. How hard he tries to impress you, get your attention, and how little you respond. You only care when he’s out too late because you’re afraid we’ve come for him, too, but you don’t care anymore. You’re so focused on the child you lost that you are forgetting the child you have left.”

“How dare you,” hissed Teena through her teeth. “Don’t you dare pin this on me! You’re the one who took her away. She’s just a little girl, for god’s sake, where is she? What have you done to her?” In a flash, the gun moved from his torso to press against his skull. “Bring her home,” Teena whispered, close to sobbing. “Bring her home and it’ll all be okay. Bring my baby home or I’ll shoot you right here.”

He blew out smoke with a puff, and said, “She’s safe. I’ve seen to that personally.”

“I don’t believe you,” she whimpered. The gun thumped against skin and bone. “Bring her home. Bring my baby back and leave us alone, or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

He took one last drag before putting out the cigarette on the porch rail. “You won’t kill me, Teena,” he said, self-assured. “You don’t have it in you.”

He turned around and walked away. No gunshot came. He heard the door slam and the horrible sobs behind it as he got into his car.

After that, he still watched Fox but he didn’t speak to Teena or Bill again. He had no desire to put himself to such trouble. It seemed better to watch the boy’s growth from afar.

---

Years passed. Fox grew into a shaggy-haired, snarky teenager that disappeared to England to go to college, finally going somewhere where his father couldn’t watch him. He was not assauged. He turned his attention to his other son, but by the next year Cassandra had discovered that her husband was not a victim of the experiments they suffered through, but in fact the cause of them. She cursed him and threatened him and took Jeffrey and ran off into the night. He wouldn’t let his employers pursue them. Enough, he said. They could observe from afar, the way he watched the Mulders. At this point, he didn’t miss Cassandra a bit and wasn’t discouraged at the loss of Jeffrey. It was clear the boy hated him and wanted nothing to do with him. That was fine. Jeffrey had always been weaker than he would’ve liked, whinier and frailer and still hiding behind his mother at twelve years old. He’d wait for Jeffrey to become a person who could make him proud.

Still, it was jarring to be alone in the large house on the airbase. The girl’s room that had been set up over seven years earlier was locked, wallpaper peeling, and the rooms seemed too empty without Cassandra and Jeffrey huddled together, whispering. He left, purchased an apartment in DC. Turned back to writing, unhindered by the rejections he’d received years before. All he needed, it seemed, was a typewriter and three or four packs of cigarettes at his side and he was a happy man.

He hardly expected Bill Mulder to show up and blow a hole in his peaceful life, but come he did. He was confused when a knock came at the door--he rarely, if ever, got visitors--but opened it anyway to find Bill Mulder’s fist on the other side. A hard, grinding punch that shifted the muscles in his jaw.

Blinking hard, he stumbled away from the door, a hand shooting to the sore spot. “Bill,” he said, working his jaw back and forth. “What a lovely surprise. It really has been too long, hasn’t it?”

“You son of a bitch,” Bill hissed, shoving his way inside. “I know.”

“Know what?” he asked, because there were, after all, several things he could be referring to.

“I know… he’s not mine,” Bill grumbled, rubbing his knuckles with his other hand. “I know he’s your son.”

This was the last thing he’d expected; he’d expected this talk years ago, when Fox was still small. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said politely.

“Oh, bullshit.” Another punch, this time to the eye. He staggered back hard into the desk, the sharp edge bearing into his spine. “You know, I should’ve known,” Bill panted. “All that shit about how it should be Samantha instead of Fox who got sacrificed… you were protecting your own interests! You son of a bitch.”

There was no denying it; he picked himself up off of the desk, balancing on the chair. “Be that as it may, Bill…” he said unsteadily. “All that was many, many years ago. Why does it matter anymore?”

He expected a spiel on his betrayal, dishonor, how much he missed his little girl. He didn’t expect Bill to laugh and say, “Because I wanted you to know that I know. What I’ve done.”

“What have you done?” he asked. Silence on Bill’s end. Nerves rising, he stood up straight and said, “Bill? What have you done?”

“He may have been yours, but you'll remember I raised him.” Bill laughed again, wildly. “I’ve set him up to ruin you, you son of a bitch. I’ve set him up to look for his sister, to find the truth about everything.”

Breathing hard, he rubbed the sore spots on his face and growled, “And just how have you managed that?”

“You know what Fox is at Oxford for, right?” Bill laughed even harder, saying, “He wants to go into the FBI. There, I think, he’ll find the X-Files… that crazy-ass unit Arthur Dales opened? He’s been looking for Samantha for years, that’s why he wants to go into law enforcement. He’ll keep looking, and he won’t stop until he finds the truth. He’ll find you. He’ll take you down.”

He gaped at his former friend, incredulous at what he’d just heard. Of all the things he’d imagined for Fox (his son), he’d never imagined the boy being his enemy. Never his ruin. For the first time in a very long time, he was speechless.

Seeming satisfied, Bill turned away and headed for the door. Spender scrambled for words, calling after him, “Mulder!” Bill turned. “If you tell Fox the truth,” he said slowly, some attempt at warning, “you know what will happen. It will backfire. It will ruin both of you. You’ll be dead.”

Bill considered this before nodding unsteadily. “I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m not going to tell him. He’s going to find out the truth all by himself.”

Bill turned and left on that note, the door slamming behind him like a nail on a coffin.

Head spinning, he collapsed in his chair and breathed in the familiar scent of nicotine. Fox could not be his ruin. He could not. The boy may not have realized everything he'd done for him, but he had not put in all of that work just for it to fail in the end. He protected the boy for years. He was his goddamn father. This cannot happen, he thought. He has to be stopped.

He turned and fumbled for the phone, called someone he knew he could trust. “Ronald,” he said. “I need you to begin surveillance on someone. Yes… yes, a Fox Mulder. He’s over in England right now, getting educated at Oxford, but I think he’ll be back in the States before long.” He swallowed. “I have reason to believe he’s going to be a problem someday,” he said. “I need to make sure that does not happen.”

Bill was right though, he realized as he hung up the phone; Fox had been looking for years, and he wouldn't stop now. The best he could hope for, if Fox found the truth, was that he took after his mother. That he, too, wouldn't be able to pull the trigger.

#csm fucking sucks but this was fun to write #the mulders are a fucked up but interesting famiyl #i love doing backstory flashback shit #xf fanfic #i wrote this #xf rewatch

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